Yesterday, my husband Rich took our eldest daughter out to the golf course for some practice. They each had a lesson with the golf pro there, and were on the range practicing. Christina was in her little zone, driving balls off the tee, when Rich walked behind her and stood just a bit too close.

WHACK!

Right in the back of the head.

It didn’t hurt much at all, and Rich didn’t realize he was bleeding until about 15 minutes later. Even then, it didn’t seem so bad–he couldn’t see it, naturally–so he shoved a folded up napkin under his baseball cap to keep pressure on it. They finished their lessons, went inside to grab some lunch, then drove home.

When they got home, they told me all about how great she did with the lesson, what they ate for lunch, and….oh yeah, will you have a quick look at this bump on the back of my head before I take my shower?

OMG. One look and I knew stitches were in order. Trust me on this one–I’ve had 3 c-sections–I know when a person needs more than a band-aid to close things up.

Off we go to the emergency room. He was taken in right away. I was immediately cast under a cloud of suspicion, as are all spouses who accompany their injured partner to the hospital. The fact that I still had a couple of steri-strips on my face (from a minor biopsy I had last week) didn’t help matters. We looked like we just stepped out of the movie The War of the Roses.

Lots of questions and nervous chuckles with wary, narrowed eyes directed our way. Fun.

Poor Rich. He got to describe getting clocked in the head by his 14-year-old daughter to 3 different people. He felt terrible, and took full blame for standing too close. Classic victim mentality. That woman is short, but she must be vicious.

Apparently, needle and thread is passe these days. The way to care for something like this is with staples. “um…did you say STAPLES?” gulps Rich. (He’s never even had stitches before–he prefers to bleed profusely and stick a band-aid on things and call it a day, in case that wasn’t clear earlier.)

The impossibly young doctor inspects the wound one more time, and casually asks the nurse for the staple gun. Cah-fumpf, Cah-fumpf. “All set,” says the embryo in the lab coat, “now just wait here while the nurse gets your tetanus shot.”

“A shot?” says the man who waited 3 hours before seeking medical attention for a split scalp, “why do I need a shot?”

“Well,” says the nurse holding the syringe, “the chances of getting tetanus are actually really, really low, so it’s probably not necessary.”

sigh of relief

“But then,” she continues calmly, “if you do get tetanus, it’s fatal 92% of the time.”

“Give me the shot.”

I smile at the nurse. So much to learn from her, this wise one.

They hand us instructions on the way out, along with an industrial sized staple remover. We can have our doctor remove the staples, or go to urgent care to have it done, in about 10 days.

Rich wants me to do it. He doesn’t want to go back to the doctor until, oh, maybe he needs a hip replacement or a new kidney.

“Now my head hurts,” he says.

And how was your weekend?