Can we talk?

A Calming Influence

         My mother had a sense of what to do in emergencies. She could become hysterical at times, but not in true emergencies. I think some of that she passed to her kids. Kids learn by example as well as directions.

         For some reason today, I recalled an instance when I was a houseparent. I was working with boys age 7-15. It was a Saturday morning. I hadn't gotten dressed yet, but had made them breakfast and was cleaning up. One of the kids ran to tell me that Ricky had fallen in the bathroom and cut his head. I ran into the bathroom between two sleeping areas, and a 7 year old cutie with blond hair was holding his head with blood everywhere. 9 year old Kenny had knocked him down while they were racing, and he was panicking, too. They thought I was going to scold them. Not my priority at that moment. I had a kid who was bleeding.

         I was about 24. I did then what I would do now. He was small, so I reached down and scooped him up. I carried him out to the front door, putting the 13 year old in charge until I got back. (The 15 year old had gone out on a church trip.) We were on a campus at The Home. I crossed our private robe in my shoes and housecoat and went to the infirmary across the street. I carried him inside where I knew the resident nurse would be up and about. She was older, maybe my age now. She took over, and said she would send him to the hospital. She called one of the men working on campus to come take him to the hospital while I went back to my cottage.

         Hours later he was returned to me by his driver with instructions to keep him quiet and use a wet comb to gently get the dried blood out of his hair over the weekend. He was a little excited from his visit with the doctor and the one on one time with his driver. These kids were so needy. While he was gone, I had thanked the 13 year old for maintaining peace and quiet, the rest of the boys for getting with their chores, and talked to Kenny about not horsing around. No one was punished.

         Ricky spend a lot of time leaning against me that weekend while I ran the wet comb through the ends of his hair untangling and working further up as he could stand it without touching his stitches. By the time I went off duty Sunday night, the clots were mostly gone. It gave us a little quality time, and he got a little affection he needed so much. The boys handled the upset very well overall, and normalcy resumed.

         He told me how afraid he had been. He knew he was in trouble for misbehaving. He saw all the blood start and he was afraid he might die. And it hurt. But he also said that when I picked him up so fast, he knew everything was going to be okay.

         Imagine that. These kids were from abusive homes, were neglected, knew instability and dysfunction. Yet this one could recognize his feelings and put them into words. And he was only 7. So many adults can't do that. When I acted swiftly to protect him instead of complaining or losing my cool, he trusted me. One second and his fears were gone.

         With those words he won a place in my heart forever.