Blood on the Porch

He walked right past the bloodstains on the porch.
Perhaps, the uneven surface of the aggregate hid the evidence.
Perhaps he saw them but his brain told him it
had to be something else.


He put his key into the blood-smeared doorknob.

This he noticed.
The blood.

Never one to overreact,
his first thought was,
casually,

"Well, something definitely happened here."



I had tried to call him for over an hour.
He was driving.
His phone was turned off.
Etc., etc.......

I never reached him.



But...I couldn't get my finger to stop bleeding. I knew the proper first aid.  I performed the recommended procedures.  I even consulted the esteemed Google doctor and his commenting cronies. My paper towel supply started to run low.  I wasn't sure how much longer I could apply pressure and hold my hand above my head.  The situation was borderline dire.

After an hour I was still bleeding a lot.

I took another look at the damage that had been done.

There was quite a significant jagged cut. I was able to see inside to a few parts that aren't supposed to be seen from the outside. A small part of me wondered if I'd pass out from the blood loss. A larger part of me decided that thought was ridiculous. I just need to take charge of this situation and drive myself to Urgent Care-not the far one, my favorite, but the close one. I certainly wouldn't do anything crazy.





The husband saw the note I had taped to the entryway floor.

"I have driven myself to Urgent Care--the close one."

The husband, knowing I was capable of writing a note AND finding the elusive tape to secure the note (which meant I was still remarkably coherent) decided he had time to go to the bathroom.  He entered the powder room off the entryway and found a sink full of blood spatters and drips.  He found blood-soaked toilet paper scattered on the counter beside the sink.

The husband, being the relaxed person he usually is then went into the kitchen to put his lunch box away........before he rushed off to Urgent Care-the close one, of course.  It was there he was met with piles of paper towels soaked in blood.  It was then he saw random blood drops(pools)  in the kitchen sink.  It was then he saw the Google search pulled up on the open laptop, "what do I do if I can't stop my finger from bleeding?"  It was then he got in the car and rushed off to Urgent Care-the close one.

Of course.





The nurse opened the door and said, "Your husband is here."


He said, "What did you do?"

I said, "I wanted to trim that stupid hedge.  It's way overgrown.  I got out the hedge trimmer and started trimming.  But then it jammed.  So I turned the trimmer off and cleared the junk.  When I turned it back on my hand was still on the blades.  It chewed my finger up for about 1/10th of a second.  That was enough."

He said, "But there is a handguard, your hand stays behind the guard for safety? Right?"

I said, "Yep.  That's what it's there for.  But I put my hand in front of it, right on the vibrating blades."

He said, "Why?"

I said, "I don't frickin' know why.  I think we can chalk this one up to operator error."



One of us went home, driving with 11 stitches on one bandaged up hand and the other able-bodied hand desperately trying to navigate the corners.


One of us went home via the drive-thru and brought home dinner.

You. Are. My. Son.

We were separated by the blue curtain. Two mothers, two sons.


I sat on the right side, next to the boy who was lying on a gurney with a swollen, purple and very painful knee. She sat on the left side, next to her son who was lying on a gurney with his head covered in blood.


I was not doing well. My mouth assured the boy that it would all be ok. My brain screamed at me, “Urgent Care, AGAIN! What is wrong with you? What is wrong with that boy? Do you know what too many x-rays can do to a person?” My heart tightened up, my stomach churned. I took a deep breath and wondered how many visits one could make to Urgent Care before Child Protective Services was called. I wished I was in pain instead of the boy. I kept shaking my head in resigned disbelief and brushing the boy’s hair off his 11 year old forehead.


The mother on the other side was not doing well. The curtain, of course, could not contain her crying. It could not contain the whimpering of her son. The curtain could not contain grief.


“You are my boy………my son……..… Look at you!”

Her son tried to answer. “Mama…”

“NO!” she shouted. “It is MY turn!”

I saw her worn shoes begin to pace the edge of the curtain. Then her shoes turned and stopped. “I TOLD you not to leave the house. I TOLD you. Do you know what it’s like to worry about someone every single minute of the day? Do you? I worry about you with every cell in my body. You are my son…..in the name of Jesus....... YOU. ARE. MY. SON.”


I turned to my boy with the swollen knee and grabbed his hand. He held tight. His eyes had grown large.


The mother on the other side lowered her voice a bit. “Why do you think I work two jobs? It is for you. You are 16 years old. I want you to be happy. I want you to always be safe. I want you to be better than you ever thought you could be. But here I see you…..no, no….I can’t even see you….your head is covered in blood. I don’t see you at all. My God…….you are my son and I can’t even see you.

Oh why would you leave the house when I told you not to……?”


I could hear her start to cry again. The boy and I stared at each other, silently.



The curtain was pulled back on the other side and I saw many feet. A doctor told the whimpering, bloodied boy that he was in bad shape. His hand was probably broken. His nose was probably broken. He most likely had some broken ribs. His jaw was no longer aligned properly. And his head was in really bad shape. There was so much blood, the doctor said, that he couldn’t yet tell how many wounds he had.

At least two nurses began to clean up the bloodied boy. I heard things like “matted hair”, “too many to count”, “I can’t get this one to stop bleeding”, “wow, I finally got one eye open” and “we’re going to need a lot of staples”.

I heard the doctor ask, “Do you want to tell me how this happened?”



The bloodied boy tried to speak. “This dude jumped me on the trail. He had brass knuckles on. He lit into me. Pretty bad, I guess.”

The doctor asked, “Did you know him? Why would he beat you up like this…..I mean…I gotta be honest. You ARE in pretty bad shape here, buddy.”

“He said he beat me up because I beat up his brother yesterday.”

The crying mother spoke up. “Oh Jesus, help me. Seriously? Why would you beat his brother up? Why would you beat anyone up? Haven’t I taught you better?”

The bloodied boy paused and then finally answered.

“...........because he was talking trash about you Mama.”

The mother groaned loudly. “Oh for goodness sake, son. You are better than that! We are better than that! Why do you care what people say, what people think?”



“Because, Mama. He was going to kill you. He said so. I couldn’t let him do that, because, I mean, you are my Mama……….You. Are. My. Mama.”





And all the curtain rooms at Urgent Care went silent.



For a long moment.






Finally I heard the doctor say, “Legally, I may need to call in the police, ok?”

The bloodied boy tried to yell out, “No!” The mother on the other side of the curtain cried. And a new voice, a deep voice, suddenly spoke up and pointedly asked, “I want you to tell me exactly what kind of car they were driving. And tell me their names. I need names.”


My boy with the swollen knee and I looked at each other in disbelief and with raised eyebrows. We were still holding hands when we heard the bloodied boy speak.


“It was a tan Buick, Uncle Matt. And I can tell you exactly who they were.”





When the doctor pulled back the curtain on our side the boy and I instinctively dropped our hands.

“So, how are we doing?” the doctor cheerfully asked.


“Oh, the boy here has banged up his knee a bit.” I replied. “But other than that, we are doing fine, just.. fine…”




Check This Out!


Listen to this great song, Rolling in the Deep, from the always amazing Adele when you make this Chili-Lime Chicken.

This is how the recipe came to me.


3 TBL olive oil
1 ½ TBL red wine vinegar
1 lime juiced
1 tsp chili powder
½ tsp onion powder
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp paprika
1 pinch cayenne pepper, or to taste
salt to taste
black pepper to taste
1 pound chicken breast halves

Combine all ingredients, except chicken, in a bowl and whisk until the oil and vinegar are emulsified. Add chicken to bowl, cover chicken with mixture, cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for a few hours. Grill chicken over medium high heat until the juices run clear.


This is how I made it.

I tripled the marinade ingredients and added a bunch of chopped garlic (at least 8 smallish/medium cloves) and 2 chopped Anaheim chiles (use hotter if you wish). I used a whole cut up chicken and a boneless breast (for the teenager). I only marinated for an hour or so in a big plastic freezer baggie. (I would have done much longer had I planned ahead.) Then I dumped the whole lot into a large roasting pan and cooked at 375 degrees for 45 minutes….or so.


I served with rice made with chopped fresh garlic and chicken broth and a bit of salt and pepper. The boy ate this version. The husband and the teenager and I then mixed in black beans, lime juice and more chopped up Anaheim peppers. I then added TONS of cilantro. Sadly, I am the only cilantro fan in the family. On top of it all I spooned the juices from the chicken. It was super fantastic. Next time I might quadruple the marinade ingredients….

Urgent Care

The nice lady sitting up straight behind the desk was tapping away on her keyboard and looking at her monitor. I sat slumped on the other side of the desk, the boy beside me, waiting to pay yet another co-pay. The nice lady paused and muttered, “Hmmm…..” Then she looked up and half questioned me, “Well, I see that this is the boy’s first time visiting Urgent Care?”

I’m pretty sure the laughter that came out of me disturbed the walking pneumonia lady 3 seats away.

“Oh no…..there’s some mistake. The boy has been here many times before. He’s a regular customer.”



I was pleased to see that my favorite chair was available in the Urgent Care waiting room that Thursday morning. I had a good view of Regis and Kelly on the TV. I wasn’t near the drafty, constantly in motion, door. On my right hand side was the table that always had the best real magazines. The in-house promotional medical magazines were always kept on the table across the room, near the drafty door. I picked up a copy of a 2008 Redbook and tried to decide if I would read the “Easter Fun for All Ages!” article or take the quiz on page 142 that would tell me if my marriage was “Heavenly Blissful, Rock Solid, Truthfully Terrible or Ignorantly Even”.

The pneumonia lady made it hard to concentrate on my reading. She kept hacking and quietly moaning. The impatient father in the corner kept looking at his watch and sighing. He kept telling 4 year old Kayla that someone would look at her ear soon, very soon. The teenager in the football jersey sitting across from me couldn’t fit his foot in a shoe. His foot was purple and swollen. He texted the entire time he waited. His mom absentmindedly kept running her hand along his shoulders and asking, “How does it feel now, sweetie?” The middle aged woman in the corner sat hunched and held her back with one hand. She told her husband, “That is the LAST time I am ever going to do THAT! Mark my words!”

We all turned our heads as the hairy, sweaty workman in overalls walked in. He held his right arm funny and walked a bit sideways. In his left hand he held a brown paper bag. He walked up to the nice lady behind the desk. “May I help you?” she asked him.

“Yeah. I was working over at the Burger King installing their new playground. I slipped and fell and impaled myself on this. I ripped it out of myself and put it in this bag. I figured the doctor would need to see it.”

He opened the bag to show the nice lady. The nice lady’s eyes grew wide. “Oh dear. Wow! Now THAT must not have felt very good at all. How unusual. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

The entire waiting room craned their heads toward the man in overalls, desperate to see what was in that paper bag.


At that moment a nurse came into the waiting room and called the boy’s name.



I was pleased to see that the boy and I were ushered to my favorite Urgent Care room. It had walls, not curtains. It had the most interesting paintings on the walls, not just pictures of kittens and strawberries. It also had the cool inner ear and nose diagram poster. The room next door only had the proper coughing and sneezing technique poster. And just as I had hoped, the 2009 College Basketball Preview Sports Illustrated was hidden behind the Spanish language influenza flyers in the magazine rack-right where I had left it last time.

When the doctor finally arrived, she exclaimed to the boy, “I have never, ever heard of such a thing. I can honestly say that you are my first tetherball injury. I had no idea it was such a violent game!”

The doctor turned to me. “Do you know the way to the X-ray room?" Which really meant, "The boy will need many, many, very expensive X-rays that will give him cancer when he is 47.”

I said to the doctor, “Yes, I know the way.” Which really meant, “Are you kidding me? Not only do I know how to get to X-ray, I also know two shortcuts in those back “restricted” hallways. And this time I’m gonna beat my record of 1 minute and 23 seconds. Last time the boy and I got behind that lady with the walker and we lost 12 precious seconds.”


While waiting for the boy to be X-rayed, I visited the secret bathroom only the employees knew about. It still had that fabulous vanilla melon scented soap. I chatted with Serena M. who checked the boy in. She’d finally had her baby. His pictures were adorable. And I flipped through the January 2010 People magazine. They always had the most current magazines in X-ray.




The boy left Urgent Care with his arm in a sling and his lower arm in a brace, instructions to take a lot of pills and a sheet of physical therapy exercises. On our way out, we walked past Ray, the security guard. “Oh dear, BOY! You can’t possibly be back here again? Weren’t you just here a month or two ago…or was that your sister? Please tell me what you have done to yourself this time.”


The boy told his story.


“I was playing tetherball at recess with a tall kid. He swung the ball really high above my head. I jumped up to hit the ball. I missed the ball and instead the rope wrapped quickly, all around my arm, really tight. When I came down, I found my entire body dangling, held up by the rope that was wound around my arm. I have a bunch of super nasty red marks and a ton of ugly bruising. My forearm is sprained and the doctor said I tore the rotator cuff in my shoulder. It all hurts a lot.”

Security guard Ray shook his head in disbelief. He patted the boy on the head and told me to say hello to the teenager. “It’s been a few months since she’s been in, hasn’t it? She's probably due.”




Check This Out—A co-worker of the husband shared this interesting homemade cookie a few days ago. He sandwiched peanut butter between two Ritz crackers and covered the whole thing in chocolate. I haven’t had time to look up a recipe, but you definitely should. It was reeaallly gooood.