Tuesday morning, the older two kids said they wanted to go snowboarding that evening. I hesitated. Snowboarding increased the likelihood of an injury, and I wasn’t too keen on complicating my week of single parenting with a hospital trip. But, I told myself, there was no point in making choices based on fear. (I didn’t drink any wine that evening, though, just in case.)
Several hours later when I got the call from my son saying that he’d taken a tumble and thought he broke his wrist, I laughed. But of course.
“The guy here says I should get an x-ray.”
“Fine,” I sighed. “But your sister drives, not you.” And then I curled up in front of the fire with a book while my children took themselves off to the ER.
The x-rays came back negative, much to my son’s dismay. “I know it’s broken,” he said. “It hurts.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be a wimp.”
“No, the doctor read the x-ray wrong! I’m sure of it.”
“Listen, hon. They took x-rays. You can think whatever you want, but that doesn’t change the facts.” I was mad at myself for letting them go the ER without coming home first. The kid was such an alarmist. Next time, I’d make him wait a couple days before we went running off to the doctor.
Three days later, the phone rang. “I’m calling from the ER,” a woman said, “I’m so sorry, but the radiologist who reviews the ER’s x-rays says that your son’s wrist actually is broken.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh, he is going to love this,” I said.
“We’d like him to come in and get it wrapped, if he can.”
“Well, he’s on a 12-hour shift with the rescue squad right now —”
“Oh, perfect!” she interrupted. “Next time they bring a patient in, can he just stay a few minutes longer so I can wrap it?”
I hung up the phone and then called my son. “Congratulations,” I said. “Your wrist is broken.”
“I knew it,” he shrieked. “I TOLD YOU.” And then he added, “Actually, my wrist feels fine — I even lifted a patient out of the ambulance all by myself — it’s my head that hurts now.”
“Your head?” I was confused.
“Yeah, I tried to jump into the ambulance, but I misjudged and cracked my head on the doorway.”
Oh yeah. Of course he did.
This same time, years previous: omlettey egg bake, through my lens: a wedding, the quotidian (1.26.15), the quotidian (1.27.14), what you can do, housekeeping, grumble, grumble, thoughts.
I have read, pinned and nodded vigorously to so many of your posts– this one officially makes you my favorite blogger but probably also favorite person if I knew you in real life.
oh my WORD. You are a mother of steel. This is a funny story, but I also can only think how I would act in this situation and it is NOT with your cool irony. You are the best!
What I don't understand is the juxtaposition of being a paramedic but having masochistic tendencies. You have my sympathies.