When Miss Lil was on her way to the ER Tuesday afternoon with a bandaid over her bloody chin- a self-inflicted wound of dubious origin- she inquired of her momma, 9-months pregnant (origin not dubious), if the doctor was "going to cut her skin off ." Her momma assured her that he would not.
Unlike her momma, who had a fit and fell in it when she got stitches in her chin as a child (see previous blog), Lil WAS a brave little soldier. Even though her little worried, sad eyes just about broke her Nonnie's heart, she did everything that was asked of her, and only really cried- loud and hard- when the doctor poked that big ugly needle in her chin to deaden things some so he could stitch it up. I'd have cried too, and probably come a lot closer to the screaming meemie fit her mother threw back when, if it had been me on that table. But not Lil. She took it, and she held so still when the doctor stitched her up that I'm sure it will be a perfect little scar for her to show off one day. I peaked to see how it was going a time or two, but I just couldn't watch. It just about did me in to see her little legs sticking out past where her momma sat on the table beside her, with her sweet, pink tennis-shoed feet jiggling ever so slightly from nervousness. Don't you just hate it when a child suffers pain? Don't you just hate it when that child is your own heart's delight? I know I do.
But she took it, and the doctor said he'd never seen a child her age do so well. Top 1% he said, like we didn't already know just how special and brave she was. Which made it all the sadder to see those fat, heavy teardrops form in the corners of her eyes and run down her biscuit cheeks when he inadvertently confirmed what she already feared might be true. If you don't think it matters how you phrase things to a literal-minded child, put yourself in this 3 year-old's place for a moment as the doctor, who was holding between his fingers what we adults could see were the long, leftover ends of the sutures from the last of 8 stitches, leaned over to look in her face and say "Now I'll just cut it off and then we'll be done."
September 12, 2013
stitches
On Tuesday, the delightful Miss Lil- 3.8 years of fun, sweet, smart, sometimes punky but always spunky cuteness- busted her chin. Her momma had just been ushered into the exam room for her final baby-check prior to the much-anticipated due date of Spiderman, aka Lillian's little brother, when she got the call.
"Wah wah wah wah your daughter, wah wah wah nothing to be alarmed about, wah wah wah wah bleeding, wah wah wah wah come get her," said the voice on the other end.
As I drove to the hospital ER to meet them, I couldn't help but think back to a Wednesday night more than 25 years ago when I was summoned from my spot in the alto section right during the middle of choir practice due to the fact that Lil's future mom had decided it would be great fun to swing between two tables down in the child care room. Which it probably was until her hands slipped and she busted her chin open on the floor and proceeded to bleed all over her cute shoes, herself and everyone else who was anywhere close.
"Wah wah wah sure does bleed a lot, and wah wah probably need to take her for stiches," someone said.
Which I eventually did, since after all she was my child and her daddy was conveniently out of town that night. Convenient for him maybe, but not so much for me, who sped alone to the nearest Urgent Care facility in the dark of night with his bleeding child in tow. I will spare the details except to say that she was not the brave little soldier I had hoped she would be upon arrival. As I recall, it took about 6 of us, not counting the doctor or her daddy who, did I already mention was not in town that night, to hold her down so her chin could be sewn back together. So much screaming, crying, thrashing and carrying on that child did that we were all worn smooth by the time it was over. But somehow in the midst of the melee a few stitches were applied, and we were finally released into the night.
As we headed home from this hellish ordeal I, for my part, was in serious need of tranquilizers, a fist full of B vitamins and a big venti-sized glass or two of wine. As I only had the latter at home, I was prepared to settle. But at the moment, my mother's heart was filled mostly with anxious concern over the well-being of the poor, sniffling child huddled in the darkness of my car's back seat. It had been so awful. Would she be scarred for life both physically and emotionally? Would she hate me for standing by while she suffered at the hands of white-coated strangers? These were the questions racing through my mind as we made our way home, when suddenly, from the back seat I heard her husky little voice...
"Momma?"
"Yes, sweetie?" I answered.
"I had a good time at the doctor's office."
"Wah wah wah wah your daughter, wah wah wah nothing to be alarmed about, wah wah wah wah bleeding, wah wah wah wah come get her," said the voice on the other end.
As I drove to the hospital ER to meet them, I couldn't help but think back to a Wednesday night more than 25 years ago when I was summoned from my spot in the alto section right during the middle of choir practice due to the fact that Lil's future mom had decided it would be great fun to swing between two tables down in the child care room. Which it probably was until her hands slipped and she busted her chin open on the floor and proceeded to bleed all over her cute shoes, herself and everyone else who was anywhere close.
"Wah wah wah sure does bleed a lot, and wah wah probably need to take her for stiches," someone said.
Which I eventually did, since after all she was my child and her daddy was conveniently out of town that night. Convenient for him maybe, but not so much for me, who sped alone to the nearest Urgent Care facility in the dark of night with his bleeding child in tow. I will spare the details except to say that she was not the brave little soldier I had hoped she would be upon arrival. As I recall, it took about 6 of us, not counting the doctor or her daddy who, did I already mention was not in town that night, to hold her down so her chin could be sewn back together. So much screaming, crying, thrashing and carrying on that child did that we were all worn smooth by the time it was over. But somehow in the midst of the melee a few stitches were applied, and we were finally released into the night.
As we headed home from this hellish ordeal I, for my part, was in serious need of tranquilizers, a fist full of B vitamins and a big venti-sized glass or two of wine. As I only had the latter at home, I was prepared to settle. But at the moment, my mother's heart was filled mostly with anxious concern over the well-being of the poor, sniffling child huddled in the darkness of my car's back seat. It had been so awful. Would she be scarred for life both physically and emotionally? Would she hate me for standing by while she suffered at the hands of white-coated strangers? These were the questions racing through my mind as we made our way home, when suddenly, from the back seat I heard her husky little voice...
"Momma?"
"Yes, sweetie?" I answered.
"I had a good time at the doctor's office."
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