Routine scenes

I've never seen a murder scene.  Not a real one anyway.   I've seen them in the news and in movies, positioned as places of graphic horror or some grand scientific mystery, to be put together with the every last detail.  I've not smelled the smells or felt the cold.  I've touched the dead and seen blood, but always in controlled settings under the watchful eye of the expert and with the respect due the situation. 

Then, 'mommy, my tummy hurts' quickly became 'I think imma thow up.' 

Then. 

Blood everywhere. Rich, red, fresh blood sprayed everywhere but the toilet for which it was intended, dripping down the walls and soaking into the grout of the tile floors.  My child stared in disbelief that such a mess could come from such a tiny body.  My wife, returning from the sink with a cool rag, excitedly shifted to 'call 911!' 

Then. 

Calls were made waking doctors and readying nurses, teddy bears were grabbed and out the door my wife ran with child in tow in hopes of stopping what felt like a nightmare. 

Then. 

Records were reviewed and diagnoses administered, declaring the excitement of the early morning a 'fixable anomaly.' 

Then.

Doctors returned, educating us that 'this happens sometimes' and reassuring us that our child is fine and would be okay after a few popsicles.

Not murder. Tonsillectomy gone awry. 

But in that moment where the blood painted the bathroom walls…

In that moment when a parent hears the retching of a vomiting child…

In that moment when the smell of blood meets cleaning fluid…

In that moment where getting a cool rag becomes life and death…

That moment is one that I'll never forget -- the sounds, the smell, the look on my child's face, the tone in my wife's voice. That moment…

After a cup of coffee for both of us, the doctor tells us that, while graphic, this happens and was relatively routine.  She tells us that my child's body did what it was supposed to do and that as parents, we did the right thing.  She offers some percentages and correlations and words with Latin roots, but I honestly stopped listening after she said 'your child will be ok.'

So how do my wife and I process this?  The fear was high and real. The excitement was warranted, but certainly not normal. How do we help our child make sense of what happened? 

Is this what healing looks like?  Sometimes.  Counselors speak in percentages and correlations the same way doctors do.  But with this tonsillectomy, there was added trauma that must be addressed. Greater unpacking must occur because a greater mess was made.  And while we grabbed pain killers and popsicles with this tonsillectomy, we also grabbed grout cleaner and bleach.

At times, even the routine can be traumatic.  Trauma is a continual present; some past that won't seem to pass.  The work then, our work, is to process the passed so that it becomes the past.  With the support of doctors, grandparents and a box of popsicles, this 'routine anomaly' found the category of 'dramatic' rather than 'traumatic.'  These experts helped us understand the emotions and file them under the correct headings in our hearts.  This was no murder scene, despite what years of watching CSI: Las Vegas conditioned me to believe. But this is the role of counsel, isn't it? Help categorize reality in its true place, shifting the passed to the past. 

And bring popsicles (just not the red ones, please).