This past weekend, my sister Debbie stayed at my house so she could watch her granddaughter, Claire, swim in the Illinois State age group meet, which was, oddly, in Indiana. We have some beautiful natatoriums around us, so sometimes we get lucky, and Claire swims nearby. Then I get a visit with Debbie, Peggy, and Claire. One night, Debbie and I got to talking about our childhood. Since she is the number one child, and I am the number eleven child, we sometimes have vastly different stories to tell. But we found one thing that held consistent through all the kids. To be brought to the doctor or hospital for an injury, you had to be REALLY hurt. 

Debbie remembered a story where she smashed her thumb. Mom thought it looked fine, so just suck it up (my words, not Mom’s). The thumb was still attached, so what’s the problem? Debbie went two nights unable to sleep because the thumb was throbbing so bad. She failed a test in school because the throbbing pain was too distracting. By day three, Mom gave in and took her to the doctor. The doctor said that he would have drilled a hole in the nail to relieve the pressure and pain, but at that point, all he could do was tell her to take some Tylenol. Debbie, not Mom. See, mom didn’t really give us any meds, except for some mystery pill, which she thought had magical powers, because she used it for everything. Allergies: take one of those. Cramps, take one. There seemed to be no ailment to which it could not be applied. Actually, she would cut it in half. To my memory, it didn’t ever do anything. We were almost never allowed to take Tylenol or Advil. 

I remembered another time around middle school, when I jumped up to touch the net of the Smith’s basketball hoop (which was relatively low), got my hand caught in the net, and pulled the entire hoop down on my head. I didn’t know it was partially broken, and that I shouldn’t have touched it. Debbie, Wendy, and I stood for a moment, looking at the hoop on the ground, thinking about how much trouble I was going to be in, and they would be in by extension. After a moment, I started to feel dizzy and dropped down to one knee. At that point, we all realized that I had blood pouring out of my head.The little nub that held the net had embedded itself into my scalp and opened it up. In fact, there was a LOT of blood. And somehow, the worry about being in trouble delayed the intense pain. In those days, you didn’t call your mom to pick you up because you were injured. You walked home, which I did, with some help from Debbie and Wendy. Catherine may have been there too. When we got home, Mom took one look at me covered in blood, and did a defeated sigh. Her day was now shot. Here’s the thing about being the child of a classic underreactor: when they actually immediately give in and take you to the hospital, you are scared!!! I mean, you could be dying! That NEVER happened. I got five stitches in my head and some time off of swim team and I was good as new. But the terror after seeing my Mom’s reaction stays with me still. Even in the worst case, nobody went with you to the hospital, maybe to staunch the flow of blood. Mom just cleaned me up a bit so I didn’t get blood all over the car, and handed me a rag to hold to my own head to staunch the endless flow. 

I may need to collect more stories of hospital avoidance. We only saw the doctor for vaccines and check-ups. Even that would be an undertaking. Otherwise, we needed an obvious injury, like a dangling limb or, in my case, being covered in blood. Those head wounds bleed. Have a great week everyone!