Our First ER Trip

I was in the kitchen washing dishes when I heard a loud crash followed by my son crying. It wasn’t the sort of cry that lasted only a moment meaning his injury was inconsequential; it was the kind of cry that meant he had hurt himself pretty good. For any parent, your child getting hurt is a rational fear. After all, you’ve been tenderly caring for them since they were an infant, neurotically ensuring their safety and well-being. But when your child is non-verbal, which is the case for my 4-year-old son Sebastian, it’s a whole other level of worry. He can’t tell me how he hurt himself, where it hurts, or how bad it hurts. You’re relying on body language and, of course, common sense, like when you see that there’s blood coming out of the back of his head, you rush to the emergency room. You see, my son’s a climber of anything with hard surfaces and, worse, anything on wheels. He had clambered up on my desk chair to get on top of my desk and, somehow, the way only super active boys can, had fallen off and hit the back of his head on one of the wheels, cutting himself. Hence the blood and the need to hurry to the ER after dinner.  My worst nightmare was coming true.

“Our balance in personalities has probably been the best thing for Sebastian: he has me, on top of getting him the services and supports he needs, and he has his dad who doesn’t worry about the things Sebastian can’t do right now. He’s a pretty lucky kid.”

I’m not proud of the way I handled the scary moment—I’ve never ever done well in a crisis. I’m a crybaby, a total pessimist, and I overreact to everything. When I found out I was pregnant with Sebastian, I delivered the news to my then-boyfriend-now-husband Albert in tears. Yes, I considered pregnancy a crisis. So, when I heard Sebastian fall in the study I got angry at Albert for not watching him when, truthfully, it could’ve happened to me and has happened. When Sebastian was 1-year-old, I was absent-mindedly scrolling through my phone (people can harp about how much fun having babies is, but it can actually be rather boring a lot of the time), Sebastian was standing looking up at the TV when the next thing I knew he was crying, plopped on the floor. I stood up alarmed and rushed over to him wondering how the hell he had gone from standing, sucking on his pacifier, to sitting on the floor in a puddle of tears with a fresh red slice on his forehead. The only thing nearby was our speaker on the floor so I guessed he had hit himself on that, but all I was worried about was the cut on his forehead. Would it remain scarred for life like Harry Potter? It kind of did but now I think the small scar makes him look badass.

Before he fell off my desk chair, Sebastian had never injured himself to the point of needing medical attention, which is something of an accomplishment. Ever since he started walking at thirteen months that boy was constantly on the move, and as I mentioned before, he doesn’t even have to be moving to hurt himself. And it’s only been more challenging to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself as he’s gotten older, bigger, and faster. He was a big boy since birth weighing almost nine pounds when I delivered him. His first name is King and when we took him to his first pediatrician visit the doctor joked that King was a perfect name for him because he was King sized. But as he grew, he remained delayed in speech, socialization, and eye contact all telltale signs of an autism diagnosis, which he received two months shy of his third birthday in April. The reason I lashed out at Albert when Sebastian hit his head and started bleeding is because one of my worst nightmares was coming true: we’d have to take him to the hospital and I knew how difficult it would be for him to allow nurses and the doctor to take care of his wound. Thankfully, I have the best husband ever and he remained super calm and chill, which is his personality, the complete opposite of mine. He carefully cut the curls around Sebastian’s wound revealing a small cut and we were soon on our way to the hospital. Our balance in personalities has probably been the best thing for Sebastian: he has me, on top of getting him the services and supports he needs, and he has his dad who doesn’t worry about the things Sebastian can’t do right now. He’s a pretty lucky kid.

I know first hand working as a caseworker with individuals ages three and up diagnosed with intellectual and developmental disabilities that receiving medical care is challenging for them. Many can’t speak or don’t understand that they need to take this medicine to get better or they need to sit still for a nurse to draw their blood. How could I explain to my son that he would need to let a doctor do whatever they needed to do to patch him up? He can’t understand that. The only thing that reassured me on our short drive to the ER was that Sebastian hadn’t even really cried that long and didn’t seem bothered a few minutes after the injury. He’s a really strong kid and happily watched a movie on his tablet. But once we got called to get attended he wouldn’t sit in the chair or leave the oximeter on his finger. It took my husband and I and two nurses to hold Sebastian down in a hospital bed and one of the nurses was able to wrap his toe to get his vitals that way. It was as hard as I expected but what I learned mattered is that it got done. We had help from the staff whose first patient, clearly, wasn’t Sebastian. 

Seeing the doctor went the same way but this time Sebastian got to sit on his dad’s lap and the doctor got the help of a fellow nurse to hold Sebastian’s head while he kept watching a movie on his tablet. I was relieved we had a good doctor; since the pandemic I’d been hearing horror stories about our hospital and how bad the staff were. This mingled in with my anxiety of taking Sebastian to the ER and perhaps not getting the best care. But I was proven wrong and maybe it had to do with being in the pediatric ER. When the doctor finally came in she quickly examined him and stated his small laceration only needed one staple. I was really relieved because my mind, always venturing to the worst case scenario, had already imagined him needing stitches, possibly staying overnight for monitoring! But it wasn’t as dramatic as all that. She showed us the surgical stapler, which thankfully looked nothing like the one in my desk drawer, and in less than five seconds she inserted the staple. Sebastian never cried or flinched. Like I said, he’s a really strong boy.

The doctor informed us there was no issue with him going back to school tomorrow. We’d just have to return to the ER in a week to have the staple removed. It would be quick and she suggested we come in the morning as it would be less packed. “Tonight,” she said, “wake him up to make sure he gets up and is alert. He might feel a little itchy and will want to touch the staple. Make sure to keep his hand away from the spot. You can apply Vaseline to help the itching.” Great, I thought. Stop Sebastian from touching the back of his head if he feels itchy? That would be impossible. I dreaded that happening because it would be really hard for Sebastian to let us apply anything to his scalp. He already has me running around the room to brush his hair; we look like Tom and Jerry as I try to catch him. We had to wait in the ER for an hour and give him something to eat. They wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to throw up. He continued being his cheery self as it got later and we were finally cleared to leave around 10 pm. He hadn’t vomited at all. Overall, I was pleased with the experience but was looking ahead to having to wake him up that night and returning to the ER by myself with him the following week and how that ordeal would go. I was trepidatious  about having to wake him—would he wake up with no problem, and then would it be hard to get him to fall back asleep? I didn’t have to worry though. After an hour of him falling asleep I crept into his room and he instantly opened his eyes. He looked annoyed that I had entered his room, disrupting his sleep, and he rolled over and closed his eyes. He was good.

Sebastian waiting patiently to remove his staple.

We were able to remove the staple at Sebastian’s pediatrician’s office. He hadn’t touched the staple except for a few times at school but nothing major. He didn’t need the Vaseline so I didn’t have to go through that fight with him. Removing the staple proved just as easy as when they put it in with his pediatrician promising it would take her longer to set up than it would pulling the staple out. And she was right. Sebastian sat on my lap facing me watching Toy Story on his tablet while the pediatrician talked to me. In two seconds the staple was out, bent out of shape from her prying it out. He didn’t even know what happened and I was grateful. This whole experience has been a huge lesson for me. First, it showed me once again that the best gift my job gave me is the knowledge of what to expect with Sebastian. Secondly, it showed me that everything will be okay. Nothing is as bad as I think it’s going to be. Yeah, it was challenging to get Sebastian to be still at the hospital but he was able to get the care he needed and that’s all that matters. His cut ended up being a small one and it healed nicely. It was a bump on the head that could’ve been worse. I remember that on our way to the ER, Albert nonchalantly said that boys get hurt and he himself had been to the ER numerous times as a kid. It was normal. It felt reassuring to hear that. Even so, now we really really don’t let Sebastian climb my desk.