My son, Little Napoleon, has been annoying me with various near death symptoms stemming from the dog bite he got last week (?) or 10 days ago. He’s something of a hypochondriac and drives me insane with his constant demand for medical attention. Every scratch or scrape, cold or flu is a sign that he has cancer or needs a kidney transplant or his spine is broken. You get the picture.
He’s been staying at a friend’s house about 50 miles from home and he’s sent me regular picture updates of his arm from every angle. We had lunch last week and the wound site looked fine, but later that night Little Napoleon’s friend called me at work to tell me he was dying and they were going to the ER. NO FREAKING WAY. I insisted they get some home remedies at Walmart and call it good. The next day things were fine.
But then Little Napoleon’s wrist started hurting and he couldn’t move his fingers. This went on for a day or two before I finally told him to go to the Express Clinic and STFU about it. He went this afternoon and by 4 o’clock, they were admitting him to the hospital for surgery on his wrist and arm. Apparently, while the wound site wasn’t infected, his wrist was and with some nasty dog saliva virus inducing puss. Freaking fabulous.
While I was adjusting to the panic of surgery and the self flagellation of being an unfit mother, someone from the Spaghetti Western called and asked if I could come to work, like NOW. Uh…I live 40 minutes away, but sure. I was hoping to either trade out my shift or get cut early, but no dice. The dining room was full and insane until 9 o’clock. I went on just one screaming crying jag, but only because I had the foresight to give a friend some gas money to drive over and sit with Little Napoleon so he wouldn’t be alone when he woke up, and so she could keep me updated throughout the night.
Once I finally got to the hospital, I found my poor little boy in a cast from his hand to his elbow on one arm and from his hand to mid-arm on the other. He was in pretty good spirits, but I’ll bet that wears off when the pain meds do. The nurse explained the procedure, but all I heard was “cut open”, “cleaned out”, “packing”, “not stitched up” before I wanted to pass out. It sounds as if he gets two nights in the hospital with two stages of IV antibiotics before they stitch up the arm and send him home. I’m surprised it’s going to be with me.
I guess that’s the last time I don’t take his hypochondria seriously.