No More Days Like This
“I hope I never have to do this again,” I thought to myself as I scrubbed the blood stained floor.
I dipped the scrub brush into the bucket of bleach and water and pressed firmly on the tile in circular motions as dried blood flakes disengaged and mixed with the water turning my entire floor into a pinkish grey puddle of water.
Tile by tile I scrubbed on hands and knees until the trail of blood was gone. Is this what I have to look forward to? Will I have to go through this again?
I threw up my hands in despair as I walked to my room and sat on my bed. If I live another 20 years I never want to have another day like today.
It started innocently enough, a typical Sunday morning. My sons woke up by daybreak and tried unsuccessfully to coax me out of bed. “Get your behinds in the room until I come get you. Mama wanna go back to sleep.”
They let me rest for another hour before they declared they were starving. I quickly fixed two bowls of Frosted Flakes, a saucer of Fruit cocktail and some apple juice and I dove back into bed.
By 10 am I felt refreshed and I stumbled out of bed wearing a t-shirt and some panties. I opened their room door and found them playing with these Power Ranger action figures that their Grandaddy had just bought them.
I cleared off the table and went right back to bed. Hey, that’s what the weekend is for right? My phone rings shortly thereafter and it’s Marsha returning my call. I wanted to ask if she had a referral for a photographer because I know that she once considered being a model. She told me that she used to be with the agency that wants to work with me and that she had submitted her photographs and they had actually called her a few times to go on casting calls but she never went because the money they were offering wasn’t good enough.
I wrap up my conversation with her and head to the kitchen to fix myself breakfast/lunch. Hmm… I feel like a ham and cheese sandwhich and I’ll fry that bad boy in some margarine to make it extra warm and TASTY!
I pull out the ham and the cheese and sit them on the counter. I hear the bedroom door jiggle and my son’s head pops out. “Mama, we want some peanut butter and jelly. We’re hungry.”
I smirk and turn to look at the clock on the microwave. 11:58. Ok, I guess they could be hungry. “Alright, I’ll make the peanut butter and jelly,” I tell them. “Now go back in your room until I tell you it’s ready.”
“YAY!!!” They squeal.
It only takes two seconds for me to make a good pb&j and I cut the sandwhiches diagonally just like they like them and carry them to the table when I hear a loud THUD.
The THUD is followed by a scream. I shake my head and walk to the doorway. My 5 year old is standing there holding his head and crying. I’m used to this. One of them is always bumping into the other one or falling down. I’m ready to kiss all the pain away and serve lunch.
“Come here baby. Let me see.” I coax him to let me take a peek. He’s still screaming and crying. I remove his hands from his forehead and I gasp. WHAT THE FUCK?!!!
My baby has a huge gash in his forehead. It’s about the size of a quarter and as soon as his hands uncover it blood starts gushing out. He leans forward and it runs out of his wound onto the kitchen floor.
OH SHIT!!! I start to panic.
I know! I have to get him to a hospital! Let me get my clothes!
I snatch off my t-shirt and throw it on the floor. I run into my room, then out again.
WHERE’S MY BRA?!!!
I can’t find it. My son is screaming, blood is pouring everywhere. I grab my cell phone and call 911.
I can’t drive with him screaming like that! Please let him be ok!
The operator comes on and asks what is my emergency. I can barely hear her over my son’s screaming but I can tell she’s a young Black woman.
I grab a towel and press it to his forehead and the lady on the phone is saying something.
“WHAT?” I scream.
“Grab a clean towel and press it on the wound to stop the bleeding,” she says loudly.
“I did that!”
“Ok, give me your address so I can send fire rescue.”
“There’s no fire! I SAID my son hit his head on the bed!”
“Ma’am it’s the same thing,” she tells me. “Calm down.”
I tell her my address and cross streets in a frenzy. I’m freaking out!
“Don’t let him eat or drink anything. Have him sit down and you have to relax so that he will relax.”
“Well I’m standing here NAKED in the kitchen holding a towel over my son’s bloody gash! The paramedics will be here any minute and they don’t want to see me like this!”
“Well, they’re on the way, so we can hang up now,” she says.
My 3 year old is standing near us looking worried.
“Sit down, Boo Boo,” I tell my Sugarbear. He’s still crying, a little more quietly though. He wasn’t bleeding anymore but he was scared.
“The ambulance is on its way,” I tell him as I find a pair of jeans and a green t-shirt to wear. My 3 year old moves toward the front door looking sad.
I’m STILL running around because I can’t find my briefcase full of important papers. It has the boy’s insurance card in it.
The fire dept arrives and my son is calm now. They take a look at his wound and tell me that he’ll be okay but he definately need stitches.
“I don’t wanna ride in that truck Mama!” My son says.
“I’ll drive him to the hospital,” I tell the paramedics.
They place a band-aid on his gash and leave.
I call my Mama and tell her to come and pick up my 3 year old. She and her husband are there within minutes and she looks as if she’s about to cry when she sees all the blood on the floor.
“You’re okay Baby,” I tell my son. “We’re going to the doctor and he’ll fix you up.”
I pack a lunchable and a capri sun along with a couple of small toys for the hospital trip. We arrive at the emergency room and sign-in. It’s 30 minutes before they even call our name. The nurse takes one look at his forehead and tells us we are going on the fast track because it’s urgent.
By this time my son is playing and laughing as we wait for a bed. The waiting room TV is on BET and they are showing The Disorderlies featuring The Fat Boys! I hadn’t seen that movie in forever! My Sugarbear thought it was soo funny!
Part-way into the movie they call my baby’s name and we are escorted to the back where they have set up bed #17. “It’s the sewing bed,” the nurse tells the medical assistant as she asks him to gather up all the necessary materials.
My son is laughing and playing around and I’m joking with him too. The doctor arrives and asks him what happened.
He repeats the same story he told me and the paramedics, “I was trying to show my brother a trick and I fell down and hit my head on the bed.”
“That’s okay, we’ll have you feeling all better. Why don’t you lie down,” she says and he leans back. “Watch out now, we’re gonna FLY THROUGH THE AIR!” she says and raises the bed.
He laughs, “WHOOOOOOOAAA!! COOL!” he says.
“Now watch this,” she says as she slides him on his side and places a folded sheet underneath him. She flips him over and wraps him inside the sheet like a mummy.
“Hahaahaaa!” I laugh and tickle him. “Look at you, my little mummy.”
“Mama, look at me! I’m all wrapped up!” he says and giggles.
The medical assistant brings out the tape and tapes from one side of the bed across his body to the other side of the bed. He does this over and over until my son can’t move at all.
“Hey baby!” I say and tap his foot. “Look at you! How funny!”
My Sugarbear laughs. “Hey, what are you doing doctor? This is fun! I can’t move!”
The medical assistant points the bright light towards his forehead and I cringe as I see the doctor pull out a big syringe. She walks toward my son and…and… my knees get weak as I hear him scream.
“MAMAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!”
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!’
“HELLPPPPPPP!!!!!!!”
The doctor is numbing his forehead so that she can give him stitches. With every scream I hear, my breathing slows down. One of the nurses notices my trauma and brings me a chair. The patients in the next bed bring me some tissue. I sit down near the foot of the bed and try my best to offer encouraging words to my son who is screaming BLOODY MURDER!!!
I’m crying and sobbing quietly as he calls for me. “I’m right here baby,” I manage to choke out calmly. “They’re almost done.”
A lifetime later, they are done and I peek at my baby’s head. It’ a bloody mess so I have to sit down again. When they are all done cleaning him, I stand and help remove the tape and unwrap my baby.
He jumps into my arms and I hold him tightly.
“See!” I say, “All better. Now we get to go to Grandaddy’s house and see your brother.”
“Ok Mama,” he says quietly.
The doctor comes over and gives him a sticker. He smiles and shows it to me. It has a picture of a shark on it.
“Call your doctor and make an appointment for a week from tomorrow,” she tells me. “His stitches will need to be removed then.”
“How many did he get?”
“Three underneath because the wound was so deep, and five on top. There will always be a slight scar, but he’ll be okay.”
I take my baby’s hand and we walk out of the emergency room and get into my car. My stomache growls. Damn, I forgot that I haven’t had a thing to eat all day.
Lord, please let this be the last time I have to call 911 for either of my sons. I don’t think I can handle another day like this.
