Sunday, April 22, 2012

Dr. Dad

Chris treated Connor for his scooter injury.

Last year, Cooper tumbled out of a wagon and smacked his head on the pavement.  Within seconds a goose-egg size bump emerged on his forehead.  I scooped Cooper up and dialed Chris in the ER.  The ER receptionist answered and I tried to shout my concerns over Cooper's wails.

Chris told me later that the receptionist got him out of a patient room and announced, "I don't know what's going on at your house, but it doesn't sound good."

This weekend was similar.

It started on Friday night when Cooper nosediving off his brother's top bunk head-first.  He howled in pain.  I panicked and dialed Chris at work.  I imagine the ER staff rolls their eyes when they see our phone number pop up on caller ID.  I'm surprised they don't answer in a limp voice (with a lot of attitude), "What is it now Mrs. Wood?"  Instead, they quickly hand over the phone to Chris who has learned over the years patience with his non-medical wife.  He'll listen and then typically lets out the perfunctory "He's fine."  Which he is, but I just need to hear it from him.

On Saturday, Connor flipped off his scooter and landed in a heap on the concrete.  He ran into the house in tears and lifted up his arm to display his exposed, blood-soaked flesh.  I wanted to pass out.  Chris doctored him at home and took him to the ER to wrap the wound in gauze.  Connor soaked up the attention.  His brothers dug into the lollipop bin.

When Chris works on the weekend we miss him dearly, but with four active boys it seems we're always in touch.

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