Last night, Spencer and I were looking at some of his scars and reminiscing about old times and many of the incidents involving injuries in our history. I learned pretty quickly to patch up boo-boos to avoid low-priority runs to the ER. After all, I was an RN. I should be able to mitigate some of those issues. Right?
The first time we needed stitches, Spencer actually received care in a professional setting. A friend was over so it was pretty simple to decide to go get him sewn up. He’d flown through the air (I think his propulsion had something to do with another sibling or three catapulting him) and the corner of a wall stopped his flight. That sharp edge did a great job of making a laceration on his scalp. My visiting friend said I could use her car (I didn’t have one) and she’d stay with the others. It worked out fine. The scar is in his hair and no one ever sees it—unless he and I are taking a trip down memory lane.
Poor Spencer was the victim again not too long later. Jason had just left for night class when he was getting his MBA, so I was alone with no car. Spencer fell off the stepstool while brushing his teeth and whacked his chin against the sink. Since it was bedtime and I was without a vehicle, I cut my own butterfly bandages and closed that cut. It was a little dicey for a time, because it was just below his lower lip and hard to secure. But we managed and the scar now is thin and smooth.
Another time, I was at the kitchen sink and I heard a terrible crash. While still drying my hands and ascertaining who was missing and where the crash had come from, Spencer staggered into the room, dazed and covered in blood. The heavy remote control fire truck, which was larger than Spencer, had fallen from a high shelf that he couldn’t quite reach. I couldn’t immediately see the injury, so I started stripping off his clothes, inspecting his body lickity-split so I could do something about all the blood loss. Clearly it was coming from somewhere near the top of him, as all of it was cascading down, covering his little chest and even puddling in the waistband of his pants. I couldn’t find the wound, so I just started applying pressure to his whole head. By the time the bleeding stopped and I got him cleaned up, the puncture wound had closed and hidden itself somewhere in his hair. I never did find it. He probably needed a transfusion, but I just made sure he got plenty to drink and let him watch Muppets of the Caribbean while lying quietly on the couch. Far away from high objects.
The next time some DIY-slash-n-gash-closure was needed, it was Pierce. He’d tried to occupy the same space that a harder, stationary piece of furniture had already claimed as its own. This resulted in a nice clean laceration on his scalp, within his hair, so it would never show, as long as he doesn’t shave his head. Without much fanfare, I took Pierce into the bathroom, grabbed a razor, and started shaving his head. At that stage, I told Jason, who was chalky pale and listing to starboard, “I got this. You better go sit down. With your head between your knees. Don’t you fall over too!” Once shaved, his scalp was pretty easy to close and tape shut. No fuss, no pain, no cost.
The eyebrows are the hard ones to close well. When Molly face-planted on the concrete patio while wearing her fashionable sunglasses (an imperative accessory for every three-year-old) the glasses cut her eye brow. It took a lot of attempts and re-taping, but we got it taken care of. Tape is so much better around the eyes anyway.
Now when my sister’s boys have mishaps, I get the phone call. I grab my first aid box with all my DIY-slash-n-gash supplies and head over to her house. Now, my nephews and I can sit and take stock of their scars I helped closed and reminisce about old times.
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