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.
