My daughter wanted some milk to go with her cereal. We didn't have any liquid milk, but I had canned milk on hand. I told her that I would make her some. She was home from school sick and I was trying to make feel better. Little did I know that my kind gesture would take such a fatal turn.
I refer to her as my "baby". She hates that. I am constantly reminded by her how she is a big girl and not a "baby" or "my little one". I remind her that when she is a grown woman who is 40 years old; she'll still be my baby. She doesn't like hearing that.
As I reached up in the cabinet to get the canned milk, another can was accidentally knocked over. It fell out of the cabinet, hit the counter, and landed on my left foot. I thought I had moved my foot in time to avoid any type of contact; I was wrong.
I screamed out in agonizing pain and my daughter rushed into the kitchen. She wanted to know what was wrong, but I couldn't utter a word. Tears were streaming down my face and I opened my eyes to discover a fresh deep cut around my big toe and blood.
In between moans, I immediately hobbled into my living room and sat down on the couch. Still in the throes of pain, I grabbed a few napkins and started putting direct pressure on the wound. The left side of my body was weakened by my stroke. I assumed I wouldn't feel much pain; that wasn't the case. Trying to remain calm for my daughter's sake, I asked her to go upstairs and get me a bandaid. My daughter listened to my words carefully and went upstairs in search of a bandaid. By the look on her face, I could tell she was scared and her worry lines were definitely showing. She kept saying, "Sorry." I assured her that this was just a horrible accident and I'd be alright.
In my mind, I was trying to come up with a Plan B. None of my friends or family members were home and I prayed the bleeding would stop. If it didn't I knew I'd have to go to the hospital's Emergency Room. The problem with that: who would look after my daughter?
My "baby" ran downstairs yelling, "Mommy, I found some." She quickly came over and handed me an assortment of bandaids from our first aid kit. I picked one; she opened it. I removed the napkin and cleaned my wound as best as I could. I then covered it with the bandaid. The bleeding had stopped.
I gave her a reassuring hug that I would be "OK". She broke down crying and finally confessed how scared she was, and that I wouldn't have gotten hurt if she hadn't been home from school and wanted milk with her cereal. Through her sobs, she just kept repeating, "Mommy, I'm sorry." I kept telling her that she wasn't to blame, but she wouldn't listen.
After what seemed like an hour of comforting her, she finally stopped crying. I offered to make her milk so she could have her cereal. She refused.
Over the next several weeks, my cut healed and I didn't notice the scar because it was embedded deep within the toenail. As my nail has grown, I finally saw how BIG it was. Over the course of time, the scar has traveled down my nail. It's reddish color has soften to purple. Now the scar will be ready to be cut off my nail in about three weeks.
The pain is just a memory for me now. What I learned that day has stayed with me forever. My daughter may only be 9, but she was right. When I needed help most, she showed me that she was a good listener and truly a big kid.
Posted By: Marsha Jones
Tuesday, November 24th 2009 at 7:12AM
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