In Stitches

I have recently been initiated into an aspect of parenting I would much rather have forgone, thank you very much.

I'm sure many parents have gone through the process of taking their child to emergency for any number of reasons, and I'm sure many are far, far worse than my son's injury.  I am so very sorry you had to go through that.

But this is my story, and the first time your child is injured badly enough to go to the hospital is terrifying, no matter how minor the injury.

Derek's cousin got married a couple of weeks ago.  (Beautiful wedding!  Congratulations to Miranda and Jeff!)  They had an outdoor wedding at a campground, and many of the attendees were camped out there for the weekend.  Ourselves included. 

So there we were with our spiffy new (and by new, I mean it's older than I am, but we just bought it) motorhome, me and Derek and the kids.  And Noah, of course, was having a little trouble coping with all the bustle and change in routine.  So I decided to put him and his brother to bed close to his normal bed time.  We were camped a few minutes walk from the day-use area where the wedding reception was being held.

So I've got Noah and Sean tucked up in bed in the bunk above the cab in the motorhome.  (They sleep in the top bunk because it means it's much less likely that Noah can get out and wander at night.)  Derek's off at the day use area having fun with his relatives.  (We had agreed on this beforehand; he knows his family much better than I do, and he doesn't get to see them very often.  So that night was a party-your-heart-out night for Derek.)

I've just finished tidying up the camp and settling in for a long boring night by the fire with one of my favourite books, when I hear thud, THUD. 

Now you parents in the crowd know that there are thuds, and there are THUDS.  The former is an indication that one or more of your children is misbehaving and is in for a talking-to.  The latter is a clanging alarm bell on the inside of your skull screaming that something is wrong.

So I ran into that camper so fast I had Noah in my arms before he was even crying.  Noah had fallen from the over-cab bunk.  (Sean wasn't even phased by his brother's trauma.)  There was blood, and at first I thought he'd split his lip, but then he tilted his head back.  My thoughts: Oh, that's gonna need stitches.  His chin was split open and the wound was gaping.  That wasn't gonna get fixed with a band-aid.

So I fish out my cell phone and call my husband, telling him, "Noah fell out of the top bunk and he's gonna need stitches."

"I'll be right there."

Those few seconds of trying to keep Noah calm while not panicking, myself, were some of the longest of my life.

He arrives, takes Noah from me.  Noah is quiet now, just making this soft keening sound that alerts us that he's upset and doesn't know what's going on.  Derek turns to me and says, "He's gonna need stitches."

This trips my Sarcasm Circuits, and he gets The Look.  I think: That's what I said, stupid.  I'm pretty sure I didn't say it out loud.  At least I hope I didn't.

Derek's mom and sister-in-law arrive on the scene.  His mom gives us directions to the hospital and says she'll watch Sean.  His brother's wife, Jessica tells us to keep him awake because he may have a concussion.  He is very drowsy at this point, and the accident happened about five minutes earlier.  So we are concerned.  I drive, being as Derek's been drinking, and he rides in the back and keeps Noah awake.

So a fifteen minute drive to a town I don't know, to find a hospital I've never been to in the dark.  The emergency waiting room is empty.  (Thank God!)  They check him out, informed that Noah is autistic.

They give him some medicine so he won't remember being stitched.  (I don't know if this is standard procedure for stitching children or because he's autistic, but I sure appreciated that.)  And after taking the medication, he promptly falls asleep.  He wakes up and it takes four people to hold him when they give him the freezing needle.  And he promptly falls asleep again.  Doesn't even move when they start cleaning the wound.  So Derek and I opt to not watch our baby being poked and stitched, and go to the waiting room.  A few minutes later he has a perfect row of eight tiny stitches under his chin.  They did a beautiful job stitching him.

He shows no symptoms of concussion, and we are allowed to take him back to the camp.

He sleeps like the dead until 9 a.m. the next morning, and is babbling a mile a minute from the moment he wakes up.  He doesn't seem bothered at all by the dressing on his chin, and doesn't seem to be in any pain.  Looks like he's gonna be fine.

So the stitches are out now.  He's going to have a scar there, but the whole ordeal was, in retrospect, not all that bad.  And not nearly as bad as it could have been.  Thank God!

So that was my traumatic induction into the your-child-has-been-injured-and-needs-to-go-to-hospital club.  I hope you never have to join it.

Love,
     -Nan

P.S.  A big thank-you to all the staff at the Fort Saint John hospital.  You were calm, competent and empathetic.  You made a bad experience into a much more tolerable one.  God bless you!

P.P.S.  And also to my sister Candice (a registered nurse) for taking out the stitches while by some miracle keeping Noah calm.  You truly have a gift, sister.