Beyond the Cherry on Top

Shall I shock you or do you want it gently?

I'm a shocker, I think.

Last night, our last in Hilton Head, at around 10:30 pm, Sophie propelled herself up and off the king-size bed where I have basically been lying with her for over two weeks, while she seized and slept. On the way down, she smashed her head in two different spots on the iron bedside table while I watched helplessly, trying to break her fall.

I was alone in the house with just the boys, so I screamed loudly for Henry who was on the other side of the house, in bed. He came running and when he saw the scene, he asked what he could do. I told him to get my phone and to get a towel filled with ice. I said these things as I tried to stanch the bleeding, all the while cursing under my breath as I looked for the gash. When I got the phone, I called my cousin who lives down the road and she came over quickly. We both deliberated on whether the two cuts were worthy of a 911 call or should we just go to the hospital. We decided on the hospital, and took Sophie there where she was cleaned up and her wounds stapled and butterflied.

Ironically, she had no seizure, before or after and is fine today, banged up and bruised and patched together but fine.

At the small hospital, I sat in a state of shock, I think. When the triage nurse asked me to come into the small office, I rolled Sophie in and answered his questions. He had never heard of the drugs that Sophie is on for her seizures and was clearly miffed when I told him that she was not vaccinated since she began seizing one week after her initial vaccinations at two months old. This happens regularly and I don't care at this point. I usually just stare the person in the eyes and if they push the point, I ask them whether they would sign a form testifying to the complete safety of the vaccine given and that it wouldn't cause my daughter (or son) to seize. But that's beside the point...

A man walked up to the window and the triage nurse turned in his swivel chair away from me and toward the new patient. He was evidently both receptionist and triage person that late on a Saturday night.

Are you here to see a doctor? he asked the man.

I thought to myself, why else would he be here? And then I amused myself by silently imagining the triage nurse asking the next patient what can I get for you this evening? or can I get you a drink? He swiveled back toward me and asked a few more questions, and the another person came to the window with one hand cupped over his right ear. He said to the nurse through the window I can't hear you but I know exactly what's wrong. I have wax impacted in my ear. If someone's eyes rolling back in their heads made a sound, the triage nurse's eyes, as he turned back to me, might have rattled. Good Lord, I thought, he couldn't have waited until Monday morning to have his ears cleaned out?


I had a nice chat with Yolanda, the cheerful nurse who cleaned Sophie's gashes and chattered away. The doctor, when he came in told me his name and credentials, and I said something inane about the seventies show Emergency, which I loved. Don't ask me how or why this came up, but the doctor proceeded to tell me that it was that show that inspired him to become an EMT and he was just tickled that I knew it. He told us that he could stitch Sophie up but we'd have to wait over an hour and he thought that the placement of the cuts warranted staples, anyway. We agreed to that, and he pulled out a staple gun and did the job.

And that was that. We were given our discharge papers and drove home, crawled into bed near 2:00 am and went to sleep.


It's always good to be diverted during times of crisis, and I'm especially skilled, apparently, at being focused like a laser on the matter at hand but still capable of observing the tiniest thing. And it's those tiny things that keep me from going completely mad.

Tell your story, a writing mentor once told me, take notes and tell your story.