Fridays are not for the weak

I have noticed a trend. I become inspired to start writing again, and BOOM my children bless me with material. I just wish it wasn’t so bloody. I feel like a I missed my calling, and should have been an ER nurse.

Today was the last day of school! A half day, with a nice overcast sky, and a surge of energy that can be felt island wide. After an impromptu dance party to start off the day, students go their classes. Approx. 1 hour into the morning, my youngest child shows up at the office and asks for a band aid. A single band aid. This is important to remember. I ask Why? and the response is “I scratched myself on a stick.” Fair enough, and the level of gracefulness this child possesses is ironic at best. I lovingly hand over the band aid, and a antibacterial wipe for good measure and continue on with my day. I never asked to see the injury – that was my bad #1. We roll through the rest of the day, and I don’t see the child again till the end of the day. There was a vague statement that she is sore. I assumed it was from field day the day before and didn’t ask anymore questions: My failure #2. They are sent home with Moose, and I continue my mission of closing out the school year. I arrive home 2ish hours later, and all appears well. Both the youngest are happy and nothing seems out of place. That really should have been a BIG red flag. Chaos is peaceful for me, not actual peace.

I blindly enter the house, set down all my stuff, and visit the bathroom. I can not help but notice the amount blood in the bathroom. It is in slightly odd places. A couple drops on the floor, a bit on the sink and other places. As odd as the places are, the volume is what is concerning. I cautiously come out of the bathroom, and start assessing the situation calmly and collectively. Well, I tried to… I think I actually screamed who the hell is bleeding now?!?! Crickets. I started to worry that there was a child sacrifice while I was at work, but 1..2… all kids are accounted for. I recount them and still have 2. Finally, the youngest makes a vague statement about a scratch from earlier. Like, super vague. The 14 year old may have reinvented the term vague. “yaaaa. I have a scratch”. The conversation really doesn’t get any better…. me – ‘Where do you have a scratch?’ Youngest Child (YC for short) – “where the stick got me” ugh. “where did the stick get you?” groan “In the forest”…. dentist’s have it easier than I did. “Where is all the blood coming from?!” answer – “where I am bleeding from.” Seriously. She said that totally straight faced. Ahem…. “Let me see”. response ‘no. I already checked it. Its fine”. Luckily the older brother piped up to mention that they used gauze and tape to replace the band aid. UM What? We needed a first aid kit? ya. me- “I am not asking. Let. Me. See. Now….” exasperated sigh “fiiiiiinnnnneeee”. So we enter the room with the best lighting. Where is it? On the butt cheek. That is why YC didn’t want to make a big deal at school, no one wants to have their bottom exposed at school, and I respect that. So, now I am being partially mooned in my house, and all I can see is a white gauze patch that is seeping with blood, and more tape than I knew we owned. Its a gory tie dye for sure. I take a deep breath, and removed 1 patch of tape. Of course the squirmy child squeals from the pain of the tape removal, but I can not see where the blood is coming from yet. So, tape #2. I get it halfway removed with resistance, and fold down the gauze…. OOOOOHHHHH Shhhhhhiiiiiitttttttt. You can quote me on that. That was a Oh shit moment for sure. There is a hole. A hole that is still fresh and still pumping out blood. Scratch my ass!?!?! (no pun intended, but respected). I gently put back the patch and tape and calmy announce, we are going to the hospital. YC legit looked confused and asked ‘why’. Well for starters, you cant bleed for 6 hours and not have someone check it, and since it is still bleeding, I have to take you somewhere so that the bleeding stops. “ohhhhhh”….. seriously. I hope that child marries well.

We get to the island hospital right up the road, and there must have been a look on my face of HELP. We are taken right in, and then we get to explain why we are there. Explaining that your youngest child impaled themselves on a stick 6 hours ago is not easy. Especially when you are the “school nurse” by default and have brought other children in for less. I am having to explain that this child did not tell me about the injury in a logical way. The 14 year old is still really calm, and calling it a scratch. This leads to a false sense of security for all involved. All I can do is stand there and smile. Who am I to ruin the surprise? They have them expose the wound. When the doctor says “oh hell”, that’s when I was justified. I continued with a smug I told ya so grin aimed at the injured. At this point, I am just glad to know that I was not over reacting. I was allowed to come over and hold hands with the patient, at about the time they realized how serious the situation was. As the most nurturing parent ever, I start making jokes. Remember, this is the child that winced about tape being pulled. We have a sense of humor that was less than appreciated in the ER. At one point, the nurse managed to stop giggling at our horrible jokes and said we needed to stop making the patient laugh, cause the butt was jiggling when she laughed. Needless to say, that did not help. Half way through getting the hole closed, I had to ask – “Where is the stick that impaled you?” I had this horrific vision of a blood covered spear on the playground where my elementary students play. The stick in question – we learned it was still attached to a downed tree. My child goes on to explain that while chasing a ball, she slipped down a hill into the wooded area. And as slips go, it ended on the tree. I mentioned that anytime they have to remove a stick from themselves, I should be told the details immediately. The response, and I quote “NO, the tree removed itself from me. The stick is still attached to the tree”. Well, now that we know it was a BRANCH, and not a STICK, I feel ill. Thank God I was blessed with a strong stomach. Silver dollar sized hole, half inch deep and 7 stitches later, we are home. New rule of the house. If you require more than 1 band aid, it must be reported and inspected. No exceptions.