It was a warmish winter Wednesday morning. Snowstorm snow from the previous weekend still lined the roads and sidewalks; though it was slowly trickling away in the daytime warmth, the thawed snow froze overnight, creating patches of ice here and there.
Little Boy and I stepped outside at 7:30am. I was inwardly jubilant that we were actually leaving the house early, and not our usual 5-minutes-to-8 rush. That day, I had 5 meetings, 2 weeks worth of work, and a Grad school research paper to tackle. An extra 20 minutes was like a gift.
As I put our bags in the car, Little Boy lingered on the sidewalk. I didn’t really pay him much notice; so long as he wasn’t on the street, I figured he was okay.
And then, the scream.
What a scream. Blood-curdling. It quickly erupted into crying. I rushed around the car to find Little Boy sitting in a pile of snow. Speaking of blood… it was pouring out of his chin. It was all over his jacket. It was dripped in the snow.
It turned out Little Boy found a little patch of ice and decided to put snow on it. “I was playing,” he kept saying later. I’m guessing he was standing on the ice, bent over, and his little legs shot out from behind him and he fell chin-first into the sidewalk. Ouch.
Now, I’m no good around blood. I have a lifelong history of being squeamish and occasionally fainting when confronted with blood-oriented matter. But you would think that my love and concern for my beautiful son would trump my blood-triggered vasovagal syncope and allow me to calmly tend to him as he’s sitting on the sidewalk bleeding profusely from a half-inch gaping gash in his chin.
No. Didn’t remain calm.
I scooped him up in my arms, and ran inside and upstairs. I begged Little Boy to stop crying, but I was really begging him to be okay. I realized I left my phone in the car, so I ran back downstairs to get it. I started crying. I felt faint. I talked to the doctor’s office with my head between my legs.
Long story short: After failing to get Mr. P on his cell phone (he was chugging away on a treadmill), I drove Little Boy to the emergency room at Mount Auburn hospital in Cambridge. It’s the closest ER in proximity — about 4 miles — but I didn’t account for the fact it was rush hour and everyone in the world is trying to drive into Cambridge. We were stuck in gridlock for about 40 minutes. I’d inch the car forward 3 feet, turn around and tend to Little Boy, who was still bleeding a little. I started crying again.
Longer story short: After 3 hours in the ER, Little Boy emerged with 5 stitches, along with me and Mr. P, who had rushed over after he got my 3 frantic voicemails.
The guilt I feel, that this happened on “my watch,” is overwhelming. Logically I know it’s not my fault, it was an accident that could befall any 4 year-old boy. But, still. As I change the band-aid over his stitches, I wince knowing that he could have this scar under his chin for the rest of his life.
I’m sorry, Little Boy. I wish I had noticed you were playing on an ice patch and told you to get off, and you’d get all mad at me but we’d get in the car and drive away. I wish I could hold onto you and keep you safe all the time. But there’s some things not even Mommy can control, and that includes you growing up. At some point, I have to let you go and do dumb things like stand on ice patches and split your chin open. That’s part of growing up, and I accept that bad things may happen. I just hope that, next time, you don’t bleed as much. Especially all over Mommy’s hair. Love you, Little Boy.
Not a happy memory, but a memory all the same
