Jonah and the E.R.

Sometimes he frightens me. I've just finished cooking, when I hear a bang and a scream upstairs. I run to find him. He's picking himself up from the floor. Blood drips from his face, smeared on his hands and soaking his shirt. I wipe him off with wet paper towels, searching for a cut. It's under his chin. I see the bone. He complains about the wiping and seems to have forgotten that he's bleeding on himself.

I pass the baby to Jason, pack Jonah in the van, and drive to the emergency room, twelve miles away. While we ride, he tells me about the rivers we pass, and asks to go to the beach.

I carry him into the E.R.; I forgot his shoes at home. The receptionist takes one look at him, covered in blood, and pages the nurse. She walks us to triage. The nurse asks him questions, takes his temperature, heartbeat. He sighs patiently. She asks, "Do you have an owie?"

"Yes."

"Does your owie hurt?"

"Yep." He grins at her.

"Does it really hurt?"

"Yep." He grins again.

"I'm going to write 'no' on that one," she says.

I fill out paperwork. Jonah watches cartoons. The nurse calls us to a room down the hall. She applies topical anesthetic. The wound gapes even wider than before.

Jonah colors an activity book. The book tells a story about Timmy the Dinosaur, who has to go to the hospital for a bad cut. Timmy is scared of the doctors and the machines. I don't think Jonah can relate. He pretends the exam light is a giant monster in the corner.

The doctor arrives with his suture kit. He asks Jonah to lie back, with a towel rolled up under his neck. Two nurses hold Jonah's arms on either side. They inject a little more anesthetic into the cut. The doctor places a paper sheet over Jonah's face. He asks Jonah to be very still.

The boy doesn't flinch. The nurses slowly release his arms as they realize that he's not struggling. The doctor ties a stitch, then another, and another, and another, and another. All we hear from Jonah is a deep sigh now and then. The nurses keep asking how old he is. They giggle when he sighs like we're boring him. The doctor remarks, "This is easier than an adult!"

Finally, the sixth stitch is knotted and cut. We all cheer for Jonah. The nurses marvel at how quiet and brave he is. The doctor removes the sheet from his face. Everyone gasps. The boy is asleep.

Like I said, sometimes, he frightens me.