It Could Always Be Worse

Chronicle of a friction burn

Photo by Adrien King on Unsplash

Diana and I have been trying to get healthier together, and one of the things we’ve wanted to do is move more. Since we live in the surface valley of the sun, I decided to get a treadmill that fits under my desk to use those days when it’s hotter than Satan’s armpit outside. Diana mentioned she wanted to use it, so I moved it where she could. We left the treadmill unsupervised for more than ten seconds, and, of course, tragedy ensued.

One fateful Thursday, our six-year-old son got his hand caught at the end of the treadmill, and the band rubbed the skin on top of his hand off. The wound looked gnarly, so Diana took him to the pediatric ER. There, they shared a waiting room with a man who had been bitten by a rattlesnake on the golf course and who was extremely calm for having just been bitten by a rattlesnake. Diana later found out the young man was playing golf with his future father-in-law, and it all made sense; he wanted to look tough in front of him.

Emilio’s wound was bandaged at the ER. We gave him Ibuprofen for the pain, and the next day, I took him to the Arizona Burn Center (the only one in the state; the advantage of living in a big city). It’s sobering to see burn victims, and I’m glad my son is easily distracted and didn’t see what I saw. As we checked in, I told the person behind the counter about the accident, and very casually, he said, “Treadmill accident? Oh, it happens all the time!” If this was meant to give me some consolation, it didn’t. Just because something is common, it doesn’t stop from being horrible. Like rattlesnake bites, for example.

The nurse took a look at Emilio’s wound and said that it could be a third-degree friction burn and that he might need surgery. “Like right now? Like today?” I said, trying to hide the panic in my voice. She calmly nodded as she explained how autografts work (they harvest skin from your butt). Then a doctor came into the room and looked at Emilio’s wound; he said the wound could be between a second and third-degree burn, but they needed 72 hours to tell one way or the other. So, we got scheduled for a follow-up on Tuesday.

I asked the nurse to repeat the doctor's name because I thought she had said Ferrari. Then she repeated it, “Dr. Ferrari, like the car,” she made a steering wheel motion with her hands, confirming that I had heard right. I thought this was a way God was helping me relax in a very stressful situation. I think someone with the last name Ferrari is hilarious, especially if you are Italian, but I digress.

Emilio’s wound needed to get cleaned, and he was wincing from the pain; the nurse asked me if I was okay giving him oxycodone; “It would be by weight,” she said, trying to assure me it would be acceptable to give my son narcotics. In a split-second decision, I accepted. She left to get the drugs, and a second doctor came in, asking to take a picture of Emilio’s hand. He repeated the information Dr. Ferrari gave me, adding, “The wound is treatable, but a hand modeling career is out of the question.” I appreciate a good joke when I hear one, and I almost high-fived the doctor. I wonder how many times he has used that line to try to lighten up the mood. He probably saw my face and thought, “This guy needs a laugh.” Very Patch Adams of him; I like it.

Emilio took the meds, and while we waited for them to kick in, we talked to the occupational therapist, who informed me that it is necessary to stretch the healing skin and break it so that he gets complete healing and doesn’t lose range of motion on his wrist; which made sense but also seemed counter-intuitive to have him move his hand around but at this point I was saying to everything. The nurse cleaned Emilio’s hand and taught me how to dress his wound, and before being discharged, she took him to a big closet full of toys and told him to pick one. He chose a toy with four plushies: Spiderman, Iron Man, Black Panther, and The Hulk, which are currently being tossed around our home.

I took over wound care for Emilio for the three days before his follow-up, and it is incredible to see how quickly kids heal. We took pictures of the wound daily, and we could see the improvement happening in front of us, like magic. Emilio didn’t seem bothered by the wound or the bandages and continued to play and use his hand like normal, which relieved us greatly.

The following Tuesday, Emilio and I returned to the Burn Center to see Dr. Ferrari, and I made the mistake of not giving Emilio any pain medication before we went there. When the nurse was trying to clean up his wound, he was in a lot of pain, so they gave him some Tylenol, and we had to wait until it kicked in. During that time, Emilio’s hand had a wet towel on to prevent the wound from getting dry, and later, Dr. F told us that it was a good sign that he felt pain in his hand because it meant all the nerve endings were still there and being stimulated when being in contact with air.

Dr. F was happy with the progress, but a small portion of the wound was deeper than the rest and could potentially require surgery. He wanted us to continue the wound care and see if it healed on its own. He asked us to return on Friday, and then the Occupational Therapist came in. The OT gave Emilio a container with silly putty to play with; we got our visit summary and were ready to go home.

But before we left, one of the nurses let Emilio pick yet another toy. This time, it was a small armoire full of toys. Emilio kept asking questions about the toys as if the nurse knew everything about them. He settled for what we thought was a Toy Story memory game with Buzz Lightyear on the lid of the plastic square. Unfortunately, it was just a set of three plastic boxes nestled inside one another like a Russian doll. Emilio looked at me and said, “Daddy, I don’t want this toy anymore.” I had to explain to him that we didn’t come to the hospital for toys but to make his hand healthy and that there was no way I would go back to the nurse and ask her to do an exchange. On the way home, I promised him a happy meal, and he got over his disappointment.

A month and two more follow-ups later, his hand is almost back to normal. He has been wearing a compression fingerless glove, usually used to treat juvenile arthritis or look like a Michael Jackson impersonator. Thanks be to God, he didn’t need surgery, and he won’t have a gnarly scar. Because of all these doctor visits, we met our health insurance deductible in May.

It’s incredible how some distance from the event gives you perspective. Diana and I have been saying, "It could always be worse,” a lot lately. We’re not saying it to minimize the events but rather to try to stay positive and trust God. Seeing your child suffering is heart-wrenching, and I found myself paying extra attention to Emilio throughout this whole thing. It allowed us to have one-on-one time, which I hadn’t done in a while, and he responded very positively to it. I tend to whine and groan about the mundane things I need to do, but I can laser focus on emergencies like this one, which I think I learned from my father after my sister’s accident.

Sometimes, you just have to push emotion to the side momentarily, focus on the next thing you need to do, and keep moving. I’m not saying that feelings are wrong; they’re just not useful in some situations. There are times to be strong and times to be tender, which is what I’ve been pondering lately. Learning to count your blessings helps, too.

So, if you’re going through hard times or a difficult season in life, you’re not alone. We’re all here trying our best and pretending we know what we’re doing. There are times when you’re trying to impress your future father-in-law, and the rattlesnake of life bites you, you know? Just know those bad times will eventually end, and you’ll look back and laugh about them one day.

Unrelated, does anybody want to buy a gently used under-the-desk treadmill? I’ll give you a good price.