“MOMMY!”
By Andrew Hidas
The tiniest shortfall of a tiny hand,
merrily reaching for safety poolside—
and missing.
Fateful collision of lip and cement,
the gash gushing precious blood
staining red the waterwings designed
to forestall catastrophe.
Flurry of activity, lifeguards rushing,
the ice they bring serving as balm
for body and soul, halfway to the ER
his babble already resuming the
incessant joyful grrrrr of
trucks and dinosaurs.
Five hours later, exhausted and
asleep on his mother’s chest,
darkness abiding, the team finally assembles,
doctor, nurses, interns, respiratory therapist,
eight persons forming a semi-circle
of solemn duty.
The shake and tug to coax him awake,
grasped by multiple hands descending,
his sudden panic beyond all soothing,
needle in the right leg, needle in the left,
“MOMMY!” comes the deep desperate
wail to she who is dear beyond words.
Now the open-eyed stupor of anesthesia,
beeping monitors cold comfort against
the horrible of a listless life form,
thirty pounds atop the thousands already
weighing on his mother’s heart.
Comes the stitching, the many hands
returned to ensure no sudden reflex
distracts from the task so close at hand,
the waiting resuming, the hour advancing.
Slowly the eyes open,
vacant and blank,
inhabiting a dimension
beyond all space and time
as we wait,
as we wait.
He must assent to a popsicle
and the requisite few licks
that signal re-entry to the world
before a safe journey home can
begin, which it does after he licks,
ungreedily, fast upon the midnight hour.
Five days pass and we return,
stitch-removal time on a Saturday morn,
romping first round the waiting room
with trucks and chortles and grins,
entertaining the early birds who
care to look up from their screens.
The doctor enters, offers stickers
and smiles, elicits a pursed showy lip
with the assist of a flashlight,
then forms a plan of attack.
Out comes the swaddling blanket,
hands descend, our chirpy words
no match for the terror returned,
the sudden crumpling face,
“Mommy!”
And then it is over, his final protest
buckling under the doctor’s deft hands
and his own life that refuses all that is not joy,
that is not steeped agreeably in the
magic elixir of love and simple experience,
greeted anew with the opening of
each wide blue eye come morning.
***
***
***
This poem is dedicated to both of this lucky boy’s loving mothers, one tending the home fires through this entire ordeal.
For a reflection on my daughter’s visit to the same ER department as a high schooler 11 years ago, see http://andrewhidas.com/try-a-little-tenderness-notes-on-a-daughters-broken-finger/
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Elizabeth Haslam, whose photos (except for the books) grace the rotating banner at top of page.
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Library books photo by Larry Rose, all rights reserved, contact: larry@rosefoto.com
Mother and toddler by Andrew Hidas https://www.flickr.com/photos/andrewhidas/
HI Andrew
Spot on! This is such an unacknowledged part of parenthood! Thx for the meaningful journey…again!
Was this when he broke his tooth, or is this another occasion?
Hugs
Mary
No, this happened the very afternoon we had lunch last Monday! The broken tooth was a year ago. And still he powers on, joy-filled to the brim…
My 4 yr. old son got admitted to the emergency ward a few weeks back, after running headlong into our coffee table and slicing his head open. 4 staples later, he’s snoozing in my partner’s arms after his ordeal while i talk to the nurse about discharge and aftercare details. Outside I’m 100% in control; inside I’m reeling and may heart is thundering in my chest.I
No one ever told me that seeing your child in distress would feel like that.
I’ve always loved this blog and your writing style, but this one was a bit of a punch in the gut, in the best way possible. I’ll hug my son extra hard after day care today. Thanks.
Mike, these are in many ways the most meaningful comments I receive—someone I hadn’t heard from before, who has been reading along for a while, and then has a visceral response to one post that compels them to share their experience. So I thank you very much for it, and hope you check in here again when you feel so moved.
I think that is such a lovely and true description of being (no, make that “faking”!!) “100% in control” while inside you’re “reeling with (your) heart thundering in (your) chest.” It’s one of those experiences of parenthood ONLY available to parents, when such a fierce, almost frightening-in-its-power love and protectiveness wells up in your heart that you think you may burst. And to me it feels like a whole glommy jumble of things—helplessness, empowerment, radical compassion, an almost violent urge to throw oneself directly into the scene of the unfolding crime as a stand-in for this precious creature whose suffering is demanded for no other reason than being alive, and mortal, and subject to all the whims of fate that accompany that so-very-human condition. Your lad having endured staples rather than stitches just adds to the duress——yikes!
And with all that, comes also the fact of kids’ astonishing resilience, which I’m trusting you’ve seen already in yours. Nietzsche (and later, Kelly Clarkson!) comes to mind here—”What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” True of both you & your son today, I would bet. But good god, the cost of that!
Several years ago we drove our our then-teenage daughter to a hospital 200 miles away as a result of a heart monitor reading viewed by a cardiologist imploring us to make the long drive for her to see a pediatric specialist. After consulting with our friend and family doc in town, we were convinced it was serious enough to follow orders. Nurses greeted us upon arrival at the big-city Children’s Hospital with a wheel chair and crash cart with which to deliver our daughter to a room upstairs. Seeing the wheelchair, our daughter informed the nurses that she had a track meet the following day and that she was fine. The nurses looked at us and reiterated that the heart monitor indicated otherwise and that danger lurked. My heart ached for my daughter and my stomach wretched with fear for her and for us. How could this be? We wanted so much for this not to be true and for the nightmare to end. It didn’t, at least right away. The doctor arrived soon and explained that our daughter had experienced a life-threatening episode with an irregular run in the ventricles of her heart. She would need a procedure in the coming days to mitigate the issue. What? my lovely, happy, healthy, remarkable high school daughter needed a heart procedure? How could this be? How could this be happening to her, and to us? I was frightened out of my wits and crushed with sadness and despair. The track meet would go on without her and I prayed with all my might that she would push through this episode and one day be back on the track, the court, and on the life path that held (and has since manifested) such promise.
Jay, your post brings up what turns out to be a vexing question: Is it “better” (easier, less horrifying?) to be dealing with the tremors & quakes of an infant/toddler without the verbal abilities to comprehend and absorb what is going on and why their cooperation is so important, or a fully formed adolescent or adult who CAN comprehend it all and understands the enormity of what she is facing? A Sophie’s choice question, actually. Your daughter’s being a life-threatening situation rather than just short-term but unexplainable trauma for a toddler does make for a qualitative difference, though, upping the stakes and forcing a confrontation no parent should ever be required to endure. And yet endure it parents have, in appalling numbers, throughout history. Reading biographies and even walking old graveyards always serve as reminders of what a huge percentage of children in the past didn’t survive till adulthood. A sobering/heartening indication of how far we’ve come in medicine and public health.