Back in June, we had a storm one evening that knocked the power out. The thunder was loud, the lightning bright, and the kids woke and we all went downstairs to cuddle. This was about 3 a.m. Around 4 a.m., things were letting up, and we headed back upstairs to bed. Anja tripped over the fan in her room (which was silent because of the power outage) and from what we discerned later, must have hit her nose on her bed frame. All I heard was “My nose! My nose! It’s bleeding!”
I found her in the dark and brought her to the hallway, where there was at least a tiny bit of light from the storm/moon/whatever. I gasped. She was not bleeding from her nostrils, as I had assumed, but through a giant gash across the bridge of her nose. I brought her to the bathroom and immediately clamped a cloth over it and pinched and screamed for my husband to bring something to see with. The kids had been playing with our only flashlight earlier in the day and had lost it, so he brought the only thing he could think of, the Kindle. As we surveyed the damage in the dim glow, I got a little panicky. We didn’t know where the nearest ER was (forgot to look it up after moving) or if she was in any shape to be driven there, so we called 911. The cops arrived first, then the paramedics. They said she did need to go to the ER and told us where it was so we wouldn’t have to pay the ambulance fee.
We arrived there around 5 a.m. and were there until 9 a.m., mostly waiting for Anja’s local anesthesia to take effect, getting her nose irrigated (they were expecting water to drain all the way through to her nasal cavity from the cut, but thankfully it didn’t go through), and stitching her up.
She was a trooper. There were moments of pain and panic, just like in any situation like that, but I was so proud of how maturely she handled it all. I’ve told her for years that she would make a good medical professional for her ability to tolerate pain and blood and needles. I stand by that claim.
Now all that’s left is a lumpy, crooked scar. We are looking into plastic surgery options, but I’m not sure if those will be doable until she is older. For now, she has a little reminder of her fall on her face, a reminder to me every time I look at her of how fragile we are, how I need to enjoy each moment, how things could have been so much worse. What has become a part of her has become a part of us all. Scars remind of past hurts, of lessons learned, and I think they can be very good things.