Duodenum Desperado

 

And I heard a loud voice saying in heaven,

Now is come salvation, and strength,

and the kingdom of our God,

and the power of his Christ:

for the accuser of our brethren is cast down,

which accused them before our God day and night.

                                    -- Revelation 12:10

 

 

We know this young couple who just had a scare with their precious baby boy. The mama laid him in the middle of their big bed one day, sound asleep, with pillows on either side. His crib was upstairs and she just wanted to tend to a few chores while he took a nap. He hadn't rolled over yet so she never dreamed there'd be a problem.

 

            You guessed it: the little fellow woke up, rolled over for the first time over the pillow . . . and fell to the hardwood floor, conking his head.

 

            Oh, the guilt! Oh, the self-torture! There's nothing more miserable than hurting the ones you love, and little ones most of all.

 

            I'm happy to say that the young'un has just a hairline skull fracture, which the doctors believe will heal by itself faster than you can say "splitting headache." No long-term consequences, no brain damage, nothing like that in the least.

 

            But in the aftermath, this neat young couple felt very sad, and were beating themselves up over the incident.

 

            We've all been there, haven't we? Anybody who has ever taken care of kids has at least one story like that to tell. To young first-timers, us confident veterans must make it seem like NOTHING has EVER gone wrong on our watch.

 

HAH!!!!!

 

            And sometimes being overly-cautious can make things even worse. Take the time I had my sewing basket out in the living room reattaching the stubby stuffed arm of Tony the Teddy Bear. His mistress, Jordan, not quite 2, "attended" the surgery at my side, while her baby sister, Neely, about five months old, lay on a blanket on the floor cooing and content.

 

I had completed the "surgery" and put the sewing basket up high, intending to put it away upstairs later, when my Beloved came home. His Laser Eyeballs of Eternal Vigilance immediately zeroed in on the sewing kit. "What's THAT doing down here, around the kids?" he accused.

 

"I was very careful. Nothing sharp got anywhere near them," I protested.

 

Then a miracle happened: he got down on the floor and bent over Neely to change her diaper. (Just kidding; he is and was a great dad, and changed them all the time.)

 

But suddenly, he stiffened. "THERE'S A NEEDLE IN HER THROAT!!!!!"

 

Whaaaaaa?

 

She was laying there, smiling and wriggling happily. How could there be a NEEDLE in her throat?!?

 

But he was frantic. "I SAW IT! I SAW THE GLINT OF A NEEDLE! WE'VE GOT TO RUSH HER TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM RIGHT AWAY!"

 

My guts immediately descended 14 stories below ground level. My baby! My darling! Had I killed her? Would she have to have a trache? A feeding tube? Would it pierce her windpipe? Would she spend the rest of her life in a full body cast, in traction, and it would be ALL MY FAULT?!?!?!?!

 

We packed both children into the car and sped to the E.R. My Beloved, who is the prudent, careful type, withheld mean comments. But his frown was blacker than black, and I'm sure he was wondering why he hadn't given me a prenuptial I.Q. test or put a nanny cam on me all day.

 

The medical team shot into action and took x-rays. Please, God, let them come back negative. Ha ha! Just a false alarm! Go home, folks!

 

But noooooo. Here came Nurse Ratched, one of those officious, efficient types, with a frown on her face, holding out the x-rays. "Here it is, right in the duodenum," she spat out, making me feel like an abject child abuser. "What time did this happen?"

Her tone of voice knifed my guts. Though they (my guts) were still deep below ground-level out of fear and shame, the rest of my body was now floating high above the E.R. in shock and amazement.

 

This . . . can't . . . be . . . happening!

 

Mentally, I paged through my memory banks trying to remember what the heck the duodenum was and where it was located. How could they get it out? THIS WAS BAD!!! I imagined the needle poking holes in all her vital organs. Tears gushed from my eyes. My baby: the human sprinkler!!!

 

But the whole time, cradled in my guilt-ridden arms, Neely was cooing and smiling and being the cutest, happiest baby ever.

 

Hunhhhhh?

 

The nurse pointed to the spot on the x-ray. Heyyyy! THAT doesn't look like a skinny sewing needle. THAT looks like a long THUMBTACK! More like an upholstery tack. But there was nothing like THAT in my sewing kit, or anywhere in our child-proofed home. Maybe she didn't swallow a sewing needle after all. MAYBE IT WAS SOMETHING BIGGER . . . AN AXE!!!!! A MACHETE!!!!! A CHAIN SAW!!!!! AAAIIIEEE!!!!!

 

But she was gurgling and laughing, in my arms.

 

Hunhhhhhh?

 

In my devastation and confusion, I didn't even notice the radiologist walk up to look at the x-rays himself.

 

"That's not a needle," he said firmly. "That's just an artifact."

 

An artifact? Like, something from archaeology? Did she swallow THAT, too?

 

Noooooo. The doctor explained that an "artifact" is just a marking on the x-ray. It just happened to print out over the duodenum on the x-ray. And it just happened to be a short, straight line, sort of, kind of, like a tack or a needle. But there was nothing actually in our baby's innards that shouldn't be there.

 

He proclaimed that the nurse was mistaken. No needle! No tack! No machete! No nothing! She was clear! Ha ha! Just a false alarm! Go home, folks!

 

Our accuser, Nurse Ratched, slunk away. No apology. Isn't that always the way?

 

My guts bounced back up from 14 floors below ground level, and the rest of my body descended from the ceiling above. Everything was all right!

 

Neely just kept on being the poster child for a happy, healthy, un-skewered baby.

 

My Beloved got that goofy smile that he gets when he knows he's wrong, in deepest marital doo-doo, and going to have to pay . . . but we were both so relieved, nothing more was ever said.

 

We drove home, a happy marital duo . . . denum. I praised him for being such a protective dad, and for resisting the temptation to . . . well . . . NEEDLE me, when I felt bad enough as it was.

 

Someone we know was pierced with nails, not needles, to make sure that in heaven, no one will ever needle any of us ever again.

 

Hallelujah! He is risen! The evil, accusing Needler is defeated! Take that, Satan, and . . . STICK IT!!! †