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Trauma: life in the kitchen

I’d like to use today’s post to publicly apologize to my brother-in-law. See, back when we were fellows (pediatricians getting extra training in emergency medicine), Jim did his trauma surgery rotation at the same time that the TV show, “Trauma: Life in the ER,” was filming. That was all very exciting and fun to see people I know on TV. But I gave him endless, endless grief for his biggest line: “We’re trying to figure out where the bleeding is coming from.” Seriously? You don’t have any idea? Your patient is bleeding and you have NO idea from where?

So flash forward to my life today and there I am, making roasted squash. The girls are playing with some plastic framed photos of their very vain mother that I have stuck to the fridge. Playing and eating Cheerios and having a grand time. I look down at my feet and there is blood. Not a lot but enough to make me look again. Smeared all over my photos and the floor. But no one is crying. What the heck?
Neither of them was particularly happy when I shrieked and fell to the floor, picking each one up, looking for the source of the bleeding. They didn’t really want to be disturbed. But seriously, kids, one of you is hemorrhaging. It literally took me about 3 minutes to figure out that Eva’s 2nd and 3rd fingers were to blame. What the heck did she cut them on? No clue? Bad enough to need stitches? Of course not. Little bitty cuts, full use of her fingers, no tenderness or foreign bodies. Bleeding heavily enough to require some attention? You bet.
What 10 month old understands direct pressure and bandages? Not mine. So we danced around the room for 5 minutes with me surreptitiously holding her hand in a kitchen towel. Then I stuck the world’s biggest bandage on her fingers. Which I just now fished out of her mouth. Gracious, it’s not so easy to deal with this stuff at home, without resources. Just as it’s not always so obvious where the blood is coming from. Ha. Sorry Jim.

 
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