Tuesday, April 12, 2005
A party ejected from a day of normalcy
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.
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.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Marital Dischord (a work of fiction)
“Ok. Here’s one.” She shifted in her seat and smoothed out her skirt with her palms. Looking nervously at her lap, she took a deep breath. “He makes horn noises.”
The counselor squinted at her. “Excuse me?”
“He imitates those little bike horns. You know, for kids’ bikes. With the rubber bulb on the end. He can sound just like one.”
The counselor nodded and jotted something down in his notebook. He glanced up at the husband to see him smiling out the window.
“So we are in Target looking for a birthday present for my nephew, and he hears someone honk one of those horns over by the bike section. You can hear those things pretty much across the store. So he answers back. Then the horn honks again, and he answers back. This goes on for like ten minutes. I’m as red as a beet, and he’s having a ball pretending to look at video games while engaging in this across-the-store mating ceremony. I swear it sounded like sick loons, and you could tell by the look on people’s faces that they did not find it funny. But there he was! Barely containing his juvenille glee. And he knew it bugged the crap out of me.”
“Good. That is a good start. An important step,” the counselor assured her. She nodded and composed herself. “What about you?” he asked the husband. “What compels you to sound like a bike horn?”
He turned from the window and sighed, not rudely or loudly but a sigh of familiarity. He looked at the counselor with a look of acceptance, his mouth still hinting at a smile around the edges.
She leaned over to catch the counselor’s attention again. “He does it out the car window, too. We’ll be driving along and he’ll see a kid on a tricycle or a tiny bike with training wheels and ‘Maaa-hoooo!’ Poor kid’s looking all over to find who is honking their horn at him, and this man grins like he’d just fooled a Rhodes scholar.”
The counselor continued looking at the husband. “Is this true? Do you do this?”
“Sure. Sure I do.”
“And you understand that it bothers your wife?”
“I suppose I know that it bothers her. But, fer Pete’s sake: its funny.”
“Do you mind if I could hear it?”
“Sure!” The husband sat up straight and give his best bicycle horn imitation. The counselor nodded, impressed, acknowledging the veracity of the sound. She sighed angrily, crossed her legs and lay her tightly folded hands on her lap.
“Wow. That, uh, sounds just like a bike horn. Where did you learn to do that?”
She glared at the counselor. “Oh, nice. Now you are impressed with his great talent. What was the point of this whole exercise again? Would you tell me that, please?”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve just never heard anyone imitate a bike horn before, and, well, you have to admit that is one very good imitation.”
“I’m hard pressed to admit anything except that you two are idiots.” With that, she picked up her purse and left the office.
The counselor stood up to say something, but she closed the door behind her. He watched the door for a moment. The husband looked out the window again.
“You might consider curtailing the horn impressions.”
“I know.”
The husband slowly got up to leave, silently shook the counselors hand. As he opened the door to leave, the counselor said, “That was best horn impression I’ve ever heard, by the way.”
The husband shrugged a small shrug and said, resigned, “I know.”
The counselor squinted at her. “Excuse me?”
“He imitates those little bike horns. You know, for kids’ bikes. With the rubber bulb on the end. He can sound just like one.”
The counselor nodded and jotted something down in his notebook. He glanced up at the husband to see him smiling out the window.
“So we are in Target looking for a birthday present for my nephew, and he hears someone honk one of those horns over by the bike section. You can hear those things pretty much across the store. So he answers back. Then the horn honks again, and he answers back. This goes on for like ten minutes. I’m as red as a beet, and he’s having a ball pretending to look at video games while engaging in this across-the-store mating ceremony. I swear it sounded like sick loons, and you could tell by the look on people’s faces that they did not find it funny. But there he was! Barely containing his juvenille glee. And he knew it bugged the crap out of me.”
“Good. That is a good start. An important step,” the counselor assured her. She nodded and composed herself. “What about you?” he asked the husband. “What compels you to sound like a bike horn?”
He turned from the window and sighed, not rudely or loudly but a sigh of familiarity. He looked at the counselor with a look of acceptance, his mouth still hinting at a smile around the edges.
She leaned over to catch the counselor’s attention again. “He does it out the car window, too. We’ll be driving along and he’ll see a kid on a tricycle or a tiny bike with training wheels and ‘Maaa-hoooo!’ Poor kid’s looking all over to find who is honking their horn at him, and this man grins like he’d just fooled a Rhodes scholar.”
The counselor continued looking at the husband. “Is this true? Do you do this?”
“Sure. Sure I do.”
“And you understand that it bothers your wife?”
“I suppose I know that it bothers her. But, fer Pete’s sake: its funny.”
“Do you mind if I could hear it?”
“Sure!” The husband sat up straight and give his best bicycle horn imitation. The counselor nodded, impressed, acknowledging the veracity of the sound. She sighed angrily, crossed her legs and lay her tightly folded hands on her lap.
“Wow. That, uh, sounds just like a bike horn. Where did you learn to do that?”
She glared at the counselor. “Oh, nice. Now you are impressed with his great talent. What was the point of this whole exercise again? Would you tell me that, please?”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve just never heard anyone imitate a bike horn before, and, well, you have to admit that is one very good imitation.”
“I’m hard pressed to admit anything except that you two are idiots.” With that, she picked up her purse and left the office.
The counselor stood up to say something, but she closed the door behind her. He watched the door for a moment. The husband looked out the window again.
“You might consider curtailing the horn impressions.”
“I know.”
The husband slowly got up to leave, silently shook the counselors hand. As he opened the door to leave, the counselor said, “That was best horn impression I’ve ever heard, by the way.”
The husband shrugged a small shrug and said, resigned, “I know.”
