Last week, you knocked a top front tooth out, again. You knocked out the top front left in 2020, mid-pandemic. This time is was top front right, but as awful as the experience was, it also gave us the opportunity to meet two incredibly kind people who went out of their way to help us when you (and I) really needed some help.
I’m going to tell you that story and why I hope theirs is the kind of behavior you grow up to emulate; because more than anything else you can be in this world, I hope you grow up to be kind.
Your Mom was out of town for a 40th birthday girls trip, so you and I went on an afternoon hike to go see Little Bradley waterfall, about thirty minutes south of Asheville. You love seeing waterfalls and throwing rocks in the water, and I love taking you to do things you’re excited about, so the stoke was high.
The trail meanders through a shaded wood beside Cove Creek, and we saw lots of other families out playing in the water and hiking the trail. The weather was warm, but the shade beside the creek kept us cool. We were having the best day. The trail was steeper than advertised and trees had fallen here and there, so every now and then I’d have to pick you up and lift you over a log. We stopped for a picture and your grin lit up the entire forest. Eventually, we came to a the first of two stream crossings.
A line of hands-width size stones made a perfect bridge from one bank to another, and rather than get our feet wet, I scooped you up and carried you across. In hindsight, the ease of this crossing led me to underestimate the crossing where you’d knock out your tooth, but I didn’t know that yet. At the time I was riding high on Super Dad vibes.
We walked a little more until we came to a second, deeper stream crossing where I saw two options: We could wade across what would be at least waist-deep water for you or we could go upstream twenty yards and pick our way over a line of exposed rocks crisscrossed with little flows of water. Another family had just finished the latter route, so I felt good about that option.
We went upstream and crossed the rocks like we’d done the trees; I’d go over, straddle the gaps, pick you up, and put you down on the other side. It was more difficult, but I was feeling good about our progress. That is, until I fell.
We hadn’t made it very far when I lost my footing while moving you from one rock to another. I slipped and you fell forward onto a rock the size of a kitchen table.
I really hope that someday, you learn to put your hands out when you fall. Your two missing top front teeth are proof that to date, you have not learned this very important life skill.
You fell face first and landed on your chin, nose and mouth. Remembering the sound of that impact turns my stomach, remembering your tears and screams flips it upside down. My therapist said the brain hates trauma, so when you experience trauma, your brain revisits it over and over, trying to prevent it from ever happening again. Lord knows my brain has done just that; I know you’re the one who fell on your face, but I feel completely responsible for that fall, and that guilt stings.
I scooped you up and turned you around to see blood coming from your nose, mouth, and chin. Lots of blood. As I think back, I can see a tiny speck of white in a puddle of red where your face hit the rock. Pretty sure that was your tooth, but at the time I was so worried about getting you to the shore and stopping the bleeding that I barely noticed it.
Holding you with both arms, I walked across the flowing creek towards the shore, giving up any caution about wet feet or clothes. This was about the time I saw a man and woman coming towards us.
It had taken us several minutes to get out to where I now stood. But now, rather than carefully negotiating each step as I had on the way out, I just walked through the flowing water, over slick moss, and back across the rocks. You were screaming in my ear, and all I could think about was getting you to safety. I had almost made it back when I came to a gap too wide to step across.
The couple stood at the shore, and he stepped up to the gap and held out a hand. “Stay right there. Be careful, okay?”
My heart was in my ears, and if I was saying anything, it was “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He stepped out onto the rocks, said something about being careful not to fall, and helped us get to shore. We got to a log where I sat down and put you on my knee. This was when I got my first good look at your face. Your other top front tooth was clearly gone. You were bleeding from your nose, mouth, and chin. “Fuck,” I said. “This is my fault. This is all my fault.” We were out of the creek but I felt like I was going to drown in guilt.
Darren and Jane introduced themselves and started asking questions. “Did he hit his head? Do you have anything to stop the bleeding? Are you okay?”
I’ve taken first aid, CPR, and swiftwater rescue classes. That is to say, I’m normally pretty good in these situations. That day, I was not good. Not at all.
I didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t brought a first-aid kit, I didn’t have anything to stop the bleeding, and I wasn’t sure how we’d get you out of there. In hindsight, I was woefully unprepared.
Thank God for Darren and Jane. I answered their questions, established that you hadn’t hit your head and probably didn’t have a concussion, and managed to point out your injures while trying to calm you--and myself--down. Darren produced a water bottle from his bag and filled it with cold water from the creek. He handed it to you to press against your gums and numb the pain in your mouth.
Before I could gather my wits, Darren did the job for me. He told me and his wife that he would jog back down to the trailhead to get some ice, then asked her to stay and help you and me walk out. It was at least a half a mile back to the car.
“Is that okay with you?” he asked.
“Of course, thank you,” I said.
With that, he set off.
I carried you and Jane walked with us, peppering us both with questions to keep us calm. She pointed out difficult spots in the trail, helped me lift you over obstacles when necessary, and told us about their family. That chatter kept me focused and diverted some of your attention from the blood all over both of us and the pain in your mouth.
Darren met us three-quarters of the way back; he’d jogged out, gone to his car and made an ice pack out of an empty Cheetos bag and a hair tie. As you used it to soothe your mouth, he told me the nearest hospital was just 11 minutes away; he’d looked it up on his phone.
We got back to the car and after exchanging numbers with Darren, headed to the ER. You cried most of the way there, but by the time we got checked in, you’d mostly calmed down.
They got you cleaned up and gave you way more band-aids than you needed. But, since you love band-aids, this was just fine. They gave you stickers, crayons, and eventually pronounced you all okay, minus one missing tooth, a torn frenulum, a small cut inside your nose, and a few scrapes on your knees that were now covered in band-aids.
The doctor said ice cream would help the pain and swelling.
We went straight to Somewhere in Time in Saluda for your favorite, “pink strawberry.” They were kind enough to give it to you for free, and wouldn’t even accept my money when I tried to pay. Which was awesome. But unfortunately, our day had one more heartbreak in store.
We walked out of the ice cream shop, I wrapped your ice cream cone in a napkin, and held it out for you to have. You took the cone and promptly dropped it right on the dirty sidewalk, ice cream side down. I saw the tears welling up in your eyes, and the look on your face was more than I could bear.
I might not have been able to save your tooth, but I could fix your ice cream cone. Hoping I didn’t get tetanus, I picked up the ice cream cone and proceeded to lick off all the dirt and sidewalk grit. Every last dirty, crunchy, gravely bit. Satisfied that nothing but pink strawberry remained, I took extra care giving the cone back. You approved and proceeded to devour the remaining ice cream.
That happened on a Saturday. By Thursday your scrapes had all healed, the hole where your tooth used to be had closed up, and you had already acquired a new scrape on your nose from tripping on a root at preschool. Seriously man, you have got to learn to catch yourself when you fall forwards.
Beyond learning to not fall face first, what’s the lesson? First, to me, it’s a story of incredible kindness.
Darren and Jane went way the hell out of their way to help two complete strangers. Not because they stood to gain or because they had any obligation to us. No, they helped us because we needed help, and that brand of kindness makes the world a better place. Their kindness made an indelible mark on our lives; I’ll never forget them or what they did for you. That is the brand of kindness I hope you learn to carry in your heart and share with others.
Second, that day affirms something I’d only read before then. It’s from Elizabeth Stone, and I saw it on a greeting card.
Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.
See, when I said before that I’m normally pretty good in situations like the one we found ourselves in that day, it’s from experience. I’ve been to the ER a few times, I’ve gouged open my shins on rocks in a river, I’ve gone over the handlebars on my bike, I’ve seen my own blood plenty. Usually, I just wipe it off and go on. I’ve seen other people injured and have been fine helping out and calming them down. Your blood was a different story.
So, on the days when you feel like your Mom and I are being overprotective, or aren’t letting you do something you think you’re old enough to manage yourself, or if you get hurt and we’re making an extra big fuss about making sure you’re okay, remember this:
You are both of our entire hearts, walking around outside our bodies for the rest of our lives, and more than anything else, we love you and want to keep you safe.
Even if sometimes, I’m not that good at it.
I love you,
Dad
I originally planned to finish this series in twelve months, intending to write one entry a week for 52 weeks. But, other things came up and I didn’t have as much time as I thought I would. We moved, you started a new school, I had other projects, etc. But finally, I’m starting my last entry in September, nine months after I’d planned. Which is the perfect intro to this one.
Time is funny like that. It marches on like a metronome, indifferent to how much you wish it would slow down or speed up. It offers no do-overs, no matter how frivolously you spend it. And it gives zero fucks what you planned to accomplish in the time you had. Once that time is over, you’ll get no more. But, it also stretches out ahead of you into an unknown future, offering untold possibility and infinite choices.
Which is why I hope you both learn to make choices about how you spend your time and understand what those choices mean. Because while there’s never enough time for everything, there’s still enough time to do almost anything.