What We Are Up Against

Three plays into the game last night, The Boy took a header into the coffee table. My eyes were locked onto his as he hit. It was a horrific slow motion, Sam Peckinpah moment that simply won’t leave me. Ten delicate stitches later and he’s on the mend. The blood loss was minimal for such a deep cut, but it was a terrible thing to look at. His tears stopped before we left the house for the emergency room and he was adamant about seeing himself in the mirror. As we worked to get our emotions in check—the worst thing we could have done was let him sense how torn up we were—we agreed to let him look. It was the right thing to do. A man in the making needs to know what he’s up against; and he needs to know that those taking care of him are convinced of their own competence—whether or not it is with feigned confidence.

In the big scheme it is a minor thing, of course. There is no question. But to comfort and calm the thing you love more than life; to secure his hands and head while a good doctor cleans, injects, and sutures a wound for which you’ve accepted blame, responsibility, there is nothing more important. His pain was my own. What was most upsetting is that I was not able to absorb his discomfort completely. But I suspect we can never do that. I can live it, duplicate it; but I’m not allowed to claim it. And I find that immeasurably unfair.

And while I recognize my penchant for melodrama, it has no place here. The story is thus: The Boy hit his head; he got his head fixed; he is doing very well. This happens to thousands of kids every single day. But, you know, I wish it hadn’t happened to mine. An arm’s length away from being able to break his fall and I couldn’t do it. But I did get to scoop him up and hold him immediately; I got to hold his hands while they fixed him. I got to be his daddy. That becomes a little more painful and a little more rewarding each day.