My achy breaky heart

It was the worst day of my life. Even now, as I relive the incident in my mind, guilt and heartache wash over me in spurts.

My little one and the half year old, had on that fateful day, been playing tag with a pretty, gleeful, pony-tailed, four-year-old near the swimming pool at our condominium

In a bid to get away from her, he runs with wild abandonment straight towards a high pavement, trips and knocks his head on the low bricked wall. What little flesh on his forehead bursts open in a deep but narrow cut.

I saw it happen in my head before it actually happened. I reacted instantly, but was too far behind to stop him.

The ache in his cry – like nothing I have ever heard from him; and the terror in his eyes all but shook me even before I saw the streaks of blood flowing down his face.

I carried him in my arms and ran, my heart thumping crazily, back to my condo where thank God, my mother was at home and engrossed in a magazine.

We searched frantically under the blood and saw that the wound was not too deep, and his condition far from life threatening.

Yet, I felt threatened.
I felt vulnerable. How can this happen? On my watch. On my watch!

In the midst of his persistent cries and bloodied clothes, and my trying to contact my husband I had the presence of mind to bathe him quickly and wash his hair, so that he would not need a wash after he gets stitched up.

We rush him to our family physician almost an hour later. They see the blood and tend to him immediately even though there is a roomful of people waiting.

Nothing prepared me for the trauma of watching my child get stitched up for the first time.
The doctor tried his best.
“Has he had stitches before? I need to tell you that it IS going to be painful and he IS going to scream. Just be prepared.”

The doctor makes me hold baby down as he cleans the stitches and my son looks at me, wailing, pleading, and with eyes that questioningly say, “Mummy, what are you doing to me?,” “Mummy why are you letting them hurt me?.”

I turn away as the doctor hovers over him, the shringe full of anesthetic poised over his wound. I shut my eyes tight – I can’t look. I can’t watch.

My son, my baby, he screams so loudly when the needle pierces him that the walls seem to shake, my heart shatters to a million pieces and I force myself, for his sake, to look, to assure him with my eyes. What I really want to do is push the doctor away and hold my baby close and tell him I am sorry.

He goes back to just crying and then whimpering and I guess he sees the fear in my eyes and reflects it in his own.
But his forehead is numb now and he does not feel the hooked needle the doctor uses for the singular stitch he needs for his deep but narrow wound. He does not take his eyes off me, studying my every reaction.

All of a sudden everything is ok and when we go to the waiting room, my son, my baby, he starts to play with the rocking horse as though nothing has happened.

The stress finally hits its peak and in the dark corner of the waiting room I break down and cry, hiding my face by looking out of the window, letting my long black hair fall over my face.

My mother misinterprets and tells me not to worry, he will be ok.

For the next few days, everyone enquires about the band aid on his forehead. I wince as I recount the necessary details, resenting the need to, as I secretly relive every distressing moment and feel every painful pang, in my little aching heart.