In August of '87 my wife stepped out to rent a video movie and left me in charge of keeping a pot of boiling spaghetti sauce on the left front burner of the stove from sticking, and of course, Matthew.
I had stirred the sauce, covered it, and turned the handle to the back. Nature called, and I left the kitchen with Matthew in tow as usual. He was already walking at 7 months old, and was fascinated by the process I was about to undertake. Although he wasn't tall enough yet, he was already trying to do it the way daddy did. The prospect of early toilet training made me more than happy to clean the mess.
This particular occaision he was more hungary then curious, and returned unnoticed to the kitchen and the sauce. He wasn't tall enough to reach the top of the stove, but somehow managed to climb up enough to put his right hand to the side of the pot.
His hand stuck to the pot and when he snatched it back it pulled the pot off, leaving the skin from his palm on the pot and dashing the sauce down his right arm, over his sholder, down his back, and down his right leg to the top of his foot. He was wearing a cotton terri-cloth jumper and the sauce stuck and absorbed into it continuing to burn in.
When he screamed out I knew I couldn't finish what I was doing. I ran into the kitchen and without thinking about it or processing it at all. Reflexively I snatched him up, put him in the kitchen sink, and started the cold water running. I used the spray attachment to soak the jumpsuit top down cooling the sauce.
The skin was slipping away and hanging off already so I soaked the suit and sprayed between the material and his body as I removed it to minimize it sticking into the fabric. Once naked I grabbed a clean linen kitchen towel, wet it, and draped it over the worse burns on his back. This all happened in much less time that it takes to tell it, but it seemed in slow motion at the time.
I held him seated in the crook of my arm and held the towel in place while dialing the phone with my other hand. I meant to dial the emergency room at the hospital, but I dialed my best friend T.J. (who worked there as the Director of the Cardio Pulmanary and Respiratory Theraphy Departments) by mistake. That was a blessing, because T.J. made the necessary calls while I got underway to the hospital.
I may should have called 911 instead, but I didn't want to take the time to answer all the questions about where I lived, what happened, how, and etc. I also knew they would tell me to stay on the phone until EMS drove almost 40 miles from Bay City.
Matthew was cradled in my right arm. I knew I wouldn't be able to shift gears and drive with one hand so I put my '82 Ford step-side's floor shift in second gear and left it there. That 300 cu.in. inline ran 95 mph, redlined, for the 20 plus minutes it took to drive the nearly 40 miles.
By the time I'd gone a mile the Texas Highway Patrol met me, did a power turn and fell in front of me in escort. At first he zoomed away in front, then realized I was maxed at 95 so he fell back closer in front. A few miles on down a County Deputy fell in behind. Half way there, we met the ambulance.
When we hit the Bay City limits the city police had all the intersections with traffic lights blocked all the way to the hospital. When I pulled into the emergency entrance my friend and the ER staff were waiting with a gurney. I refused to put Matt it and took him into the exam room and laid him on the table myself so they wouldn't have to transfer him.
Wisely they insisted I leave so they could do their jobs. I trusted them all, and went outside to fall apart.
dashBoard
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
