Monthly Archives: November 2012

X-ray close up

A few days on stool duty is enough to drive you mad. You are alternately happy to hear that your son in preparing for a bowel movement, and terrified that the jagged hook he has ingested might get stuck while getting eliminated. My wife has warned me not to be tempted to tug or pull at the hook, if it isn’t fully clear, she then proceeded to describe her fears of it pulling something vital out with it.

Pushing those images from my mind, I wait for Finn to finish his business. I then clutch an oversized popsicle stick in one hand, and break apart whatever has plopped into the shiny porcelain toilet; Finn cheers me on. We both share the hope of catching a glimpse of the shiny brass hook; the X-ray had shown without any ambiguity that it was in there, so I squelch any doubts of the importance of doing this, and try to ignore the feeling of humiliation. I can’t help but thinking that if I had been a ‘better’ parent, he wouldn’t have swallowed that jagged hook in the first place.

Finn looks onto the proceedings with glee, oblivious to the scenarios that run through my head, and the threat to his life that this situation represents. I know with ardent conviction that I love him more than myself, couldn’t imagine my life without him, but this knowledge only makes my worry sting all that more keenly.

“Did I poop it out yet Dad?”

“Not yet, maybe next time.”

“Can I have a candy?” he asks with a cheeky grin.

“Sure, you can have a candy.”

We are beyond that stage of toilet training when bribes of candy are the only thing standing between feces on the floor, and shit in the toilet. So we no longer use sweets to prompt his relieving himself on the throne, but under the current circumstances, I don’t have the heart to refuse his request.

At the hospital I had been told to wait seven days for the hook to work its way to freedom, and if it hadn’t by then, to bring my son back to the ER for another X-ray. I hoped that Finn’s bowels would make a return visit unnecessary, but this time there was no prize in the crackerjack box.

Each preceding day as I wait, I go through the normal motions of our life, pretending that everything is normal-my wife is usually off at work while I play and entertain our son-but my senses are heightened, my emotions closer to the surface, at the back of my mind I’m constantly wondering how many more hours I have with my son: one thousand? one hundred? one?  I make a conscious attempt to savor the moment, participate fully in each game as we play, and I try not to alert my son that I’m worried that something disastrous is imminent. Could that object be doing irreparable damage, and is Finn only a moment away from collapsing in pain? It is a great effort to maintain the belief that there will be a positive outcome, but I have to-not just for him-but for my own sanity. I observe as he gambols around, there is no indication that the sharp spike that he has inhaled is causing him any grief, but can I rely on that as a sign that he is in the clear?

“Dad, run with me,” he cajoles in a frenetic state.

“Okay son.”

Seems fine to me

Joyously running

At night when I curl up to him, for I’m the security blanket that he insists he needs every evening, I cherish the moment. I realize that it won’t be a lot of time before he is demanding that I leave his bed, with the same vehemence that he now demands that I stay. I have become accustomed to his small warm body close-by, the sound of his quiet snore, and I wonder if I have come to rely on the presence of these things, before I will allow myself to drift off into unconsciousness. But with that hook still circulating through his body, I now imagine the possibility of him not being here, of no Finn to cuddle up next to at all. My eyes moisten as I push these morbid thoughts away from my mind. 

Seven days trickle by and it is time to return for another X-ray.

With sweaty palms and inflated fears we hear the result: the brass hook is gone, disappeared, no longer inside him. Despite my wife and my own best efforts, it has slipped past us; probably lodged inside a compacted piece of pooh, or secreted in the explosive blast of diarrhea.

Relax, breathe easy-I hear my mind whisper-and let down your guard; well at least until the next holiday.

Captain Hook parading as Batman

Captain Hook parading as Batman




Why is it that there is a greater occurrence of tragedy on days that are holidays? Is it that we are so full of angst about being surrounded by our larger family that we let our anxiety distract us from situations that we would normally have under control?

Five minutes before my wife was to return home and ferry myself and my three year old off to my parent’s house for Thanksgiving dinner, Finn stuck a large brass hook- his self-proclaimed pirate hook that he had been carrying around and using as an artificial appendage for the past hour- into his mouth.

Finn is a very large fan of the T-shirt, in fact on most days he chooses one of the three or four that meet his approval, and are on constant rotation in his wardrobe; and that is all he wears, no pants, no underwear and rarely socks: just a T-shirt. But on this very special day I had him neatly buttoned into a pristine white collared dress shirt for the first time in recent memory-for that matter in any compartment of memory-however it was layered over top of a bright red T-shirt that was covered in Bears, but that is a minor and unimportant detail; for he unquestioningly looked dapper. And it had taken the small bribe of only one Hershey’s kiss to get him clothed in this way. I felt unduly optimistic about the red sweater vest that I had laid out on the couch. A Facebook friend of mine had just posted a picture of his toddler, neatly dressed in a sweater vest, and I felt sufficiently goaded to attempt the same with my cherub faced drool monster. But this is when the mere struggle turned into more of a fight; I soothingly cooed at him as I did up his pants,and wasn’t paying enough attention to notice the fact that the large brass hook he had been fondling-One with a threaded needle point end; One large enough to hang plants from your ceiling or coffee mugs in your cupboard-had just entered his mouth. He was crying because he was being clothed, but anyone with a three year old knows this isn’t anything unusual, and most have been similarly conditioned to not respond to a manipulative snivel. But suddenly he was choking; and in a painful flash- one with incredible clarity-I instantly realized what it was that he was gagging on. 

I instantly flipped him over and jammed my finger as far past his jaw as possible; I could feel the winding threads and sharp pointed end of the hook sticking towards me, and with a prayer and a loud expletive, I depressed it into his tongue in an attempt to get a grip and pull it back out the way it had gone in. The semi-circular hook had passed his tonsils, but this prickly part remained at the back of his throat, and I prayed to all the Gods in every religion I had encountered in my life, to allow me the ability to pull this jagged hook from my child’s mouth. Finn let out a jarring scream and a gob of blood leaked onto my hands. Panic set in and my body began to vibrate. Finn became more hysterical as I tried even harder to coax the metal intruder from its horrific jam.  Blood was intermingled with saliva and snot, and it was running out of his mouth onto his crisp white shirt and pooling onto the floor. With great urgency Finn fought me off, and the thick wads of curdled blood made me relent; recoiling my finger and re-assessing the situation.

 Once my finger was gone, Finn swallowed, and in a renewed panic I pried open his jaw and reached inside but the hook was gone. I released my hold on my son in shock and he stopped crying. With wide eyes that expressed hurt and fear he retreated into a corner, protectively hiding behind a pair of bar stools and staring out at me. Reality seemed to crumble; I live in a society that emphasizes worst case scenarios, and I imagined the lethal things this hardware was doing to my child’s throat and stomach.

My primary concern was that he was Okay and so I apologized to him for forcing my digit into his mouth and asked if he was alright. He stared at me without replying, but his face had softened, and other than the blood smeared across his chin and staining his white shirt, he appeared to be fine; weathering this much more gracefully than I.

My wife was supposed to be home any second, so I began to coax Finn from the corner he was cowering in, and a few sympathetic words brought him into a tight embrace. I whispered as I clutched at him lovingly, “I’m so sorry Finn, I just wanted to get that hook out, I won’t put my finger in your mouth any more.”

I carried him out the front door and sat in a chair that was in the carport. Before I could formulate a plan, my wife pulled up, and as the gravel crunched beneath the car tires I ran up to the vehicle and shoveled Finn into his car-seat.

“Don’t ask any questions,” I uttered with as much calm conviction as I could muster, “just drive to the nearest Emergency room, now.”

I felt my world falling apart, my reality eroding away as I struggled to push any negative thoughts to the periphery. We tore down the asphalt and I clutched at my cell phone, deciding it best to call 911.

  About half way to the hospital an ambulance met us, and I accompanied Finn into its square metal belly. He was leery of the nurses, but he was alert and responsive. Our attendant became more worried about me, as my heart raced and my face went pale describing the incident; Finn reached out to console me with a hug as he saw my concern.

My wife drove our vehicle, following us the rest of the way to the overcrowded hospital.

After a few more embarrassing explanations, and one condemning look that assured me that I was not going to win any parenting awards, we made our way to the X-ray room. The digital X-ray showed that the hook had made its way into Finn’s belly-it was a stark and solid reality-clear and bright amongst the faded white of his bones. We were given a few cardboard receptacles, a handful of oversized popsicle sticks, and told to monitor the situation.

“It should come out, and with any luck not tear anything in its path,” the sympathetic doctor reported, “but if you don’t see it embedded in his feces in about a week, please return.”

I cradled my son, attempting hard to stay calm, and pushed away all images of the metal in his digestive tract. I thanked the doctor, stepped through the large sliding glass doors, and was punched in the face by the cool evening air; I felt certain that I deserved this and thought I could easily win a medal for world’s worst father.

Finn angled his head upwards, I looked down into his vulnerable face, and he uttered the first words since the start of this debacle, “I think I am all right now Dad.” 

The knot of tension that I was carrying in my shoulders relaxed, my body gave way as I began to laugh; his courage far outstretched mine.

I squeezed him tightly, my love for him so immense; suddenly feeling so thankful.

I heard one last remark as I stumbled outside into the darkening Thanksgiving night, “Why is it always crazy in here during the holidays?”

Finn discovering the life cycle of Salmon

The whole family, Erin, Finn and I, decided to head out to watch the salmon run at GoldstreamPark. A short thirty minute drive from our home, it is a great place to observe one of nature’s spectacles, and a remarkable place for Finn to discover the life and death cycle that we all belong to. As we stepped out of our vehicle we were struck by the pungent aroma of decay, the stench of decomposition; and I knew that this was going to

be a real treat. We entered the moist forest, rain coating our jackets with a slippery sheen, our breath a visual reminder of our mortality, and spotted out first fish carcass.

“Salmon Dad, look,” there was a sound of pure joy in his voice.

We ran over to the river bank and suddenly he spotted a school of large fish swimming upstream. Their bodies were dark and only fins and small patches of silver scales flashed in the dim light created by the overcast sky. They sliced through the water, sliding past one another, and then pausing in the onrush of the flowing stream. They seemed determined, facing fate dead on they continued to fight, although most looked weary and close to the end.

Spawning Salmon

Seagulls and other scavengers gathered around; some hovered, some pecked at the bloated bodies of the already expired. It was a melee but it was life.

“Ha, ha, look at that one pushing past his friends,” he sputtered as he pointed through his mitten at a particularly spunky salmon, “and Bob the seagull is here to help out.”

“I guess Bob is on the clean-up crew,” I replied.

Finn was in the habit of singling out one seagull and labeled it ‘Bob’; he picked this up after feeding a particularly bold one in Beacon HillPark. It didn’t bother him that there were dozens of gulls flying around; he had focused on the one that was his friend and offered him a small wave.

Hooked Jaw

We strolled along the path, marveling at huge tree girths and weaving through the crowd. At the small wooden building that serves as an Interpretation center, we got more of the story: these spawning salmon had been out in the ocean for the past four years, they had made the long journey back to their home stream to procreate and die. It was explained that it is not fully understood how they are able to manage this incredible feat of navigation, but they do.

We roamed around the display cases, Finn pointing out the Otter, the Beaver, the Bear and the Owls. He took off his mitts so that he could stab at the buttons that prompted an animal sound to play over the speakers. He was delighted by the sights and noise of the place; logging sound-bytes, storing impressions of textures, and connecting all these stimuli to the outside world.

On our way back to the car we paused at a campfire and were offered some marshmallows and roasting sticks by a couple of generous strangers. I browned one for Finn and watched as his pink fingers pulled at the sticky goo; the tactile treat. We thanked them, continued on, and then paused to watch a Native American chant as his brother pulled some salmon off the fire. The grandfather explained; they were saying farewell to some friends that were going back to Alaska.

Before taking our leave I spotted a tree growing out of the top of a large dead stump; old begetting, and feeding, the life of the next generation. I looked down at Finn and squeezing his cold fist I offering him a smile. Sometimes we need reminders that the miracle of Life can be held in our clutched hand, experienced in the lessons of parenthood.

Have you ever played with a slug? Wikipedia’s description isn’t excessively flattering; “an apparently shell-less, terrestrial, gastropod mollusk” but my wife simply categorizes them as gross. I remember in my youth, scooping them up and throwing them at one of my four brothers, but other than that they didn’t leave a distinct impression on my young mind.

One of the joys of fatherhood is that you are able to reassess your surroundings, and re-evaluate your perceptions. So when my three year old first started to crouch down to pet a gooey monoped; I held back any discouraging words. It was easy to wipe off the trail of slime that was left on his index finger, and I thought it tender that he felt any affection for this much maligned creature.

Last Monday though, when we went out for an afternoon stroll in the woods, he decided to go further, and determined that the small slug before him would make a good pet; he resolved to bring him home. We had already spent twenty minutes prone, watching it crawl a few millimeters on a discarded leaf, and I had enjoyed the small break from activity that this had afforded me. Could I refuse his request? While I sorted through explanations for why this wasn’t a great idea he stared at me with his large expressive eyes, clutching the mollusk protectively.

“Okay, but he needs to stay outside,” I heard myself acquiesce to his innocent demand. I was happy that he had sat so quietly and observed the slug, instead of poking or violently smacking his muculent friend.

With new pet in tow we stumbled a few more steps, and then Finn spotted another small tube of gastropod goo; he stooped and his free hand quickly wrapped around it. My eyes rolled involuntarily, but I knew that I had a few hours to distract and clean my son before my wife would arrive home; so I again dismissed any thoughts of interjecting.

I passed a third slug on the trail without commenting, in hopes that Finn wouldn’t be able to discern its mucky presence amongst the orange maple leaves, but he paused and I could see that his eyeballs were focused on one thing: this rather large mucousy beast. At this point I was ready to put my foot down; I had reached my reasonability limit and I wasn’t going to condone another clammy companion on our trip home. Before I had a chance to protest, he spoke, “Dad I think that these slugs should stay here, it is their home.”

A feeling of pride welled up and all I could reply was, “I think you are right.”

He opened his small pink hands and let the glutinous creatures tumble to the ground. Unceremoniously he waved a quick ‘good-bye’ and then began to trot down the path. I sidled up to him, and he reached out his hand which I happily clasped in mine. Between our flesh was a patina-well maybe rather a thick coating-of viscose slime, this caused our hold on each other to slip; but the wide smile on his face forced me to ignore the scummy substance that came between us and I let out a loud laugh.

Post Script: If your child becomes similarly entranced by slugs it takes more than just soap and a cloth to remove the remnants of that curiosity. I scrubbed and scraped; with my fingernails, a potato scrubber (don’t tell my wife about this because she believes that I don’t in turn adequately clean all utensils I use for slime removal), and a green-backed yellow sponge. I was tempted to use steel wool but I wasn’t prepared to listen to the complaints this would elicit from my three year old.