An Evening in the E.R.

Remember when you were three...

Mike Tyson famously asserted, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” I often think about this line whenever life offers the proverbial speed bump or obstacle. But it seems I have referred to it on the daily as a dad. By their very nature, kids have a way of saying, “f*ck your plans.” And as a prototypical Type-A person, this stresses me out. I’d like to think I’ve become a better person by being more flexible, accommodating, a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. But not really. I suppose that’s why they make beer.

One such instance happened recently. Last night, in fact. My wife and I decided to actually conduct an adult conversation, schedule a babysitter, and enjoy a quick drink down the street. You would have thought we were preparing for the Met Gala from our excitement. On the way to the restaurant, we waved hello to neighbors we didn’t know and commented on the lovely scenery. We didn’t listen to the Encanto soundtrack, break up a fist fight or frantically search for baby wipes. It was Nirvana.

And then it wasn’t. As we took our first sip of freedom, the dreaded buzz started. “Don’t answer it,” I said. Before the sentence was finished, our tab was paid and we were racing home. The girls had been playing in the pool and Ella got out to get a snack. She was drying herself off, stepped on the towel wrapped around her, and took a direct header—chin first—into the pool deck. Blood, crying, frantic babysitter.

Of course, I took the wrong route to the hospital. I could feel my wife’s eye roll without even looking. And once we got there, the directions and signage turned to Pig Latin. I could easily get a heart transplant or have a baby, but my mind struggled to translate the bright red EMERGENCY letters. And after all that rushing, running through the automatic doors, screaming only in nouns, what did we do?

Wait. For what seemed like forever. There wasn’t enough Blippi and Bluey to go around. And I can’t sit. Jazzercise, calisthenics, Zumba. The more stress, the more movement. I don’t blame the hospitals, doctors, nurses or our general healthcare system. I understand it’s complicated, and a lot of people need help. But it still sucks, especially with a 3-year-old that resembles, well, Mike Tyson at the moment.

We finally got a room and heard the very obvious news: she needed stitches. But here, at the children’s emergency room, they call them “string bandages.” I would have gone with silly skin string, but extra points for the creativity. The nurses applied some numbing ointment to the cut and gave my daughter medicine that was a cross between nitrous oxide and Natty Light. Within 15 minutes, she was slurring songs from Frozen and providing us with a list of her favorite popsicle flavors (blue won out). The doctor took this opportunity to start sewing, while another attendant provided on-demand Disney movies from a nearby iPad.

This was the most difficult part of the whole experience. As a parent, you realize the pain and horror of watching your kids go through something traumatic is far, far worse than it happening to you. My first instinct was to run wind sprints down the hospital hallway, but I knew I had to be right here. Every time my daughter’s eyes met mine, I needed to provide some kind of relief and support. My stomach also provided the perfect punching bag for her wayward hands and feet throughout the process.

The whole procedure lasted 15 minutes, but it felt like four hours. I was exhausted and I couldn’t imagine what my 30-pound kid just went through. As we drove home, I couldn’t help but feel two very different emotions. First, fear. The unknown will always be a constant with our children, even when they grow up to be adults. And the dangers of the world only increase. Second, relief. Ella’s eyes grew heavy and closed as we eclipsed the light from the hospital and I felt so damn lucky that it could have been worse. The sights and sounds from a children’s emergency room are humbling to say the least and if that doesn’t give you pause, I’m not sure what will.

We tucked Ella into our bed and I set up shop in the guest room with my dog Charlie. He farted and shifted his position in the bed. I laughed for the first time in a few hours. I don’t like this feeling, not one bit, but I realize it’s the price of doing business as a parent. It’s a crazy job. The pay is shit, but the benefits are unreal.