“Mommy!” A Poetic Homage to the Most Important Person in the Emergency Room

                     “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 https://andrewhidas.com/try-a-little-tenderness-notes-on-a-daughters-broken-finger/

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Deep appreciation to the photographers! Unless otherwise stated, some rights reserved under Creative Commons licensing.

Elizabeth Haslam, whose photos (except for the books) grace the rotating banner at top of page.  https://www.flickr.com/photos/lizhaslam/

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/