The Fishhook

I got the call every parent fears, the call that one of my children had been injured.  The call came in from Celina's phone, but it wasn't Celina on the other end, but rather a man who told me he was with Celina and Soren had hurt his leg and they were all headed to the hospital.  I immediately gathered my things and left for the hospital, which was thankfully only a five-minute drive away.  Before I arrived though, I received a text from my mother-in-law that she too was on her way and that she didn't know exactly what had happened, but thought that Celina and the kids might have been involved in a car accident.  I panicked as I thought of all the possibilities of what could have happened.

When I was finally reunited with Soren in the emergency room, I was relieved to see that he was not gravely injured, his leg had not been broken, our minivan had not been in an accident and Celina, our au pair, was not in a puddle of tears, as I would have been had our roles been reversed.  My son, however, had a fishhook stuck in his leg.  Yes, a fish hook.

After Celina left to take our good Samaritan home, I was left to explain to the emergency room technician who was clipping four feet of line from Soren's newly-embedded fish hook what had happened.  She looked at me quizzically, as did everyone else we met that afternoon, as I explained the little bit Celina had told me.  They were headed to get ice cream, Soren tripped on the sidewalk, skinned his knee, and ended up with a fish hook in his calf.  No, they weren't fishing.  No, it wasn't our fish hook.  No, he wasn't playing with it.  No, I have no idea what a fish hook was doing there on the ground.  The more I explained, the more I was surprised that Child Protective Services did not show up.

Soren had to have an x-ray so the doctor could see how deep the hook had penetrated and the results quickly ruled out being able to employ the "string pull method" and we talked other options.  I opted for the Ketamine, which put Soren into a sedative state and protected him from memories of the painful Lidokaine shots and the doctor having to push the barb out another section of his calf, clipping the hook, and pulling the remaining piece of the barb out through the other hole.  The method had sounded straight-forwarded, so I was surprised by how much pushing and yanking was required to get the job done.

As I waited for Soren to rouse from the sedation, I commented to the nurse tending to Soren about his dumb luck.  He couldn't have done this to himself again if he tried I said.  The nurse laughed, but then estimated the hospital sees about 275 cases a year involving fishhooks.  In fact, Soren's case will probably end up as part of some study about how the hospital treats people impaled by fishhooks.  Two-hundred seventy-five I asked him incredulously.  He shrugged his shoulders and responded, "Well, it is the Land of 10,000 Lakes."  This kind of stuff just happens.

Even though this experience was traumatic for Soren, it reminded me how much I have to be thankful for - our au pair whose maturity and composure defies her 20 years of age, a stranger who helped her and drove with her to the hospital, my mother-in-law who kept us company during the long wait and the hospital staff who provided the best care possible to a terrified little boy.