It was supposed to be such a great night.
As a father of three, I consider any opportunity for one-on-one time a treasure. That’s why I had been looking forward to this particular night for quite a while. The plan was to spend the evening with my 6-year-old son Liam, gorging ourselves on pizza and possibly visiting a movie theater.
On our way out the door, we noticed our trash and recycle bins still at the road. Not uncharacteristically, Liam and I decided to make a game out of chores and race the containers back to their spot by the garage. What began with laughter turned into shrieks as Liam tripped with the recycle bin halfway to the finish line. In the confusion of dust that he kicked up in the process, I could see red and hear Liam crying, “My hand, my fingers!”
I am used to outbursts like this. At the sight of even a drop of blood or the smallest scrape, my firstborn truly believes he is on the verge of death. Ketchup and tomato juice have nearly induced a panic attack.
Convinced he was overreacting, I put pressure on his hand and walked him to the bathroom, calming him along the way. I explained to him this was probably a small scratch, and slowly and methodically walked him through the steps we would take to treat the injury. Liam loves structure, and sometimes a simple itinerary can alleviate great pains.
In the bathroom, I turned on the water and removed my hand to start examining and cleaning the wound. As the blood began washing away, something about one of his fingers didn’t look right. It was just too pink. My stomach dropped as I realized his entire fingernail had broken off in the fall. Another nail, while still attached, had been badly mangled.
There was something truly remarkable about the opportunity to be present and strong during his painful experience. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
It was then that I knew our plans for the night would drastically change. I knelt down in front of him and told him that everything would be fine. And then I did what any good father would do in this situation—frantically Googled the nearest emergency room.
During the drive to the hospital, I asked Liam questions about school—to stop his tears and prevent my own. I struggled to find jokes to pass the time in the waiting room, so we made some up ourselves. I convinced Liam they would not have to amputate his fingers and reassured him that I would never make him race trash bins again. I held his hand and distracted him as the nurse cleaned and mended his wounds. I watched his eyes light up as the physician told him how kids were just like lizards because they heal very quickly.
For all my feelings of inadequacy, there was something truly remarkable about the opportunity to be present and strong during his painful experience. To bring some sort of reassurance when he needed it the most. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
On the way home from the hospital, after five or so hours since the beginning of our whirlwind evening, Liam rode in the backseat, mostly silent from the sedatives. But one of the few things he was able to say was “Dad, I’m sorry I ruined movie night.”
Whatever strength I possessed to keep the tears at bay for the entire night finally gave out. “Buddy, you have nothing to be sorry for. Just think about everything we got to do tonight: You had your first ride in a wheelchair. You got to take an X-ray and see your bones. You found out you are like a lizard. We can watch a movie any time. What we did was way better than that.”
My heart breaks for the pain he had to go through, but I know this will be a night I cherish—not despite the chaos, but surrounded by it. Just he and I.
It was supposed to be a great night, and it was.
