A Night at the Opera

April 12, 2006

My son is on the way to the emergency room.
And I am blooging about it.

Don’t worry. He’s not going to die. Really, I’d have gotten out of my chair for that. But I figure, since I birthed them, the husband’s got to take up the slack on the next 18 years of minor injuries.

I’ve covered some. Like the two broken wrists. Same kid. Same wrist. Different years. But I figure I’m really good at broken wrists, as long as they aren’t compound fractures.

Well, I’m mostly good. The second time, we got it x-rayed on Friday, and declared good-to-go, only to have #1 son whine all weekend that it was broken. And me telling him not to be a baby, to take a Tylenol and move it around a bit and it would be fine.

Only to have the radiologist call on Monday to retract the diagnosis, and me, calling the school and telling the kid to stop moving immediately, get to the office and not to say ‘I told you so.’

No blood on the older kid. And no tears. Just a calm statement that he thought it was broken, a white face and a little sweat on the upper lip. I can handle that.

It helps that this son is a hypochondriac. I ignore the appendicitis he gets every exam week and only respond to the low-key symptoms. Like last year’s flu, after I returned from RWA National. I gave him a dramatic lecture about not taking vitamins and the whole world going down the tubes if I took a few days away from the house.

Only to have him show me the red spot on his arm and say, ‘Could we please go to the Doctor, now that I’ve got Lyme Disease?’

Well, yeah. When you put it that way.

But #2 son is the one most likely to have spectacular medical emergencies involving actual blood and from a standing start. He was the one who decided to rock climb the on shower wall when he was little and split open his chin.

“JIM?!!!!!! Get your shoes on, you’re driving to the emergency room.”

And then there was the time that we’d rolled up the rugs for a DI practice, and #1 Son decide to show #2 son something ‘really neat’ that would have involved him punching himself in the balls. Only instead he cheated and fell and broke his collar bone.

My husband was ready to put some ice on it, but I could tell from the sound of the crying from two rooms away that it was broken. “JIM! Get your shoes, you have to drive…”

I stayed up all night with him afterward. Does that count? But the sight of the x-ray with the bone at a 45 degree angle, would have made me black out, which would interfere with my parenting. This was a ‘man’s job.’

Tonight, we were walking the dog while the kid was taking out the trash.

My husband came into the house in front of me and said, “What did you do now?” And walked on through to the upstairs bathroom.

I went into the bathroom, hearing a muffled explanation about how trash in the 60’s was a lot more dangerous, or whatever stupid period my bullet garbage can with the sharp, metal flap lid was supposed to be from…

And I said

Jim! Get your keys!”

And grabbed for the sterile gauze and medical tape.
It wasn’t dangling or anything. I’m sure a couple of stitches will take care of this. And who really needs pinky fingers, anyway?