Major Medical

I've taken Quinlan to the emergency room so often that I requested a frequent visitor card--I thought that maybe after ten visits to the ER we could get a free x-ray or something. I don't think the nurse thought that was funny. But, seriously, when you are cleaning up head-to-toe road rash while you wait for a physician to read an x-ray, you need something to keep things on the light side.

The first time I took Quinlan to the hospital he was ten months old. His big brother, Evan, had pushed him, and Quin hit his head on a trunk in the living room. I saw the whole thing and the hit didn't seem too hard. So on the way to console Quinlan, I picked Evan up and put him in time-out. When I turned to Quinlan, he wasn't breathing and he passed out in my arms.

Terrified, I called 911 and they sent an ambulance to the apartment. By the time the emergency medical technicians arrived, Quinlan was sitting up, smiling, and clapping with glee. Despite Quinlan's quick recovery, I left Evan with a neighbor and rode with Quinlan in the ambulance to the emergency room. The doctor found nothing wrong with Quinlan and we went home puzzled, but happy that Quinlan was fine. Later his pediatrician suggested that Quin had simply held his breath until he passed out to get attention. How does a ten-month-old child even know to do that? The next couple of times he held his breath, I made sure that he wouldn't hurt himself on his way down (a ten-month-old can't get too hurt by plopping over) and left the room. The doctor said it was important for Quinlan to wake up alone so he could realize that passing out wasn't going to get him the attention he wanted. Again, a ten-month-old can realize this?

So we have established that the child was not opposed to over exaggeration. That is important for the next stories.

When Quinlan was three, he was pretending he was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (he had a favorite, but I can't remember which one--they all looked the same to me). He jumped from a swivel chair and hit hard on the wood floors at his Grandpa's house. It was a bit past his bedtime, so when he didn't stop crying we figured he was just tired.

So we drove home. We were surprised when he didn't fall asleep in the car on the way home (the boy, to this day, believes that sleeping in the car is ideal). We got him in his pajamas and put him in bed, but he was still whiny and wouldn't move his arm much. Now about two hours had gone by and I finally decided to call the on-call doctor. He thought it sounded like Quinlan had broken his arm and suggested that I take him to the emergency room.

Sure enough, he had a pucker fracture on his wrist.

His second broken arm was a trampoline injury. He wasn't jumping on the trampoline, he was trying to move it (I don't know why an ten-year old thinks he can move a trampoline by himself) when a couple of other kids jumped on the trampoline. I took him to the emergency room immediately with that one.

His third broken arm occurred as a result of a bicylce accident. I don't know the particulars. I didn't witness the tumble. At any rate, Quinlan didn't seem that hurt to me. But he kept complaining about his wrist. After about ten days of listening to him complain, I took him to the doctor, who found that Quin did, in fact have a broken arm. He was scheduled to get the cast off two days before a week-long river rafting trip with the Scouts. I moved the cast-removing doctor's visit to after the trip.

And so it was with that boy. Our last trip the hospital was just last summer when I got a phone call from one of his buddies at 10 o'clock at night informing me that Quinlan had taken a tumble on his long board (a skateboard that is built just to go fast down steep roads). When I got to the scene, I found Quin lying on a lawn riving in pain. He complained that he had broken his clavicle.

"How do you know that?" I am simply not easily convinced.

"I heard it," he grunted. Fine!

An Imagination is a Terrible Thing to Waste

One day my husband and I were traveling across the Nevada desert with our boys--ages nine and eight. Now this was before the days of DVD players in the car. We had to keep the boys entertained the old-fashioned way with silly songs and car games. But silly car games don't work too well in the Great Basin. At some point, the games stopped and the boys were left to their imaginations.

My husband and I carried on an adult conversation in the front seat. But we were interupted by a tussle that began in the back seat. I told the boys to "settle down," but that didn't work.

After a couple of minutes, I said, "What seems to be the problem, boys?"

Evan, the oldest, said, clearly upset, "Quinlan made cookies, and he won't share."

(At this point in the story I should point out, not only did we not have a DVD player in the car, we did not have an oven in the car.)

So I say, trying to stay detatched from the rediculousness, "Work it out." And I returned to the conversation between my husband and me. But the tussle didn't stop.

Realizing that I had to do something, I opened my hand and thrust it between the front, bucket seats, and toward the back seat.

"Give me the cookies," I said firmly.

Reluctantly, Quinlan put the imaginary cookies in my open hand. Then he folded his arms hard into a pout, which only made Evan proud of his work.

"If you can't share, neither of you will have any cookies," I said, triumphantly taking the imaginary cookies away from my eight-year old.

In the quiet created by my pouting boys, my husband and I continued our conversation and drove peacefully into Winemucca.

My First Mother's Day

First, some background on me. I'm a mom. I have two sons (age 20 and 19). They have left my husband and me empty-nesters. I'm rather enjoying the peace and quiet (perhaps reason 1 that I'm not the mother of the year!).

I gave birth to my first son over 20 years ago. It was a difficult birth. He was ten days over due and weighed over nine pounds. Without going into all the gory details, let me say that my pregnancy ended with my boy being surgically removed from my body. I was sent home from the hospital (too soon!) and told not to lift anything over ten pounds. Ya, that included my son. That was in August.

By my first Mother's Day I was recovered and pregnant with my second boy. After a busy Sunday taking care of my mother-in-law and my mother with brunches, gifts, and a day at church (where I received a very sad carnation), my husband and I settled into our couch to watch television. Every show we watched that evening included a plot line where the husband did something nice for his wife for Mother's Day. I just sat and watched silently with my 20-some-odd pound son sleeping in my lap.

At some point, my husband turned to me and asked, "Was I supposed to do something for you for Mother's Day?"

To which I replied, "Ya, I think so."

"But you are not my mother." Which is such a lame reply considering all the work I had done that day for his mother!

"Did you think the boy was going to take care of it?" I said pointing to the infant.

The next day my husband came home with a card for me. On the front was a sweet little drawing of a bear sitting on a crescent moon. The line read something about being his dream girl for eternity, or something close to that--I cannot remember exactly. On the inside--and I do remember this exactly--the card read, "Happy Birthday!"