The other Sunday I was relaxing and reading my book when I suddenly heard my cousin’s extremely high pitched scream. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I ran to her as fast as I could. I found her holding her two year old son close to her chest and she had her fingers in his mouth. I heard her say that the boy had fallen down on his behind and as the result he had bitten off part of his tongue, a large piece of which was now hanging loose. She was aggressively pressing on the loose piece pushing it back into his mouth. And the injured boy was crying his eyes out and angrily protesting the presence of his mother’s fingers in his mouth.
We transported the boy to the hospital. He was immediately rushed into the operating room. Time passed very slowly. We anxiously waited for the doctor to come out and praying that he would give us good news. Would they be able to attach the severed tongue? Will the boy be able to speak again? Would there be years of therapy?
The door opened and the doctor emerged, all bloodied. Our hearts sank. I was sure that we had lost the battle. He inquired about what the boy had eaten. His mother enumerated: bread with apple butter, two eggs, milk, apple juice, half a scone, a blueberry muffin and half an orange. I was thinking to myself that this little two year old easily eats twice the amount of what I eat when I saw the doctor smile from ear to ear. He lifted his bloody red right hand and squeezed between his fingers swung a piece of red flesh. This is what we got out of your son’s mouth. My cousin yelled out in pain and was about to faint when the doctor informed her that it was a bloodied piece of orange that the boy had in his mouth when he fell. I took a deep and satisfying breath. All was well and I could go back home to my book.
