Yesterday I spent a fun-filled day with Isaac. A day off from work. A day off from daycare. A day in the emergency room. Isaac had a run in with a table at daycare -- not, as is the rumor circulating, that he was defending particular comments made about a certain Yellow Wiggle who drives the Big Red Car. And there it was, red, bloody, oozing a little blood by the time I arrived. He was pacified, calm -- coloring at the table. I took him. After a quick diagnosis from Dr. Mom who met us at home, it was off to the hospital.
He was the star of the ER. Waving at everybody, summoning nurses and doctors to glance his way with his soft, cackling, "Hi!". Isaac sat still while the nurse checked his heart with the stethoscope. He looked at me and smiled, amused. Mom did the same thing at home. When they took his blood pressure and the Velcro patch squeezed at his arm, he looked at me, the patch, the nurse and me and smiled. It was cool to him. It was fun. It was an adventure.
When they took as back to the room, he waved at everyone as I carried him. He said "Hi!" to everyone. Waved at them by twirling his wrist and curling his fingers inward. They commented on his eyes, on the scrap of oozing blood above his left eyebrow that he himself didn't notice. When they put the numbing medicine on it, he screamed and peeled the bandage off several times. I restrained him, quieted him, his eyes fiery and furious and fuming, tears and frustration bellowing out of them. This was an adventure and I was holding him back where no cut could. He wanted earnestly to run into the hallway, to run down the halls to look in the rooms and talked to whomever he could.
When he calmed and numbed we held him down flat against the linen of the raised bed. The surgical tech assured him that he'd be fine, that it wouldn't hurt. I still expected him to rise out of his skin when the first poke went in. But he sat there, through four stitches, knots, pokes, restrained by foreign hands around his head, my body weighing down against his keeping him still. His arms and legs and stomach all relaxed and at ease.
I've told you about his sad, brave eyes when I've left him at daycare. Yesterday I just saw bravery. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't cry out, didn't make a sound the entire time. His eyes were encouraged, curious, fascinated by the procedure. They welcomed it, accepted it, allowed it. If he blinked, I missed it. Four stitches and not a sound. When they finished, he sat up and waved at them, with his soft, cackling voice said "Bye!", curling his fingers, twirling his wrist.
I can say I was proud of him, but it was more of amazement than pride. Not that I doubt his toughness -- he is extremely tough, though this morning he cried and latched on to me because his foot fell asleep -- but I think I doubt his courage, his sense of the adventure. Stitches, the adventure of having a little boy.
Isaac is fine this morning. Happy, bouncing around, none the worse for wear. Ready to defend more Wiggles, Play-Doh, toy trucks and bugs. Ready to take on more tumbles, more blood, more dirt, more bangs and bruises. And with those sad, brave eyes below the four stitches, I left him at daycare this morning. I do not have his courage.
He was the star of the ER. Waving at everybody, summoning nurses and doctors to glance his way with his soft, cackling, "Hi!". Isaac sat still while the nurse checked his heart with the stethoscope. He looked at me and smiled, amused. Mom did the same thing at home. When they took his blood pressure and the Velcro patch squeezed at his arm, he looked at me, the patch, the nurse and me and smiled. It was cool to him. It was fun. It was an adventure.
When they took as back to the room, he waved at everyone as I carried him. He said "Hi!" to everyone. Waved at them by twirling his wrist and curling his fingers inward. They commented on his eyes, on the scrap of oozing blood above his left eyebrow that he himself didn't notice. When they put the numbing medicine on it, he screamed and peeled the bandage off several times. I restrained him, quieted him, his eyes fiery and furious and fuming, tears and frustration bellowing out of them. This was an adventure and I was holding him back where no cut could. He wanted earnestly to run into the hallway, to run down the halls to look in the rooms and talked to whomever he could.
When he calmed and numbed we held him down flat against the linen of the raised bed. The surgical tech assured him that he'd be fine, that it wouldn't hurt. I still expected him to rise out of his skin when the first poke went in. But he sat there, through four stitches, knots, pokes, restrained by foreign hands around his head, my body weighing down against his keeping him still. His arms and legs and stomach all relaxed and at ease.
I've told you about his sad, brave eyes when I've left him at daycare. Yesterday I just saw bravery. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't cry out, didn't make a sound the entire time. His eyes were encouraged, curious, fascinated by the procedure. They welcomed it, accepted it, allowed it. If he blinked, I missed it. Four stitches and not a sound. When they finished, he sat up and waved at them, with his soft, cackling voice said "Bye!", curling his fingers, twirling his wrist.
I can say I was proud of him, but it was more of amazement than pride. Not that I doubt his toughness -- he is extremely tough, though this morning he cried and latched on to me because his foot fell asleep -- but I think I doubt his courage, his sense of the adventure. Stitches, the adventure of having a little boy.
Isaac is fine this morning. Happy, bouncing around, none the worse for wear. Ready to defend more Wiggles, Play-Doh, toy trucks and bugs. Ready to take on more tumbles, more blood, more dirt, more bangs and bruises. And with those sad, brave eyes below the four stitches, I left him at daycare this morning. I do not have his courage.
2 comments:
Isaac, We were so sorry to hear about your accident and that you had to have some stiches, on that handsom face. Knowing you that you are a strong little boy.A Lot of Kisses we send you and a big HUG. We Love You.OBNaG
Isaac the Brave. There will be songs sung about you around the crackling camp fires at night. There will be nodding heads, legends of quests won. Isaac the Undefeated.
Hoold your Dad's hand...he needs you O brave one.
Love Grandma and Grammie Guest
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