Yesterday evening, as my good lady and I were relaxing after our respective tussles with the insane world of work, number 2 son came with plaintive cries of woe that he had misplaced his geography worksheet, which was due in tomorrow morning. Shortly after this, number 1 son casually let it drop that he had gained a “D” in his biology test. This was after 9:00 PM, when both offspring should hopefully have been in bed, it being a school night, a time when parents could hopefully throttle back and indulge in a naughty but very nice treat of Monday night wine. Throttling back was abandoned and yours truly and good lady engaged instead in angst ridden conversation over how effective we were being as parents – and how could we let such things happen?
This evening, Tuesday, I made a wry comment at the tea table, regarding the above and asked both numbers 1 and 2 son not to break such news again at that time of night. We had a laugh, and I judged everything to be cool. Number 1 son repaired his bedroom to continue homeworking, while number 2 son said he was off on his bike to the corner shop for a can of pop.
I was concerned at the failing of the light, but judged he had enough time to get there and back before he became invisible to motorists. I told him to be careful, as I always do – a parental reflex, but something worried me – I can’t say what exactly. You have to give them room, give them freedom, I thought. You worry. You can’t help it. You’re a parent. But you have to give them room. Five minutes later he’s standing at the back door, looking stricken, blood dripping down his face and arm. Fell off his bike. Hit his head on the road.
A normal evening becomes at once an emergency, because this is my son, and he’s bleeding.
Cleaned him up with a towel, tried to be reassuring, though I’d not a clue how serious it was. Tried to ascertain the extent of the damage. Not as bad as I had feared. Just one small, but worryingly deep and gaping cut in his temple. Some bruising, looked painful, but number two son, though shaken seemed stoically brave. Not much blood for the depth of the wound, but weeping strangely. I felt sick and slightly faint but I bottled it up, because the lad needed a dependable parent. Right?
Accident and Emergency department? Possible 4 hour wait? Yes? No? Yes? No?
Informed good lady, who was just settling down with deep sigh in front of the TV that Number 2 son required immediate evacuation to hospital A+E. Informed good lady also that regrettably, although husband was capable of driving in all haste, required also attendance of good lady in case husband, sweating profusely and feeling slightly queer, flaked out at critical moment.
Car with dodgy gearbox and recently repaired cooling system fired up. Drove like bat out of hell.
Staff at local A+E department marvellous – a couple of lovely ladies who glued number 2 son’s gashed head together with smiles and reassuring jollity. Good lady kept number 2 son company for this bit – father remained in waiting room. In and out in 30 minutes.
Hopefully all is well now. Number 2 son sleeping peacefully. Must keep head dry for next five days.
Next time he can tell me he’s tipped his school bag in the river, and number 1 son can admit to playing truant for the last few years, and I promise I won’t bat an eye. There’s nothing like a trip to A+E with a bleeding child for resetting one’s perspective.
The Rivendale Review 
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