I recall it like yesterday.
Smelling the stuff before I could even see him coming, the acrid aroma completely out of place, permeated through any other odor in the almost-empty barn. His screams seared through my momma heart. Dropping the scraper, I bolted out of the pen.
Just before cleaning calf pens that morning so long ago, I had tucked my small son on top of a hay bale in the pen directly across from the one I was working in. Clean and dry, this pen was empty of calves for the time being. The cows were out for their morning recess, the barn aisle scraped clean and limed for the day. The tedious job of cleaning this pen would take me less than 10 minutes.
“Stay put for just a little while, honey. This won’t take me long.” He smiled up at me contentedly, a kitty already climbing up into his lap. Apparently happy to hang on for a little while, I got at my dismal job quickly.
Scraping the corners with my back to the pen gate, seemingly moments later I heard his tortured cry, “Momma! Mom-eee!” Knowing his “I am crying for attention” cry or “I am hungry” cry or “I am burned out and need a nap” cry, this one was the “I am really scared and hurt” cry.
We had a large tub of alkaline solution stored in the milk house for cleaning. It was a strong chemical not meant for human skin and especially the tender skin of a small child. We kept a measuring cup at the top for ease of use. Thoughts scrambled in my head. How did he get there so fast? How did he get into the solution? Where is it on him?
In seconds, I had my last question answered. It was on his face; he was holding his hand over one precious eye. Later on, we put together the fact that he must have tiptoed up, reaching for the cup sitting on top of the tub. The contents on the bottom of the cup had tipped out when he’d stretched to take a look inside.
The only thing on my momma mind and heart was to get that stuff off him, and fast. Gathering him up on the run, I flew through the milk house door to the sink and, scooping water, drenched the area over and over and over. Meanwhile, my husband had heard the commotion and came running.
Hollering: “I’m taking him to the ER!” I made a mad dash for the car keys and grabbed yet another glass of water for the ride. Driving 90 miles an hour on the way, I dared a policeman to pull me over. Getting to the ER, the medical staff whisked us away to a room and immediately resumed flushing his eye area. In the meantime, my husband had called, letting them know we were on our way and the type of chemical they’d be dealing with. He heard our son wailing through the phone and was astonished to realize we’d gotten to Shawano that fast.
Our son was so distraught he needed to be given a sedative so the medical staff could see more clearly what they were dealing with. The anesthesiologist, trying to soothe, was saying, “OK, Tiger, just gonna give you something to make you sleepy. Does that sound good, Tiger? Pretty quick here, there will be a little pin prick. OK, Tiger?”
“I’m not a tiger! I’m a little boy!” sobbed my son adamantly.
Despite myself, I had to smile. He was so grown up and so little all at the same time.
Looking straight into the anesthesiologist’s face, I sternly warned, “Don’t mess this up. He is dearer than life itself to me.” Horrified at myself, I didn’t know where that blatantly rude comment came from, other than my momma claws were sharpened to knife point. I was so afraid he’d be scarred for life and didn’t want his mind affected, too.
At one point I’d realized I was standing in the middle of the ER with cow manure on my boots. I didn’t care.
As he was finally lying calmly, the doctor could assess the situation, finding that my quick action saved my little boy’s eye as well as the sensitive tissue underneath. Somehow, that assuaged some of my guilt. They applied a salve and covered the area with a clean dressing with instructions on how to move forward and a subsequent doctor visit to determine progress.
Our son basically slept the rest of that day and, keeping him quietly busy for a subsequent few days, he continued to improve. Ten days later, going back to the doctor showed healing with no eye damage. Again, the doctor mentioned my quick action probably saved my boy’s eye and tender skin underneath. It was instinctual, a common sense action. Farming is a dangerous occupation, and with little ones, especially so. A parent’s back turned for one moment can be tragic. I was incredibly grateful my son turned out OK.
Thank you, heavenly father, for your back is never turned.
(“My child, don’t lose sight of common sense and discernment. Hang on to them.” Proverbs 3:21)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
Categories
