The Little One fell at pre-school, fifteen minutes after I dropped her off, tripping and banging her head on the corner of a table. The wound was about an inch, gaping and vertical, in the exact center of her forehead, and bleeding profusely. Police and paramedics were called; my wife was notified by the school (like an idiot I had my cell phone turned off). The Little One’s head was bandaged, and on recommendation from a parent who just happened to be there, my wife opted not to send her to the hospital but to the woman’s husband, who is a plastic surgeon in the town next to the one where I work.
I met them there two hours later, after tying up some meaningless – I mean, important – loose ends at my job. Horrible thoughts ran through my mind, primarily focusing on how my daughter would suffer if she turned out to be permanently scarred. My wife informed me that there had been no loss of consciousness, or dizziness, and the bleeding slowed. When I got to the doctor’s office, my daughter was running around, drawing, giggling … being a normal three-and-a-half year old. To the school’s wonderful credit, the headmistress and my daughter’s teacher came, too, and waited with us.
The doctor was absolutely phenomenal. He was charming, informative, great with the Little One, and went out of his way to put us and our daughter at ease. He’d just come back from surgery, and the room would be prepped and ready in a few minutes.
Now, the hard part.
I guess every parent has done it. I just haven’t, until now.
I had to carry my daughter into the operating room. I could feel her tense against me; I could feel her fear growing. Try as I might, my words of consolation sounded hollow to her ears. She knew something bad was going to happen. My wife, the headmistress, the teacher, the two doctors, we were all soothing and reassuring, but the Little One wasn’t buying it. She was scared, and nothing I could do or say allayed those fears.
When we put her on the table, she lost it. When she has emotional outbursts, she gets red, hot and sweaty. This time was no exception. She felt the cold in the room, saw the metallic instruments, saw our funny hats and masks, and with the hot bright light beaming down on her she began heart-rending pleas that we had to ignore. Tears spilled off her face, and her eyes darted back and forth between my eyes and those of my wife. Occasionally her eyes would roll back into her head and I thought she would pass out. We had to wrap her arms in a blanket to immobilize them; I had to hold her legs by pressing down hard on her knees. My wife held her face.
The surgeon gave her ten injections of painkiller in and around the wound. I know the Little One felt those. After that, she shouldn’t have felt the stitches going in. But she fought, physically as well as verbally, she tried every trick she learned in her short life to get off that table. Our hearts broke in that room, and, once, my wife made eye contact with me, and I understood perfectly the heartbreak she was going through.
It was all over in a half hour. Chances of permanent scarring were low. We were given instructions, and the surgeon himself would stop by our house in four days to check on the Little One, after she was asleep. Talk about house calls! And after a couple of balloons (from blown-up latex gloves), my daughter was jumping about, laughing and giggling, trying to wrangle some candy. I hope that she never recalls what went on in that operating room.
Good luck, and a speedy recovery, Little One! I love you more than any words can ever convey!
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