Last night was one of those rights of passage of parenthood that you never want to experience — the dreaded emergency room. Even thinking about the emergency room makes me nervous, let alone actually going there. Up until last night I had never been there before. Now I have.
It all started out innocently enough. (Doesn’t trouble always seem to start that way?) I had just gotten all gussied up to go to a Mothers Club “meeting” (code word for guzzling wine down like it will be stolen away from you any second.) Really, I had gone all out, for me anyway — a shower, makeup, funky jewelry, and a blouse fresh off the hanger from the dry cleaners. In the words of Dizzy, cement mixer extraordinaire from Bob the Builder, I was “ready to rock ‘n’ roll.”
The three of us were all ready to come downstairs at the same time. The plan was that I was going to go down first while holding Sam’s hand. Then Daddy Mac was going to follow us carrying a bunch of empty boxes from the attic. Well, Sam chose that hectic moment to refuse to hold my hand for the first time, flinging his hand back in defiance. It’s that whole “I can do it myself” thing, of which I am wholeheartedly in favor, just not at such an inopportune time. I persisted in trying to grab his hand so we could head down the stairs. By that time I was more ready than ever to flit out the door and attend my, ahem, meeting. It was not to be.
Sam flung his hand back even harder this time. Despite the fact that BOTH of his parents were about a mere foot away, he lost his balance and fell backwards, usually not such a big deal at all. However, this time he fell back against a spot where two walls meet in a 90 degree angle, hitting his back on the molding jutting out from the wall. I didn’t think much of it until it took him a long ten seconds to even cry out. I pulled up the back of his shirt and saw a long bright red gash. Oh my God! All of a sudden I couldn’t breathe. Sam has an extremely high threshold for pain (which he did not get from me), and he was screaming. I thought I was going to seize up in a panic attack right there.
We called the doctor’s office, and the doctor-on-call told us to take him in to the ER because it was longer than a half inch (most definitely!) and bleeding. By then Sam was all hunky dory though, walking around, asking to watch “TB”, the usual stuff. Bernie drove, thank God, because I would have killed us all for sure. I sure am glad someone around here is good under pressure because I was reduced to puddle status before pulling out of the driveway.
Sam was all excited to go to the hospital and had a great time running around the waiting room acting like Curious George minus the banana. Bernie chased him around while I was busy praying like a maniac and reading the Bible, probably not the first person to do that in the waiting area for the emergency room. Eventually it was our turn to see the doctor. At first I thought I was hallucinating, seeing a vision, an angel. I could have sworn the doctor leaning over to read his notes was Sam’s regular pediatrician, Dr. Rowe (better known affectionately in our household as “Dr. Whoa.”) It wasn’t possible. No way! Yes way! Dr. Whoa was the pediatrician on duty! I was so happy to see him I was ready to cry, just like when the fire engine pulled up at Sam’s 2nd birthday party right when they promised they would.
The first thing Dr. Whoa did was inform his rambunctious little patient that he was going to receive a very special popsicle at the end of the visit. Sam was literally jumping up and down with excitement. He was a real trooper during the exam, and Dr. Rowe got him all cleaned up and put a bandage on. Miraculously enough, the cut was not deep enough to require stitches, so before we knew it, it was popsicle time! Then Dr. Whoa made the mistake of asking Sam, “Would you like purple, red, or orange?”
Sam replied definitively, “PURPLE!” However, the minute Dr. Whoa left to get the purple prize and its deluxe “carrying case” (a styrofoam cup), Sam changed his mind. “ORANGE!” he blurted. I wasn’t about to trot through the Pediatric ER like a big ninny to tell Dr. Whoa that Prince Sam Macky had changed his mind. I do have a smidgen of pride left, not to mention that the fact that Prince would probably change his mind back again any second, and then I would really look pathetically toddler-whipped.
Of course he didn’t. He asked for an orange popsicle the whole rest of the night, even begging to go back to the hospital while we were driving home at 10:30 PM. “Sam want to go back to the hospital. Sam want an orange popsicle.” Cry me a river, dude. I told him that he could get an orange one on his next trip to the ER, but he didn’t get the joke.
After we got home and put him to bed, I thought about trying to make up for all of the alcohol I had missed at the “meeting,” but it was too much to overcome. Instead I made a batch of popsicles out of orange juice for the Prince, reminding myself to be thankful that he was feeling good enough to be annoying. That worked fine until this morning when he yelled from his crib, I kid you not, “Sam want to go back to the hospital and get an an orange popsicle.”
I broke down and gave him his homemade orange popsicle at a ripe old 7 AM, but it was WITHOUT the styrofoam cup carrying case. I’ve got my pride, you know.
LibbY