I didn’t see him fall. But I heard it. Then, the silence. Then the cries. You know, the “Oh crap. He’s really hurt” cries.
I ran to where he lay next to his bike on the garage floor.
“What is it, buddy!?”
He could only wail as he lifted his head. The blood poured from where his hand held his face.
My brain started barking orders:
GET A TOWEL! APPLY PRESSURE! MOVE, WOMAN, MOVE!
Molly joined in the crying at this point, upset by Owen’s pain, and probably sensing my thinly veiled panic.
Our good friend and neighbor, Jon, is a PA in the ER, and was thankfully at home. He met us at the fence to take a look. As I began to move the towel away, I told myself I had probably overreacted and it was just going to be a scrape.
Nope. Definitely deep. Definitely worse than I remembered. And I’m feeling a little woozy at the sight of it. Wait, who’s the one who needs medical attention? Not me. Right. Okay. Back to Owen.
Jon checked to see if the wound had gone all the way through his cheek (it hadn’t). Then he checked to see if he had the supplies at home to stitch up the wound himself (he did).
Watch out, it’s about to get Little House on the Prairie up in here.
We made our way to Jon and Amy’s kitchen, where
Half-Pint Owen laid on the island countertop and proceeded to get six stitches in his face by the light of an oil lamp headlamp.
Owen was so brave the entire time. I was so brave for about ten minutes. Then I had to step outside and get some air.
I did so great, really! I was being so soothing, holding his hands, giving him my bravest, most encouraging facial expressions… and then I started sweating and feeling a little lightheaded, and then my brain started channeling Ma Ingalls: “Seriously, woman? Get a hold of yourself.”
Right. Dang it. Back to Owen. He was a trooper. Getting the numbing medicine was the worst part (just like
Doc Baker Jon had warned him) but he hung in there and then the actual stitches were a piece of cake. Well it sounded like they were. I’m not totally sure. I was sitting outside listening through the patio door, churning butter drinking a glass of water and trying to maintain consciousness.
I’m happy to report that everyone survived. Molly isn’t overly traumatized (we hope). I didn’t pass out (by a slim margin). And Owen has some pretty sweet stitches. I think Pa would be right proud.