My last day in the fifth grade
When I was 11 years old I had an accident in my left arm. This accident happened between Social Studies and Lunch. That day Social Studies was given in the school’s library and the bell had just ringed for the kids to join in recess. As a normal kid I raced out of the library by the correct exit so I could get ahead in the lunch line ( because Wednesdays were the best days, they sold chicken with fries so I knew the line would be epically long) but some kids raced outside by the entrance of the library and when they opened the door I got hit with it; well, my arm did. I fell to the floor but I stood up normally as if I just fell because of a rock on the floor or something. But when I stood up I saw my arm had a huge whole, I could see my fat and blood everywhere. And what did I do? I screamed, as if hell had broken loose, as I have never screamed before. My first and real thought was ‘if I was going to die’, afterwards was ‘if this was a bad dream’ and then came the ‘I want my mommy’ part. I came inside the library screaming and crying and told my teacher what had just happened ( well, she could definitely see what happened) and she also became hysterical. ( When I remember this day I think she was more traumatized than I was) We made a very pleasant duet. When I stopped screaming, she started screaming. But my teachers screaming could only mean that my arm really was hurt. She rapidly asked to the rest of the guy students that were in the library to take of their shirt so they could rap my arm with that so the bleeding could stop. And although it was no time to get picky I was only thinking about the sweaty and dirty my classmates shirts were to be raping it around my arm.
We got out of the library with my arm wrapped in the sweaty and stinky shirt of someone in my class and went straight to the nurse office. As we got to the nurse office some of the six grade parents ( because there was an activity) were watching what had just happened to me. When I got to the nurse office three six grade parents were trying to help the nurse and my teacher with what had just happened. I remember that one of the six grade mother tried to calm me down ( I still remember her until his day ) telling me what I would have liked my own mother to say. I got calmer until she mentioned that some stiches would do the trick. Naturally, I started screaming again. I hated needles how would I like to get stitched? Taking a blood sample out of me was the most difficult and time consuming thing to do at that age in my life. I think in that moment I preferred to die than to get stitched.
They called the ambulance and none of them were available, so we had to go to the hospital in my teachers car with the nurse. They tried to get ahold of my parents but couldn’t. My dad was in a very important meeting and my mom was with my grandmother shopping and plaza, and we all know how bad signal there is. (and I have no uncles of aunts living in PR) When I got to the hospital they told my teacher and nurse they couldn’t do any procedure with me until they had authorization of a relative because I was a minor. Thank god my grandfather (which at that time still worked) was getting lunch at the house and answered the phone and came right away to the hospital. After that, my dad arrived and later on my mom and grandmother they took me to my hospital and then we waited for the doctor to arrive. The doctor did not arrive until it was 2 a.m to do 42 stitches and tell me how lucky I was that I had not lose my nerves and that the central artery in my arm had not been touched.
We got out of the library with my arm wrapped in the sweaty and stinky shirt of someone in my class and went straight to the nurse office. As we got to the nurse office some of the six grade parents ( because there was an activity) were watching what had just happened to me. When I got to the nurse office three six grade parents were trying to help the nurse and my teacher with what had just happened. I remember that one of the six grade mother tried to calm me down ( I still remember her until his day ) telling me what I would have liked my own mother to say. I got calmer until she mentioned that some stiches would do the trick. Naturally, I started screaming again. I hated needles how would I like to get stitched? Taking a blood sample out of me was the most difficult and time consuming thing to do at that age in my life. I think in that moment I preferred to die than to get stitched.
They called the ambulance and none of them were available, so we had to go to the hospital in my teachers car with the nurse. They tried to get ahold of my parents but couldn’t. My dad was in a very important meeting and my mom was with my grandmother shopping and plaza, and we all know how bad signal there is. (and I have no uncles of aunts living in PR) When I got to the hospital they told my teacher and nurse they couldn’t do any procedure with me until they had authorization of a relative because I was a minor. Thank god my grandfather (which at that time still worked) was getting lunch at the house and answered the phone and came right away to the hospital. After that, my dad arrived and later on my mom and grandmother they took me to my hospital and then we waited for the doctor to arrive. The doctor did not arrive until it was 2 a.m to do 42 stitches and tell me how lucky I was that I had not lose my nerves and that the central artery in my arm had not been touched.