Dear Me and You, Snitches…No Kids Get Stitches

Dear Me and You, 

I don’t sleep well. Generally, I wake up about 2:30AM and stay awake for 15 minutes to two hours; and yes, I’ve employed many tactics to address this, which have included various drugs (from prescribed to plants), meditation, Audible, and rain sounds. Currently, I’m doing a trauma release program for my hips… you know, the body holds onto everything and I’m ready to say, “Peace out motherfucker, I got no need for that extra cortisol” release. As I lay awake I think about so, so many things; in fact, I think about all the things— see what I did there? I think about our house, house hunting, family, homework, my identity, what’s next for me, the fact that I’m awake, the to-do list, the wants and goals, and of course, my kids. 

I always heard so much about worrying as a parent, and of course, you don’t know what you don’t know; well, I absolutely fucking know about worrying now. I worry about their futures because I’m not sure what the world will be for them or who they will be. I worry about their safety. I worry that they will be assaulted. I worry that they will be teased. I worry they will have their heart broken. I worry that I may fuck them up. I worry they won’t be happy. 

I worry. 

And, I’m also excited to see how their lives unfold. I’m excited to see who they are now as humans and who they will be. I’m excited to see them in love. I’m excited to see them reach their goals. I’m excited that our relationships will evolve. I’m excited to see them fail and try again. 

I’m excited.

But today, when Daphne injured herself I was worried— there was no excitement. Let me set the scene, and it will be brief because it’s a scene we all have participated in: It’s post dinner, the kids are exhausted and running around the house at top speed. And just like the night before I yell out into the abyss of the hallway, “Girls, it’s the end of the day and it’s more challenging to be the boss of your body, your body is tired, please stop running!” 

Mere moments later— boom. I hear the collision of somebody into something. Immediately Tessa yells out, “Mom come quick!” I leap up from the dining room chair. And run (breaking my own rule) into the crime scene, and there is Daphne holding her face and crying. I scoop her up and sit down on the floor. I ask, “Are you okay?” And before she can answer she puts her hand down to embrace me and I see her lip. Her lip is split; and when I say split I mean from the spot above her lip through the pink part of her lip and it was wide. 

I was the next to yell, “Bren, there’s blood!” I stood up and took Daph into the kitchen. Bren and I looked at each other and we knew this was going to require a doc visit but I was hopeful that my mom-village would say, “Nah, it looks fine. Business as usual tonight.” The village was busy and so I had no confirmation or denial. We made the decision that I would head to urgent care. 

Daph and I threw on some clothes, grabbed a jacket and our waters, the girls gave her a stuffie and special note, and then we headed out the door. Within minutes I was at urgent care, and within a few more minutes I was on my way to the ER. The doctor at urgent care said they were not equipped to suture her lip because it would require… sedation. 

Cool. 

The ER is… an interesting place to people-watch. Fortunately on a Tuesday night we were one of the worst cases and they got us in quickly. Daphne was tired and in pain. She was also managing all of this remarkably well. In the triage room I had a conversation with the doctor, who is a parent, which I always find helpful— they get it on a different level. Ultimately I was offered three choices: pin her down and they would do the stitches there, sedate her and the ER doctor would do the stitches there, or sedate her and a plastic surgeon would do the stitches. 

I— after talking with Bren— opted for sedation and ER doctor. I was nervous. In part because this was the same hospital I was at a year and a half ago when Daphne had her seizures. The idea of sedating her was… uncomfortable. I didn’t know how uncomfortable it would be until we were getting it done. Another example of you don’t know what you don’t know.

Ketamine, aka Special K, which was a popular drug when I was in high school, is the drug they would use to sedate my three year old. The doctor, Dr. Dan, was also a parent, kind, patient, and very direct— thank you. He went through the worst case scenarios, which were scary. The top threat was that Daphne could stop breathing but he assured me, “We will have a respiratory specialist nearby to bag her if need be and the crash cart with a team will also be in the room. We don’t expect any of that to happen but we are prepared.” 

Cool. 

Then, he started telling me what it would look like while she sedated, “It can be alarming because her eyes will be open and they will rapidly move around, her body can be stiff but she won’t feel any pain and if you don’t want to be in the room she will never know you weren’t there.” I replied, “That sounds sorta like the visual of a seizure.” Dr. Dan said, “Yes, it’s similar.” I immediately felt a lump in my throat and my eyes water and I said, “Okay then. It’s got to be done.” 

Cool. 

Thankfully in these moments my friend was there, standing with Daphne, making small talk with my little human, all the while knowing, as a mother and as my friend, the emotions, feelings, and decision making I was wading through. Her bag of toys, snacks, and the perfect cup of tea meant so much but even more, so did her ability to laugh with me at the absurdity of parenting through fear and worry for your kids. She left and the nurse began gathering all the people required for the procedure. 

They started an IV on Daphne. They placed electrode stickers on her little chest and tummy. The crash cart was rolled in. The nurse came in and asked Daphne, “These tubes are to help you breathe better, can I place them in your nose?” Daphne emphatically said, “No,” and leaned into me hard. The nurse moves to put them on Daphne’s nose anyway. Daphne protested. And the nurse retreated. Ever the advocate for my children and always on a mission to impact change with how adults interact with children I spoke up and said, “I’ve noticed that every time you want or need to do something to or for Daphne you ask her. If it’s not an option you need to give her a directive. Explain what it is, why it needs to happen and say you are going to do it. At home, no means no, and I only ask a question if I’m prepared to accept whatever answer she gives me.” 

The nurse looked a little surprised and responded with, “Oh okay, you have the best insight to your kiddo.” I wanted to continue the conversation and let her know that it wasn’t just about my “kiddo” but about how grownups communicate with kids. They wouldn’t ask an adult to place the cannula, they would just do it. Stop asking kids questions when you don’t plan to honor their answer or choice. Kids’ voices are powerful and important, just like yours and mine. But I didn’t get into it because I was worried. 

The doctor came in, “Okay, we’re all ready” and he pushed the ketamine through her IV. A handful of minutes later Daphne was sedated, with her eyes open and twitching, her arm bent ninety degrees at the elbow and her hand shaped like she was holding a cup, which I grabbed. Her little toes flexed. A tear rolled down her cheek. Dr. Dan said, “She’s sedated.” And so I watched as he deftly stitched her lip together. Another tear rolled down her cheek and he assured me that it was common and normal. 

Cool. 

Ten minutes passed and he said, “That’s it, we’re all done.” My head started to spin, my vision started to turn black, “I need just a minute.” I placed my head between my legs and focused on my breathing— I recovered. I think the adrenaline was disappearing, I think hearing the “all clear” communicated to my body, “Hey lady, you don’t have to hold it together anymore.” Parenting is work, hard work; there are so many moments where the measure of success—for me— is how well I am able to regulate my emotions/feelings in order to provide support, discipline, modeling, and guidance for my kids. 

As far as ER visits go, this one was fairly quick and we were home by midnight. The girls were long asleep and Brendan was anxiously awaiting our arrival. It took some time for Daphne and me to unwind. She fell asleep after an hour. And then, I was free to be held by Bren and sob, letting go and saying goodbye to the fear and worry I had in those hours. In another hour, I was asleep. 

Of course, I didn't and couldn’t say goodbye to all the worries I have for my kids— while injured or not. That’s part of the job. But what I try to do is focus on the exciting parts of the job, living in that mirth of motherhood and not the martyrdom. 

Cool. 

We made it through another day, me and you. 

Kudos.