“Your Son Is Hurt, Get Here Fast!”
Blog / Produced by The High Calling
Even though it happened twelve years ago, I remember it like yesterday. Receiving that phone call—"your son is hurt"—frantically rushing home, wondering what I would find. Pulling up to the curb seeing neighbors with concerned looks on their faces, huddled around Ben, I see his bike lying in a heap on the sidewalk.
Running towards my son, I see what they saw. Ben had no chin left. I remember thinking, "Be calm, Paul," so I lied. "Hey Ben, you don’t look so bad." Scooping up my six-year-old son, thanking the neighbors for calling me at work, we rushed off to the hospital emergency room.
It was a crazy scene in ER. Professionals provided service to the walking wounded at a frantic pace. When it was finally our turn, the doctor calmly looked at me first, then talked to Ben. "We could call in a plastic surgeon if you'd like; but if you trust me, I think I can stitch you back together where no one, except you, will know this ever happened."
Ben bravely nodded his head yes, in trust.
The doctor smiled, "Besides if there is any tiny scar you can always grow a goatee like I did." Rubbing the hair on his chin, he began his work telling Ben about the time he had a bicycle accident that left a scar now covered.
I wish I could remember this doctor's name to thank him for his kindness. Even now I remember him putting Ben in a straight jacket, so he wouldn't move too much, so he wouldn't affect this doctor's handiwork. I remember watching him work under some of the brightest lights imaginable. It took him forty-five minutes to put my son's chin back together. As huge drops of sweat poured from the doctor's brow, his hands shaking ever so slightly, I thought of the agony of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, sweating so profusely that it appeared as if drops of blood were falling from his forehead.
Sixteen stitches later—eight on the inside and eight on the outside—Ben had a chin again. It was no longer mush. When I was asked to write a story on the excellence of work in difficult times, this is what came to mind. My son is in his first year of college now, but he still hasn’t had to grow a goatee. There is only the tiniest scar imaginable left over from our moment of shared trauma. When Ben and I have talked about the excellence of work, more often than not, we remember the image of this unnamed doctor serving us well. It is where we end up as father and son, encouraging each other to press on even when the work seems hard, or when it doesn't seem to matter.
Running towards my son, I see what they saw. Ben had no chin left. I remember thinking, "Be calm, Paul," so I lied. "Hey Ben, you don’t look so bad." Scooping up my six-year-old son, thanking the neighbors for calling me at work, we rushed off to the hospital emergency room.
It was a crazy scene in ER. Professionals provided service to the walking wounded at a frantic pace. When it was finally our turn, the doctor calmly looked at me first, then talked to Ben. "We could call in a plastic surgeon if you'd like; but if you trust me, I think I can stitch you back together where no one, except you, will know this ever happened."
Ben bravely nodded his head yes, in trust.
The doctor smiled, "Besides if there is any tiny scar you can always grow a goatee like I did." Rubbing the hair on his chin, he began his work telling Ben about the time he had a bicycle accident that left a scar now covered.
I wish I could remember this doctor's name to thank him for his kindness. Even now I remember him putting Ben in a straight jacket, so he wouldn't move too much, so he wouldn't affect this doctor's handiwork. I remember watching him work under some of the brightest lights imaginable. It took him forty-five minutes to put my son's chin back together. As huge drops of sweat poured from the doctor's brow, his hands shaking ever so slightly, I thought of the agony of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, sweating so profusely that it appeared as if drops of blood were falling from his forehead.
Sixteen stitches later—eight on the inside and eight on the outside—Ben had a chin again. It was no longer mush. When I was asked to write a story on the excellence of work in difficult times, this is what came to mind. My son is in his first year of college now, but he still hasn’t had to grow a goatee. There is only the tiniest scar imaginable left over from our moment of shared trauma. When Ben and I have talked about the excellence of work, more often than not, we remember the image of this unnamed doctor serving us well. It is where we end up as father and son, encouraging each other to press on even when the work seems hard, or when it doesn't seem to matter.
