Monday, December 27, 2010
It was a scream with edge. Not one tinged with irritation or anger. A scream of the purest kind, crystal sharp and without end. A child’s scream that has two parents move from sleep to sprinting in less time than it takes to blink open a waking eye.
There is our boy child, outside on the back patio, toes curled, arms flailing, mouth expressing an all-consuming agony. Finger? Toe? There’s Stripe, the guinea pig. What’s he doing sitting on the outside sofa? Head? Look, there’s blood. In wide splatters. From where? WHERE IS THE BLOOD COMING FROM?
We have our boy in the kitchen and we see. No need for jammed fingers under a cold tap. The guinea pig and rabbit hutch is groin height for a seven year old clad in his undies.
In that next second the damage control is focused. But both parents are forgetting to breathe amongst the application of pressure to a wound, to the calling of an ambulance, to the calming, to the relocation of Stripe to his hutch, to the calling for Grandma back up. I only come unstuck when the Mr is outside inspecting the hutch area and begins barking orders to know where the dog is, in case something is missing.
The Mr and I are not breathing because neither of us have forgotten the horror of trying to hold a tiny finger on to a small, writhing hand. I cannot believe that I cannot stop the tunnelling of my vision. With a calm, quiet urgency I hand over the holding of the sterile cloth to the oldest and I am appalled at myself. I am horizontal for the few seconds required to save me from falling over an edge.
Through the flurry of activity, I can see that the Mr who is is now holding our boy with one arm, is valiantly fighting to grip the edge of his own precipice. One exchanged look and we have swapped roles. The ambulance arrives and there is pain relief and attempted inspections and Grandma is here and the kids are finding the things we need. The thing we need most is Moby. The middle holds his bear tight.
An hour later we finally know what the situation is. It’s one hell of a bruise. It’s a cut. BUT ALL THAT BLOOD? Because it’s vascular. Turns out things really, really, really bleed, down there.
The Mr arrives at the hospital and my eldest has packed me a random ball of woolly therapy and two knitting needles, because she is amazing. The middle demands a garment for Moby and since now, unbelievably, all we are doing is waiting for the kid to wee before we can go home, I cast on a strange little Moby cardigan.
As I type, the little man and his little man are thinking themselves mighty lucky and doing wonderfully. I’m lucky, I have a blog and I can write a cathartic post and then get back to the weirdy cardigan knittery. The Mr is thanking his lucky stars and is brainstorming an alternative hutch closure solution and will probably need one very good glass of red this evening. The girl kids are just feeling so very lucky that they are, well, girls.
Moby was made by Jess for my kid and was found under our Christmas tree. Jess is a star of the super kind. Moby is super l.o.v.e.d.