Today, Thomas had to get stitches for the first time. Sigh.
He tries to do crazy, dangerous stuff all the time. He jumps on and tries to jump off the couch. He climbs up the pantry shelves. He climbs up and walks around on the kitchen countertops. But I always catch him before he hurts himself.
The few times he’s actually hurt himself badly enough to have to have some kind of treatment, Will and/or I have been sitting or standing right next to him, watching him do something that seems perfectly safe, not dreaming that he could possibly get hurt.
The last two times he’s gotten hurt, he’s tripped over his own two feet and smacked his face on a round-edged, plastic, innocuous-seeming planter pot. (I know. I should have gotten rid of the #*!!@@ pot after the first time, but it happens to contain the only plant I own that I am sentimentally attached to, a very large hibiscus plant that I’ve had for nearly nine years now. And honestly, I didn’t figure the same freak accident could happen twice.)
The only way I can describe the way it feels to explain to the person on the phone, and the person at the check-in desk, and the nurse, and the doctors “what happened” to cause the injuries, is that it completely and totally sucks. Awful. For a number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I know that as I talk, they’re trying to determine whether or not I am abusive or negligent. The combination of guilt over letting your child get injured and shame at being implicitly and repeatedly judged, all while having to tell the awful story over and over, is just terrible. Combine that with a pre-stitches gregarious two-year-old who happily tells everyone “I fell on the flower pot!” and you’ve got a very bizzare half-an-hour.
Here’s a photo of the scar from last time. I didn’t take pictures of it for a while after it happened, because it looked so terrible.
He was actually really really good at urgent care this morning. We went in and met this completely awesome doctor. He was probably in his early sixties, very tall and skinny, with white hair, a handlebar mustache, black glasses, and a french accent. He was dressed like a frenchman, with awesome plaid pants, a very close-fitting tailored dress shirt, and loafers. Oh, and a looney-tunes tie. He was very sweet to Thomas. Before he got going with the stitches, he sent the nurse away but told her to come back if “it sounded like” he needed her. Translation: get in here if the kid is completely freaking out and we have to strap him down.
Thomas sat on my lap, and he was actually very good. There was no need for straps. I did have to hang on really tight during the few seconds when the doctor actually had the needle in Thomas’ lip for each stitch, since even with the topical anesthetic, Thomas clearly could feel it and was not pleased. He cried “no, no!” and tried to move away, but the doctor was totally great and fast and Thomas calmed down really easily after each stitch. Here he is today sporting the old scar on his cheek and new stitches below his lip.
As we drove by the KFC near the urgent care center, he started shouting, “It’s the same, Mommy! It’s the same doctor! It’s a picture of the same doctor! The doctor!!”
What he had seen, of course, was this:
And he was pretty much right. Sixty-ish, mustache, horn-rims, white hair, even a tie. The resemblance was indeed striking.
Later this afternoon when talking to my parents via the wonders of the internets, he told them, “I went to the doctor. I got stitches. I feel so much better now.” So there you go. I guess he’s okay. The whole experience certainly did little to inhibit his dangerous behavior; he was busy finding new ways of scaring the bejeesus out of me the minute we got home.
I’m the one who remains traumatized, having spent the whole day imagining all of the other ways he could injure himself on seemingly harmless objects in our home. Sigh.
