Round three

July 30th, 2009

The exhaustion is familiar, the way my body crashes after the adrenaline rush of gathering the keys, my wallet, a diaper bag (the hospital has diapers, why do I always make Small Boy grab his brother’s diaper bag? I do it to give him something to do, I think, a job that will make him feel like he helped, a job that will keep him from crying, from becoming another child I have to take care of), getting the boys in the car, the short drive to the pediatric emergency room at the Inselspital. The check in, the exam (we had the same doctor as last time, a friendly young Austrian man who remembered us as well), the treatment: cleaning the wound – a sharp angular cut high on his forehead bleeding down his face, cutting away some of his beautiful hair, opting for glue and butterfly strips over stitches, waiting a bit afterwards to make sure he didn’t react to the medication, getting the discharge instructions, driving home. It is then, when we come home, that it sweeps over me, the exhaustion, the stress, the fear. It is then that I cry. It is then that I shake. It is then, afterwards, after the fact, that the walls come tumbling down. It is always after, after, that I fall apart.