Adeodatus in Wonderland

We are in station 5E. He’s sleeping. Most of the other beds in this room are empty now. A machine hums and chirps around the corner. The blue pad covers most of the blood on the sheet.

N’s little right leg is wrapped up, from the calf down around the ankle. He’s got a plaster splint to keep his foot immobile for a few days. His little somnolent snorts are a welcome emotional respite from the screams for mama.

This morning I slept in. S.’s alarm sounded a few minutes before seven. We’ve got the clock radio tuned to the local jazz station, so the day is welcomed with saxophone flourishes or piano improvisations. This morning we got the local traffic report first. An accident here. Construction there. Somewhere traffic was all messed up because of an accident where a party was ejected from the vehicle. Those were the words the dj used. A party ejected. That struck me as very technical language for what was a minor tragedy during this morning’s commute. For that ‘party’ and all of his friends and family, life would never be the same. For listeners adjusting their ties and backing out of their driveway it was merely information pertaining to where the most advantageous route would lie this morning. For men still laying in bed, looking at the ceiling and listening to their wives’ rhythmic breathing, it meant a moment of prayer and reflection on how quickly and permanently life changes.

I was cleaning up the kitchen from breakfast and last night’s dinner. Listening to Morning Edition. Instant messaging. Checking Craigslist. N. came into the kitchen crying, “Owie! Owie!” -- nothing I don’t hear at least once every fifteen minutes from at least one child every waking hour. But his limping foot was leaking red. I scooped him up and yelled for someone to get me a cold washcloth. R. came running. The little chubby foot was elevated. Pressure applied. It stopped bleeding within minutes, but I kept the washcloth firmly on the foot. When I lifted it once to check the damage I a line of red flesh, enough to make my head light and a cold sweat come across my forehead.

S. was still at the gym. Find the number. The front desk pages her. No response? Please go look for her. It’s important.

The kids prayed for their little brother. J.’s sensitive soul prayed with tears. M. was excited to visit the hospital. N’s little twin, L., was just mad that she couldn’t play in her underwear any more.

Later in the waiting room, when we could hear N.’s screams as they drove the local anesthetic into his wound, L. looked at me with a sad face. “Those stitches are really hurting him.” She stared out the window, frowning, until we stopped hearing the yells.

The bottom of the foot is evidently a pretty hard place to get good and numb. They had to shoot up the laceration twice more after S. and I switched places. I glanced once at that needle buried in the opened flesh and could only imagine the white-hot sting, that immediate, consuming, searing pain my three year old trooper endured. He yelled for mama, his little hands grasping the air in front of him. “I can’t see her! Mama! Owwwwww! My bones! My bones are hurting!” The doctor looked up from his stitching and told me he cried for me when his mama was by his side. The grass is always greener on the other side of excruciating pain. I sang a family favorite as the doc applied the plaster strips to protect his sutures, and he was soon sleeping, with a snort and a twitch but nary a scream.

So our lives were different for one day. Not so much trauma that we impacted traffic, but enough to impact our little house. Enough to get us to weep and pray and be a family.