It was one of Those Days. Sweetboy needed to have a wart removed. For the third time. I thought for sure that the fact that we cleared the entire Dermatology office on our last visit with screams loud enough to shatter glass – in another state – would preclude us from any future
trauma wart-removal attempts. I was sadly mistaken.
So, we were off to the Wart Doctor, as we had affectionately dubbed Sweetboy’s Dermatologist.
Having been there twice before, Sweetboy perseverated on how this would all shake down.
Finally, The Good Wart Doctor informed us that she would make sure that he wouldn’t feel it, at all, this time.
She was to numb the area.
She was going to numb the area by inserting a needle. Into his knee.
I asked her what army was going to hold my wiry boy down as she numbed him up with a needle to the knee.
She gamely replied, “I’m sure between the two of us, we can manage him.”
I may have retorted something along the lines of, “Unless you have a burly looking male nurse hiding behind that curtain, there is no we!”.
She may have laughed.
I may have cried.
Either way, this was going down. And I knew, the way you know when your tires start skidding on black ice, that it was not going to go well.
I’d like to remind you all that I am allergic to needles. I pass out upon the scent of a needle pointed in my direction. Sweetboy’s dread for The Pointy Things is hereditary, you see.
Somehow, though, both Sweetboy and I survived. I’m pretty sure I blocked any memories of exactly how we survived, clean out of my mind.
However, we were both so traumatized by the experience, that as we pulled out of the parking lot, I may have promised
myself him a couple of donuts to ease the pain.
Donuts secure in
each hand, I began to make my way out of the donut store parking lot. The store is situated on a one way street. There is also a sidewalk running the length of this particular street. I looked left to make sure we were clear from oncoming cars so that I could make my right turn onto the one way street.
I put my foot on the gas, turned my head, and THUD!
I hit a man on a bike.
He was going the wrong way down the one way street. But I hit him, because I was looking for CARS coming in the OPPOSITE direction!
I threw the car in park, all the while hearing Sweetboy utter, “We hit a man, mama! We hit a man, mama!” over and over. I ran to the front of the car and realized that he was already up like a weeble wobble, but that both his bike and my front bumper had seen better days.
The first words out of my mouth were, “I am so sorry. I am just so sorry!”.
The first words out of his mouth were, “Yo no comprende`! No worry! No comprende`!”
Oh, God Bless America! Land that I love…
Well, now. We were both in a quandary. I asked him, in my sparse Spanish quickly pulled from tenth grade Spanish class memories, if he needed to go to the hospital? He shook his head vehemently no.
And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, because I was already standing next to a man I had hit with my car while holding a donut IN MY HAND, the person in the car behind me, because now I’m holding up the donut shop traffic, comes over to see if she can help.
It was The Good Wart Doctor, herself.
I don’t even know what else to say.
Except, that the man was fine.
And I know that because, as I was looking stupefied at the Dermatologist, he got on his bike and took off.
Oh, yes indeedy. He surely did.
And I’ve thanked God over and over for allowing that man to be fine enough to ride away on his bike. And I’ve asked him to take the desire for donuts away. And I’m now asking Him to clear that awful memory from the mind of my Sweetboy.
Who has taken it upon himself to tell Every Living Human He Comes In Contact With, that his mama hit a man on a bicycle. WITH HER CAR!
For the love!
I am truly grateful to live in this great home of the brave and land of the free.
Happy 4th of July, friends!
*Please keep the friends and family members of the nineteen brave firefighters from Prescott, Arizona in your thoughts and prayers. Bravery, indeed!*