It is important to know this bit of information if you're to understand my complete dismay when we're leaving Red Deer for the rest of our 10 hour drive (and 10 day vacation) at about 2 PM, instead of 10:30 AM, as planned. To be fair, departure from Edmonton hasn't gone as planned either. Being the harried, procrastinating parents we are, Dan and I aimed to leave at 9 AM and actually leave much closer to 10 AM. We decide we need some coffee and since it's 11:30 (instead of 10:30) we decide we will also stop and let the kids have some lunch and run around a bit while we are at it.
When the barista at the coffee shop manages to confuse Dan in her attempt to give directions to a nearby park, he spots a bit of green space by the patio. And since we are already patrons, we unload our cooler of lunch-y goods and do our best to feed our children as they wander about. While Dan and Zoe peruse the bookstore, I relax in the sun while Simon does the wobbly dance around the patio. With his Kleen Kanteen with sport top lid in hand, he all at once trips upon the pedestal of an umbrella stand, knocks the Kleen Kanteen on the ground and some part of his face on the Kleen Kanteen and proceeds to wail in pain. Assuming he hit his mouth, which he has done 1784 times since attempting to walk, I begin to examine his mouth for bleeding. When I find no such wound, I looked up at his eyes to give him a comforting glance before pulling him to my bosom to make it all better. Yet before I can hold him close to me, I notice a marble-sized lump below his left eye... and blood coming from his eye.
Frantic, I abandon our lunch and run to the store to find Dan so he can fix everything. I manage to mumble something that apparently makes sense to the person who gleans meaning from my slamming cupboard doors. He calmly gets directions to the hospital from the much-less-confusing-than-the-barista cashier, escorts us all to the car and gathers our things from the patio. Meanwhile, Simon seems fine, other than the discoloured tumor below his eye. On the way to the hospital, I joke that we should pinch Simon so he will cry a lot and we'll be rushed through triage. Zoe, always the encourager, sweetly cheers Simon on, "Come on, Simon, cry... you can do it. Cry, Simon."
In the car, Dan and I debate whether or not to bother with the ER, especially since Simon is so happy and on my last look at his eye, the blood source was identified as a small scratch above his eye, not his actual eye. Dan makes me agree that if we decide to go, we are not to second-guess our decision or bash the medical profession (why does he have to throw that one in there???). But... wouldn't we feel terrible if he is painlessly going blind while we hurry on to Salmo and his laughter from the back is really, "Boy, these black marks look funny... Zoe is hilarious without a head..." So to the ER we go. We feel a little silly when we pray to get through quickly.
Simon woos the triage nurses with his big blue eyes, sweet smiles and flirtatious 13 month-old giggles. So much for being pitied and immediately scooted off to see a doctor to spare the other patients enduring the misery of our wailing child. Thankfully, the wait is actually pretty short and only a few minutes after seating ourselves in the waiting room, Simon's name is called and we are taken to a curtained area in the "Minor Emergencies" area. It is there that we spend most of our waiting time. If Alanis Morissette hadn't screwed me up so badly, I'd know whether or not that was ironic instead of just sucking.
Sadly, curtained areas in Emergency Rooms are rather poorly baby-proofed and the National Geographic book of pandas does little to hold Simon's interest. Moaning guy next door seems to be in quite a bit of pain and his potty mouth educates my child in ways I prefer to save for the eighth grade or so. Burn victim man does not receive the privacy due him, as the nurses leave the door ajar and Simon attempts numerous games of peek-a-boo with him. I manage to enrapture Simon for a few moments with the camera.
That discoloured area on his left eye is raised significantly,though by this time, it has already begun to deflate.
Another feeble attempt to distract my son.
At least the kid is in good humour.(Of course, making me doubt our decision to bring him here
...and bash the medical profession.)
When the doctor finally makes her way to us, Simon is still chipper and flirtatious, and she looks at him for all of 55 seconds as I briefly recount his episode. "He'll have a black eye." And out we go...
A few more shots of Simon's shiner...
Giggling by the pool at Great Grandma & Grandpa's in Salmo
Soberly taking in the family reunion
(not all of us could do this)
A few more shots of Simon's shiner...
Giggling by the pool at Great Grandma & Grandpa's in Salmo
Soberly taking in the family reunion(not all of us could do this)
Nearly every visit to the emergency room is like this for me. We decide to go because we are worried and don't know what else to do and then by the time we get there I convince myself that I am feeling better (yes, our ER trips have usually been for me - diabetes and the barfing flu don't mix well) and start to feel foolish for coming.
ReplyDeleteI find the best way to combat this is to say to the nurses "I feel a bit silly for coming, but..." They almost always shoot back a "No! Don't feel bad! That's what the ER is for. Better to come and know everything is fine than be worried at home." At lest that's what they say if they're good.
Glad your little guy is ok. :)