Sirens wailed down our Norman Rockwell street Thursday night. I was on the phone with the most calm, supportive 911 operator known to mankind, heralding the EMTs from my front porch. Bird was white faced in bewilderment at my side, never letting go of my hand, squeezing it a tad harder as the paramedics emerged in full flight from the ambulance. His voice failed him, leaving my little chatterbox speechless for the first time that day. Half panic half awe consumed him. Ambulance, firetruck, 3 paramedics, 4 firefighters, less than one minute response time. It pays to live in the city, I tell you.
Meanwhile inside...
Mac Daddy was holding a bleeding Deal over the kitchen sink. What seemed like gallons of blood flowing from an unknown wound in his mouth. Sounds of gagging and gasping hammered out the beating of my own heart. Mac Daddy, who is normally faint at the sight of a paper cut, managed the situation with aplomb. Clearly adrenaline was driving him. Bird stood back in the shadows, an unnatural feat for a kid who embraces the limelight.
Deal was gagging, trying to breathe in some air, while nothing but red, red blood spewed, yes,
spewed from his mouth like a horror movie stunt gone bad. Tears mingled with blood, though it was unclear from whose eyes the tears came. The gurgling noises coming from my son, my 3-year old baby, were alarming, frightening. The whole scene was playing out in slow motion, and I felt as if I were hovering above it all. I forcefully stopped my mind from playing the "what if" game.
And almost as abruptly as it started, the bleeding stopped.
Deal laboriously took in some big breaths of air, calming him and us. The paramedics propped him up to look in his mouth with a pint sized flash light. The scene quieted down enough for the fire fighters to be dismissed. Deal had three lacerations on the roof of his mouth, an area that cannot be stitched but luckily heals quickly. I worried his thumb sucking would reopen the gashes so I slept with Deal all night. As you mothers know, in reality I stayed awake to watch him breathe in a fitful slumber, checking his pillow for signs of blood, stroking his sweaty head, caressing his back, resting my hand on any part of him just to have bodily contact. I imagine my father feeling this same way when I was in a car wreck in high school and had a concussion.
But you know what? Deal stopped sucking his thumb cold turkey. The dentist told him on Wednesday to try to stop so his teeth don't get all crooked. Something about a 6'4 gentle giant instructing him to stop sucking his thumb made him take note, and my baby, who has sucked his thumb since his in utero days, now has two free hands. For if he had still sucked that thumb, it would have surely reopened the wounds. Timing, as they say, is indeed everything.
A doctor's visit the next day uncovered additional injury to Deal's throat. Something to monitor, but nothing serious. It went unsaid that we were lucky. Deal had license to eat all the popsicles and ice cream his tummy could hold. Bird got the same privileges simply out of solidarity.
Three days later, and Deal is back to his old self. W-H-E-W. Cheerios for breakfast (he was so tickled by the free sample box that came with the Sunday paper that he just had to tear into it) and non-stop jabber. He's relishing some watercoloring and glitter gluing next to me as I write.
And so what happened to cause such trauma? A plastic toy microphone stand is to blame. A perfectly age-appropriate toy used as it should be.
In a freak accident, Deal was singing into the stand (because the microphone has been long lost). Mid song, he must have tripped, jabbing the microphone stand into his throat. In essence, my son was impaled on a microphone stand. The details are fuzzy since no one saw it happen. From the sounds of it, the bizarre accident happened in a flash. Bird and Mac Daddy were doing a spaceship puzzle in the play room where Deal was performing. In Bird's words, "He was singing, and then there was blood gushing. I think he tripped on a puzzle piece."
We are thankful once again for our children's health, for the amazing response of our city's rescue units, and for hearing the super sonic chatter of our children at play again.
I tossed that microphone into the garbage bin.
Oh, and the whole stereotype about firefighters being hot? It's true.
