Last weekend was Easter. A time for spiritual reflection
(other people, not me), chocolate and trauma. I would like to say that the
trauma part happened to someone else. It did, but it was still within the orb
of my monkeys, my circus.
It was a
beautiful Good Friday. The sun was shining, it was cold and food needed to be
purchased. We piled into the Outlander and went to the “bakery store.” Our
outing was going well, the deluxe car cart was gradually filling with a decent amount
of healthy food and our little cherub was enjoying her free cookie. Wade set
her free from the cart and that’s when our troubles began.
I broke
away from the group to contemplate toilet paper while they were getting milk
and eggs. I was basking in the glow of sales tags on the twelve packs of double
roll, which look more like regular rolls. What
is this? Did they add four squares and call it double? Is there someone
legislating what constitutes a double roll? Then I spied the recycled
paper. What thing would be more hilarious to bring to a toilet-paper-centric
Environmental Scientist than a package of recycled toilet paper. But the price
was higher than the store brand. Hmmmm.
My toilet
tissue muse was interrupted by a high-pitched wail. That sounds like my kid. She was probably just told no, possibly to ice
cream. Wade’s got this. I grabbed the package that was on sale, had more
than one ply and had a nice quilt pattern. I rounded the corner with a big grin
on my face, from my recent laugh at the idea of the look on Wade’s face about
recycled toilet paper. It was then that I discovered our cart abandoned in the
middle of the aisle. Grin fading and frown forming, I inspected what had been
added to the fancy car cart. Milk, no eggs. Maybe there was a poop emergency or
pee or something. Or maybe they were raptured. Meh. I continued our shopping
trip solo. They’ll catch up.
I finished
the last aisle and made my way to pay. I was at the non-self-check-out and was
just about to text Wade to see if he was dealing with some sort of five alarm
red alert blow out when he strolled by, child in tow. I shouted at him and
miraculously he actually heard me.
“She had an accident.”
Before I get into the gory details,
it was not poo related, I was an EMT and this kind of stuff gives me a bit of a
buzz.
I looked down at the tears on my
kid’s face. He was applying pressure to her head. She was doing a combination
of weeping and whimpering. Intrigued, I moved the paper towel to have a look. I
feasted my eyes on a gaping head wound. When I say gaping, I don’t mean her
brain was showing. It was probably a centimeter long and open about a quarter
of that length. A wave of adrenaline induced nausea hit me. I need to eat something. “We’re going to
take you to see the doctor.”
“The doctor,” she replied and
immediately started to howl.
I quickly paid for the order and
we moved to the front entrance of the store where the lighting is better. I
needed to check to see if I was dealing with a shallow cut or something that
needed more than a kiss and a Band-Aid. I moved her hair and was able to push
the cut closed. That’s going to need stitches or glue. Visions of restraining
my kid in the emergency room came to life in my mind. I put the paper towel
back in place and we moved our little trauma victim to the car.
“What
happened?” I asked Wade.
“She ran
into me and bounced off. I tried to grab her jacket and didn’t have a good
enough grip and she fell backwards and hit her head on a display pallet. When
she let out her howl, I checked her head and there was a scratch. Then there
was a lot of blood.” Wade looked like a man who failed his kid. No need to admonish him, he probably feels
worse than she does.
“Like a
wood pallet?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought
you just told her no for something.”
“No, that
was her injured scream.” Mom of the year right here. In my defence, I was a
couple aisles over and grocery store acoustics.
“We probably should’ve mentioned
this to someone. Oh well.” I strapped her into the car seat and instructed her
to hold pressure on her head. She continued to cry, albeit quieter than between
the store and car. I got in the driver’s seat and checked the emergency room
wait times. Children’s was a 45-minute wait. Less than an hour, how novel. I hope there won’t be a mass casualty
incident while we’re on our way.
Phone stowed, I started the car
and we drove over to the hospital. I went in the new entrance off Shaganappi
and was promptly slightly lost. My trusty navigator advised me to the Emergency
parking lot. We piled out of the car and headed to triage.
The triage nurse was very nice, she took down her
information and directed all of the important questions to the patient. I am in
the habit of letting her answer until she digs herself into a hole.
“Does anyone hurt you at home or
school,” asked the nurse. Abuse questions right off the bat. Interesting strategy.
“Zoë,” she replied.
Huh?
“Who is Zoë, is she someone at
your house or your school” the nurse replied tapping on her keyboard.
“School.”
“You haven’t seen Zoë today,
Sweetie.” Now I have to start responding
for her before Child and Family Services is involved. “She is a little girl
at her day home, she’s not in school yet. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t hurt you
Sweetie. Tell her what happened to you.”
“I fell down.” Oh, for fuck sakes. The truth, but that
explanation? Throw me a bone child!
I laughed uncomfortably at the
cuteness of my kid’s complete ignorance to the Pandora’s Box she was starting
to open. Just then Wade walked by, obviously looking for us. Thank Christ. Good
Friday. Apropos. I yelled his name and for the second time that day, he heard
me.
“Can you
please explain to the nurse what happened,” turning back to her I added, “I
wasn’t there when it happened.” She nodded knowingly. Pressure off of my hot seat,
Wade provided the same explanation he gave to me. Satisfied with his response,
she applied a freezing gel and a roll of cling and sent us to the
non-infectious waiting room. The wait time was dropping. It was down to 34
minutes. The gel quickly began to do its job and she was running around
attempting to play with the other kids in the dent and scratch waiting room.
“Adriana.”
A gentleman dressed in scrubs was calling us. That was fast. We gathered up the victim and her three PJ Mask
stuffies and moved to the man who was the conduit to the back.
“Room three,”
he said as he directed us to what looked like a trauma bay which had been
converted into a multi-bed room with pastel rainbow curtains around each bed. I
picked her up and put her on the exam table. She was immediately enamoured with
the pain chart showing different facial expressions and their associated pain
number.
“Which one
are you feeling?” I asked.
“That one,”
she said pointing at the smiley number one.
“That gel
must be working. Does your head hurt?”
“Not
really.”
The doctor
was in within a few minutes.
“Hello
Adriana, how are you?”
“I’m good,”
she mumbled
“I see you
have some friends there, who are they,” he said referring to the PJ Masks.
“Owlette,
Gekko and Catboy,” she replied, perking up. Well
played doctor, well played.
“I’m Dr.-I-Can’t-Remember-His-Name.
It’s nice to meet you. I see you hit your head. Do you mind if I take a look?”
“OK,” she said
in her sulky injured voice.
“What
happened,” he asked.
Wade
responded repeating his story for the third time in the last hour. Bandage
removed, he was inspecting the cut.
“This is my
mom, her name is Heather,” she said brightly, with the are-you-so-proud-of-me
look on her face. I’ll keep you in mind
if I ever need a wingman.
“Thanks for
the introduction kiddo,” I said smiling.
“I think
this is going to need some glue.” He went on to explain that glue is easier to
apply than stitches and assured us that it was medical grade Krazy Glue. As he
walked out of the curtained room, she noticed the toys out in the open area.
“Beads!” She
was looking at one of those toys with the wire and beads. Her posture was
coiling to jump off the table.
“No, stay
there. He’s not done with you yet.” He returned with his tube of glue and
sealed her scalp.
“It should
be all healed up in five to seven days. Keep an eye on it for signs of
infection, odours, redness or pus. Bring her back right away if she has any of
those. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
In and out
in less than an hour. When we went back through the waiting area, it was
packed. Well timed, people, well timed.
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