Friday, January 17, 2014

Why I'm probably never going to volunteer in an ER...

This post is mostly for Hilary.  And any other mom that isn't good with blood or fluids. 

It was 5:45 AM Monday morning, and I had just gotten back in bed after feeding the dogs.  Actually, for accuracy's sake, I got up to pee a little after 5:30, and the dogs were all like, "BREAKFAST!"  I didn't want them to wake the baby, so I gave in and put kibble in their bowls so they would collectively calm the f*ck down. 

Note:  The dog thing happens every morning.  Sometimes I pretend I'm still asleep because I can FEEL them waiting for me to move or show signs of stirring.  It is very annoying.  I'd fix it if A) I knew how; and B) if I was more motivated to take a stand in the pre-dawn hours (which, no.  I just want to get the whole shebang over with so I can go back to bed).

Anyway, I climbed back in bed, pulled the covers up to my chin and started drifting back to sleep.  Then, all of sudden, I heard a loud THUD in the nursery followed a blood curdling scream.

I assumed that Banner had fallen out of his crib.  Except the thud - although loud - wasn't quite loud enough to be his little thirty pound body hitting the floor.  So - in the five seconds that it took me to sprint from my bed to Banner's room - I was imagining that he had fallen out of the crib and hit some toy (like his rocking cow) on the way down.  And of course I was thinking the worst, because I am a catastrophist and that is what I do.

Except when I arrived, Banner was still in his crib.  Which was initially confusing because I was still half asleep and thinking the worst while simultaneously looking for the source of the thud that precipitated the screaming in the first place.  And then I saw all the blood, and...well, I'm not sure what happened next because I panicked and started shrieking for Trevor.

Here's the thing.  I'm not good with fluids.  Poop and snot are a real challenge for me some days, which makes me feel guilty because everyone used to tell me that I'd be able to deal with them better once I had a child.  Yes, I do deal with them, but I wouldn't say it has gotten any easier.  And then there is vomit, which...well, makes me vomit.  Or at least almost vomit.  Banner had some bad milk back in December and threw up all over the back of Trevor's car, and I almost followed suit.  True, I was the one who drew the short straw and cleaned it up (Trevor bathed the baby), but I had to do it outside in the fresh air.  It was (literally) freezing, and the fabric cleaners and deodorizers kept turning to an icy slush on the car seat cover.  But I preferred numb hands to the alternative which involved being able to smell regurgitated spoiled milk.

So, it should come as no surprise that I am also not so good with blood.  Actually, I take that back, I'm fine with blood.  I donate blood.  The smell of blood doesn't bother me.  The sight of blood doesn't bother me.  INJURIES bother me.  PAIN bothers me.  And, for whatever reason, blood BOTHERS me greatly if associated with injuries and pain.  Does that make sense?  I can watch real life medical stuff (surgeries and what have you) on TV, because they are fixing the person.  Blood in that situation is apparently fine.  But blood as a result of an accident?  I freak the f*ck out.  Honestly, I think it is because - for a nano second - I can feel their pain.  Or imagine their pain.  And then I'm in pain and screaming with them, because I'm super unhelpful and empathic that way.

But back to Monday morning, Trevor came sprinting into the nursery with visions of compound fractures in his head mostly because I'm screaming like my child has just amputated his arm and thrown it at me.  Except, in reality, Banner had just bumped his nose on his crib and was bleeding from his right nostril.  Which doesn't sound like that big of a deal unless I explain to you that I've never had a bloody nose; despite my deviated septum and years of playing rugby on two continents.  In fact, I told Trevor YEARS AGO that if I - or any of our hypothetical future offspring - ever sustained a bloody nose, he would have to deal with it because I lack the experience necessary to be anything but a hysterical lunatic.

See how well I know myself?

Anyway, Trevor dealt with the nose bleed like a champ.  Which means he did nothing but comfort our child until it stopped bleeding on its own.  Luckily, this didn't take very long, and Banner was his happy, giggly self less than five minutes later.  Nose fine.  Teeth fine.  Crisis over.

Meanwhile, I was still all shaky and hyped up on adrenaline.  To calm myself, I stripped the bed and baby, stain treated every thing and tossed it in the washer.  Trevor mocked me for having to do all this immediately, but - to my credit - there isn't a single blood stain on any of the affected bedding or clothing.  Also, it meant that I had done two loads of laundry from start to finish before 8 AM. 

How's that for efficiency?

Because, apparently, I'm the efficiency QUEEN post crisis.  Which is probably why you want me on your team after the start of the zombie apocalypse.  Assuming I don't get eaten, because we've already concluded I'm not good with the initial injuries+pain+blood thing.  Hopefully I'll have Laryngitis that day so the zombies don't hear me screaming while I'm processing the shock, blood, PAIN and brains of the situation.

After that, I'm golden.

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