Like most babies learning how to walk, Gabe falls down a lot. He doesn’t seem to be aware of his head girth, and knocked it on the coffee table so many times we had to move it out of the living room.
He also cries really hard when he gets hurt. For both big and little bumps. He crawls under a chair, tries to stand up, bonks his head, and bursts into inconsolable tears. We take something away from him and he sobs. He’s a crier. He’s an accident-prone crier. And I love the kid.
So when I stepped out of the room to check an address for an Etsy order I was preparing, I wasn’t too concerned when I heard a loud CRASH and the crying that ensued.
I ran into the room to find one of our little Ikea night stands on the ground and Gabe underneath it. I scooped him up to console him; he seemed fine, despite the tears (the night stand is only ten pounds, hence why it fell over as he was pulling up).
Then I noticed the blood. It was coming from a small incision near his mouth. I ran into the bathroom, unsure what to do. I wet a clean cloth and pressed it to his face to stop the bleeding. My heart raced. The color drained out of my face. Gabe continued screaming.
What am I supposed to do? I thought. Do I take him somewhere? It’s not a big cut, but it’s bleeding. Bleeding! It looks deep. Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh.
If it had been my own body, I would have stuck a bandage and some ointment on it and called it a day. But this was Gabe. Gabe, my sweet little baby who’d never really known pain in his life, aside from being born (that’s gotta hurt him, too, right?) and a few injections.
Gabe sobbed as I called Mike, threw the diaper bag over my shoulder, shoved my feet into my flip flops, and ran out the door. I was wearing stretched out yoga pants, a nursing tank that is far too low cut to be worn in public, Gabe’s diaper was ripe, and he was due to nurse any minute. I was the picture of a hot mess.
Once we got to the elevator, his crying (and bleeding) ebbed. (And I had to make awkward small talk with a maintenance guy: “Oh, just seeing if he needs stitches. You know. Yep, he’s almost one. Uh huh, he sure is growing.” as my heart and adrenaline went crazy.) By the time we got to the car, Gabe was smiling. I nursed him in the back seat of the car, and then? He was laughing. I called my mom to get her advice, Gabe laughing in the background.
Kids, man. They’re resilient little buggers.
Mike’s friend dropped him off at our apartment and to the emergency room we went.
* * * * *
“Do you think he’ll need stitches?”
“Nope. Just a butterfly bandage. It’s hardly a cut.”
“Oh. Do you think I’m stupid for taking him to the emergency room?”
“Nah. We can always play the ‘worried-first-time-parent’ card.”
* * * * *
Free valet parking. Empty waiting room.
“He pulled a dresser over on himself?”
“Uh, well, a night stand.”
“Let’s place them in suture room two.”
I squeeze Mike’s hand and whisper nervously, “Suture room? Stitches!”
* * * * *
Disney channel blaring.
“Hi, I’m the resident…well, this is going to be the easiest case I’ve seen all day. A centimeter wide. Doesn’t look very deep. Someone will be right in.”
* * * * *
Still waiting.
“This is my first time in an emergency room.”
“Really? Well, get used to it.”
“Okay. I’m blaming this on your genes, then….Do you think he’s getting stitches?”
“Maybe they’re just evaluating him.”
* * * * *
Another doctor.
“The suture team will be in here shortly. They’re great. They do this all day long.”
“Mike, it says only one parent is allowed to be in here. I don’t know if I can handle it. Will you?”
He nods, then says, “Maybe they don’t enforce the rules. Don’t say anything.”
“Let’s change his diaper. He’s way overdue.”
Diaper change on a crinkly exam table.
* * * * *
The suture team is here. A guy to hold Gabe down and a nice nurse with three boys.
“I became a suture nurse because my boys had so many stitches I figured I may as well.”
Relief. She doesn’t think I’m a terrible mother. She gets where I am. How I’m feeling.
* * * * *
A tiny papoose board comes out. My baby obediently lies still while his arms, legs, and torso are velcroed to the board. He’s so sweet.
“Does this remind you of being a tiny baby, being swaddled?”
Mike is holding his hand through the layers of restraint. I am perched on a round stool a few feet away.
A big needle.
All at once, the man holds Gabe’s head down, the nurse injects Gabe with the numbing medication, and Gabe begins the Screaming.
* * * * *
“Poke this through to see how deep it is.”
The screaming turns to screeching. Tortured, miserable screeching.
It’s so tense. I feel so helpless. What is happening? What are they sticking in my baby’s face?!
* * * * *
“You can come over here.”
I’m not sure I can handle it, but I position myself at Gabe’s feet. I hold one of his feet tightly. It’s more for me than for him, since he is so angry/scared/in pain/miserable he’s not paying any attention to us.
He’s writhing, but with his whole body restrained, only his feet are flailing.
* * * * *
“Hey, sweet boy. It’s okay. Mommy and Daddy are here. We love you. You’re almost done.”
The screaming is so loud I can hardly hear myself.
* * * * *
I feel awful. And helpless.
This is my fault. I should have closed the bedroom door. We shouldn’t have such lightweight night stands. He is in pain because of me.
I cry. Gabe is so loud no one can hear me, but the tears burn my eyes.
This is like labor, I think. So much pain and I can’t do anything about it.
* * * * *
A thousand years after it began, he has three little stitches.
Hands down, the worst experience of my entire life.
I nurse him, taking comfort in being able to comfort him.
* * * * *
A banana Popsicle and lots of cuddles.
A long nap.
Ice cream and a late bedtime.
No more tears, just three little stitches.
* * * * *
“He’ll forget about it in the morning. You won’t.”
No, I haven’t.
And what I think about even more than the torturous 20 minutes or so that we all went through is that so many parents go through so much worse than three little stitches. There are diagnoses of terminal illness, of debilitating disease. There are accidents involving broken bones and burns and drowning.
Parents’ hearts are so fragile. Our children’s pain affects us so deeply.
I’m not sure I fully realized or understood the depth of vulnerability I’d be submitting myself to when signing up for this parenting thing.
* * * * *
Gabe? Oh, he’s fine. He doesn’t even realize his three little stitches.
“Mama said I’m just too pretty to ruin this face with a scar.”
“But sometimes she calls me Stitchface. Or Scarface. That’s not very sensitive, Mom.”
“I hold the record in this family for youngest age to get stitches. I’m an achiever, guys. It’s just something you should know about me.”
“Okay, now let’s go find some night stands to pull over!”
Sigh.
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