Ike the Knife

Just found this post today - it's a blog I wrote earlier in the year, but never posted.  Better late than never.  Enjoy.

A few days ago, I encountered one of those rare Hallmark moments that seem to be reserved only for those fortunate enough to hail from the Dismukes clan.  It was a precious moment that marked the passage of my eldest (and only) son from childhood to adolescence.  It was a moment filled with excitement, confusion, panic and blood - a moment where the cold steel of a knife blade parted his flesh like Moses passing through the Red Sea.  There have been many historic blade wounds throughout the history of mankind – the beheading of Marie Antoinette, the stabbing of Julius Caesar, the emasculation of John Wayne Bobbit – but none had the impact on my life that this particular incident carried.

The night of the wounding began in relative normalcy.  I was at home alone with the kids, while my wife was at a PTO meeting.  I had all the girls in the den, where we were watching a little TV.  Isaac had been playing quietly back in his room, or at least that’s what we thought he was doing.  As we watched Rachel Ray prepare a tasty and healthy meal in 30 minutes or less, we heard a strange noise coming down the hall.  Shhh-klump, shhh-klump, shhh-klump.  Isaac peered around the corner hunched over, grabbing his leg, while mumbling incessantly, “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry, Daddy.  I cut myself, and I’m so sorry.”

“Wait.  What?  Did you say cut?  Why do you keep saying you’re sorry?  If you cut yourself, you’d be crying.  Why aren’t you crying?  What are you so sorry about?  What’s going on here?”  All these thoughts ran through my mind, but I didn’t voice any of them.  I was in process mode, and I was looking for any little bit of information that would help me reach a decision as to what to do next.  The banter continued. “Daddy, I’m so sorry, Mama’s going to be so mad.  I cut myself…” he said as he shhh-klumped his way closer to the couch.  And there it was, the first glimpse of blood – a tiny trickle ran from under his clenched hand down to his ankle, disappearing into his sock.  But he wasn’t crying.  “I’m confused,” I think to myself as I grasp at any straw that smacks of logic.  Fake blood.  The boy has bought a container of fake blood and is doing his worst knife victim impersonation. 

After a cursory round of questioning, I eliminated the possibility of fake blood and moved on to actual injury.  But judging by the volume of blood trickle and the absence of tears, I surmised that we were dealing with a scrape or, at worse, a tiny nick.  Convinced that my son was overreacting, I made him shhh-klump his own way into the kitchen where I could get a better look at his “wound”.  All the while, he’s still mumbling, “I’m so sorry Daddy, I cut myself.  Mama’s gonna be so mad.”

Prepared for nothing but the best, I made him release his death grip on his leg so I could get a better look.  As he moved his hand to the side, he revealed a 5 inch long swath of flesh hanging precariously from his leg.  If I didn’t know better, I would swear I saw it flopping about in the breeze.  A surge of blood gushed from his open wound as his little heart pounded, and as the red goo oozed, I felt my head begin to swim.  I’m not ordinarily bothered by gore, but there’s something about seeing the inside of a body belonging to one of your own.  It’s… well, it’s just not natural.

I immediately called for help with the girls (one of the many benefits of living close by to grandparents) and whisked the boy off to the ER.  After 8 or 9 stitches, the full story emerged.  Isaac was testing the sharpness of his new blade.  While testing to see if it would shave the hairs off his leg, he slipped and sliced his way to serious cut.  Apparently, the blade is plenty sharp enough.

To his credit, the boy handled the hospital visit like a trooper.  No crying - only the kind of gritty toughness that makes a father proud.  And while I had initially questioned his intelligence after hearing his account of the incident, I admired the display of manhood demonstrated in the ER.  After all, life is full of nicks and bruises, but manhood is partly a measure of the way in which one deals with them.  (Or at least it is for men, anyway.  I wouldn’t imagine we would talk about how manly a woman is for not crying while getting stitches… but I digress.)

This milestone was one I hope and pray I never live through again, but having come through it, I’m appreciative of what it revealed – a son who, though he may be prone to mistakes (like all of us), has the resolve to emerge a better man for it.