We found ourselves in the emergency room because my 1-year-old daughter, Lily, had burned her hand on a pan of hot, oven-baked mashed potatoes. It was 2009. Lily was perched on my lap, her tiny hand red and blistered, her soft, curly hair framing a face that was both red and pained. Her cries had transformed from loud wails to sorrowful whimpers that tugged at my heartstrings.
Across from us, a nurse in blue scrubs with chestnut hair was ready to assess the damage. I held out Lily’s burned hand, but she resisted, possibly afraid of the nurse or simply reluctant to show a stranger her injury. I felt a profound sadness well up inside me as I looked at her little blistered hand, a feeling I struggled to comprehend.
My own upbringing may have influenced my emotions. My father left when I was just nine years old, and my mother has had three marriages since then. I moved between my mom, dad, and grandmother, with a revolving door of step-siblings coming and going. Family always felt transient to me. It wasn’t until I became a parent that I truly grasped the significance of family. Nothing prepared me for the pain of watching someone I love suffer.
Just two hours earlier, we were preparing for a family dinner in Minnesota. My partner, Sarah, and I, both 26 at the time, were excited about the buttery baked mashed potatoes she had made. They smelled heavenly as they cooked at 450 degrees. After setting the pan on the table, Sarah dished some into a bowl, positioning it safely out of reach. But Lily, in her high chair, reached for it, and her older brother, Ben, just three years old and eager to help, slid the bowl closer.
We both saw it unfold, but not quickly enough. Lily plunged her hand into the scalding potatoes and let out a piercing cry, holding her burned hand aloft.
I’ve come to recognize the different types of cries my children make—those for attention, those from frustration, and those from minor accidents. But Lily’s cry was like nothing I’d ever heard before; it was a mixture of deep sorrow and primal fear, resonating in a way that stirred something deep within me. In that moment, all I wanted was to take away her pain.
We rinsed her hand in warm water and called for guidance. The nurse hotline advised us to head to the emergency room, and I remember thinking that I’d assumed our first ER visit would be for Ben, the rowdy one, not our sweet Lily.
In the waiting room, Lily nestled in Sarah’s lap, whimpering softly, her hand curled protectively. It was bright red and sad, and by the time we were called into the ER, my emotions were overwhelming. I worried about potential scars and how long her recovery would take. My heart ached for her like it had never done for anyone else before.
As I recounted the incident to the nurse, my words stumbled out, filled with nervousness and a flurry of questions. The nurse listened patiently, sharing her own story of a similar accident involving her son. Soon, a doctor—a kind man with dark hair—came in. After examining Lily’s hand, he reassured us that it was not serious and suggested we clean it, apply some ointment, and wrap it up.
When the nurse asked me to hold Lily’s tiny fist while she treated the burn, she let out that same heartbreaking cry, and suddenly an unexpected wave of emotions washed over me—sorrow, regret, and an unshakeable frustration that felt like a heavy ball lodged in my throat.
Seven years prior, when my father passed away, I hadn’t shed a tear. I didn’t cry when I injured my knee or even during my wedding or the births of my children. But there, in the sterile light of the emergency room, as the nurse tended to Lily’s small, hurt hand, tears streamed down my face.
In that moment, I finally understood the depth of caring for someone.
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In summary, caring for someone involves a profound emotional connection, especially when witnessing their pain. It’s a journey that truly reshapes our understanding of love and family.