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September 4, 2016
Image Source: martinedoucet / iStock
We found ourselves in the emergency room because my 1-year-old daughter, Lily, had accidentally burned her hand on a pan of hot, oven-baked mashed potatoes. It was 2009. Lily was nestled on my lap, her tiny hand red and blistered, her curly brown locks framing a face that was both flushed and heart-wrenching. The deep cries she had let out had mellowed into soft whimpers of distress.
Across from me stood a nurse clad in blue scrubs, her brown hair pulled back. I held Lily’s injured hand out for her to assess, but my daughter was squirming, unsure if she was afraid of further pain or simply reluctant to expose her injury to a stranger. In that moment, I felt a profound sadness wash over me as I looked at her blistered hand, an emotion I struggled to fully comprehend.
I think part of it stemmed from my tumultuous upbringing. My father left when I was just 9, and my mother went through three marriages, while my father passed away during his fourth divorce. My childhood was marked by constant shifts between my mother, father, and grandmother, leaving me with a patchwork of half-siblings who drifted in and out of my life. Family felt like a fleeting concept until I became a parent myself. It was only then that I truly understood the pain of watching someone I love suffer.
Just two hours earlier, we were about to enjoy dinner as a family in Minnesota. Mel and I were both 26 at the time, with me juggling graduate school and Mel experimenting with a new buttery baked mashed potato recipe. The heavenly aroma filled the kitchen as Mel set the pan on the table and spooned some into a bowl to cool. Lily, perched in her high chair, reached out for the bowl, and her older brother, Max, 3 years old, eagerly slid it toward her.
We both saw it unfold, but our reactions weren’t quick enough. Lily plunged her hand into the bowl, and a piercing wail escaped her lips as she held out her burnt hand. I’ve become attuned to my children’s cries; I can differentiate between cries for attention, cries of injustice, and those from minor injuries. But Lily’s cry was unlike anything I had ever heard before—a profound blend of panic and sorrow that resonated deep within me. In that moment, I wished nothing more than to take away her pain. I never want to hear that sound again.
We rinsed her hand in warm water and called a nurse hotline, which advised us to head to the emergency room. It was our first trip there with a child, and I had always assumed it would be Max, the rambunctious one, who would be the first to need such care. Instead, it was our gentle little Lily who needed help.
In the waiting room, Lily curled up in Mel’s arms, her small frame trembling with whimpers, her injured hand curled into a painful hook. The sight of her bright red hand was heartbreaking, and by the time we entered the emergency room, I was a whirlwind of emotions. I couldn’t help but wonder if her hand would be permanently scarred or how long her recovery would take. My worries for her were deeper than I’d ever felt for anyone else.
As I recounted our ordeal to the nurse, I stumbled over my words, over-explaining and asking countless questions, my anxiety palpable. The nurse listened patiently and reassured me that such accidents were not uncommon, sharing a story about her own son’s encounter with a fireplace burn. Soon, a doctor entered—he had dark hair and a large build. He examined Lily’s hand, suggested cleaning it, applying ointment, and wrapping it. He assured us that she would heal in a few weeks. Nothing serious.
Then the nurse had me hold Lily’s small, tender fist while she cleaned it and applied the burn cream. As Lily cried out with that same deep, awful wail, a surge of emotions hit me—sorrow, regret, frustration, and anger—a heat rising in my throat that felt heavy and suffocating.
Interestingly, I had not cried in years. When my father passed away seven years earlier, I felt numb. I didn’t shed tears when I hurt my knee at a concert. I didn’t cry on my wedding day or when my children were born. I couldn’t even remember the last time I had cried. Yet there, in that emergency room, as the nurse treated my little girl’s injured hand, tears streamed down my face. I finally understood what it truly meant to care for someone.
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Summary
This heartfelt account recounts a father’s emotional experience when his young daughter suffers a burn. Reflecting on his childhood and struggles with family, he discovers the profound pain that comes with caring for someone deeply. His journey culminates in a moment of vulnerability in the emergency room, where he realizes the true essence of love and concern.