Thursday night was the first night of Hanukkah.
The menorah was lit. The first night of gifts had been opened. The children were vibrating with excitement.
Vibrating too much, perhaps.
While working together to open a gift, Clara cut Charlie’s thumb open with scissors. A deep, bloody cut that had him gushing blood and screaming.
Less than ten minutes into our celebration, Elysha was sliding shoes onto Charlie’s feet and donning her coat for a trip to the emergency walk-in clinic.
Credit Elysha for this quick decision. I discovered last year when Charlie swallowed a marble that I am fairly ineffective when our children are injured. As the paramedics triaged Charlie at our dining room table, Elysha said to one of them, “My husband has PTSD. Medical emergencies trigger him.”
I heard her say these words, but it was like I was listening through a thick pane of glass. I thought, “Did she just tell them that I have PTSD?”
I wasn’t sure. I felt cloudy and panicked. Kind of disconnected from my body.
Then I thought, “Oh my God. She’s right. I’m actually falling apart right now.”
I did much better this time, perhaps because I knew it was just a cut. I held him in my arms as Elysha inspected the wound, trying to soothe him, but if a parent was going to bring Charlie to the emergency room, it was going to be Elysha.
Sadly, it’s her cross to bear.
See how I made a Jesus reference in a Hanukkah story? Clever. Right?
Three hours later, Charlie and Elysha returned home. Doctors had been unable to numb Charlie’s thumb sufficiently to apply stitches, so they bandaged the wound and declared that he would be fine. A scar on his thumb but no other lasting effects.
One of the nurses told Elysha that in situations like these, stitches actually increase the chance of infection, so if you’re willing to live with the scar, it’s better this way.
While Elysha and Charlie were gone, the latkes burned into small, black circles in the oven, Clara wept with guilt over the wounding of her brother, and the Patriots ended any chance of the playoffs with a miserable 24-3 loss to the Los Angeles Rams.
Not exactly the first night of Hanukkah that we had planned.
But when Charlie arrived home, he was surprisingly chipper. He passed on a macaroni and cheese that I had cooked for him by request, took a raincheck on the slice cake, and decided to go to bed.
He was tired.
As I lay beside him on the bed, listening to Vance Joy’s “Lay It On Me,” I said, “Well, that wasn’t the best Hanukkah ever.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But we won’t ever forget it.”
Damn straight.
My boy might be a storyteller. Also possibly oppressively optimistic like his dad.
