Here's Hoping Your St. Patrick's Day Was Luckier Than Ours
I had planned on doing a big catch up here today. I have yet to write about Max's 5th birthday, Aiden's play, the new pope and a plethora of other events.
In fact, I had just settled into my writing position when Dawson came running in with panicked look on his face, "Mama! You need to come quick! Aiden hit his head with a brick and it's bleeding!"
In the milliseconds that followed that announcement I found myself wondering why on earth my son thought it would be a good idea to hit himself in the head with a brick. These kinds of "emergencies" happen around here all the time and nine times out of ten they turn out to be absolutely nothing. Boys are tough but they need people to know how tough they are so they send a messenger to make sure you know what they've been through.
And yet, as these thoughts were bouncing around in my head, I found that I had involuntarily gotten up to follow Dawson. There was something about his wide-eyed look that made me think there may indeed be something to his shouting. About the time I got near the front door, a neighbor kid came running through my back door to tell me Aiden was crying. Neighbor kid number two was waiting on my front porch as Dawson sped past him. "Aiden is bleeding everywhere and won't stop crying," he alerted.
I was on the driveway by the time his statement registered. I knew something was really wrong. I was scanning the yard for him when I saw him hobbling towards me covered in blood from head to toe. "It's bleeding!" he wailed. There was so much blood I had no idea where it was coming from.
"I know you're hurt bud, but you have to tell me what happened so I can help you."
He no sooner got out the part about hitting his head when I noticed that the blood that covered his face, shirt, arms, shorts, legs and shoes was indeed pouring out of his head. It looked as if he had a bubbling fountain oozing out of a large area near his forehead.
Having grown up with an ER nurse as a mother, I knew that stopping the bleeding was more important that checking out the injury so I removed his already blood soaked shirt and pressed it hard against his head.
Once the shirt was in place, I quickly gave him a once over to see if blood was coming from anywhere else. "Does it hurt anywhere besides your head?" I asked as I noticed the chip on his permanent front tooth.
Bless his heart, he wanted to go in but there was so much blood everywhere the lawn seemed like the best place for him. I'm glad I made that decision because within minutes my neighbor from across the street was at my side. It just so happens that she is a nurse in the pediatric ICU. Have a mentioned that I live in the best place in the world?
We used the water Nelson brought out for Aiden to drink to pour over the wound in order to push enough hair out of the way to see the real source of the problem. We got him up finally and brought him in so she could get a better look. It was a big cut and fairly deep. We could try to close it up at home with Dermabond or go for stitches.
Fourth of July, New Year's and now St. Patrick's Day. The staff is going to think I get a little crazy on the holidays. I'm wishing they had a frequent flier program.
Aiden was none too pleased about heading off knowing stitches were most likely in his future. He worried the whole way there. Once we were triaged and the nurse mentioned staples, he was all about some stitches because suddenly that sounded better that someone stapling his head.
All in all it took us and hour and twenty minutes which seemed like a victory. The hardest part was accepting that he is not allowed to run around or play outside for a week to ten days. "Recess is going to be so lonely," he said with a tear.
I have a feeling it's going to be a long seven to ten days, trying to keep my active kid on lock down so as to avoid having to go through the whole ordeal again; that, and having to help my fourth grader wash his hair every night. All in all though I'm very grateful that seven staples is all he needed. It could have been worse. Not more bloody, mind you, but worse than seven staples for sure.
Happy St. Patrick's Day to you. The luck of the Irish is a myth.