Friday, July 19th, 2024.
As I sat in the emergency room with your youngest child, while you couldn’t seem to pick-up a call or respond to texts containing pictures of his face split-open, I realized that I’d been here before.
The first time was thirteen years ago when that same child was at a birthday party and slid down a railing which bruised his balls to the point of heading to urgent care. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t go to the bathroom. He couldn’t sit comfortably. He could only cry. You were in Ireland at a U2 concert with your best friend and, while there definitely was a time difference, it happened to still be 8 p.m. in Dublin. But I get it, Bono is captivating. So, I rocked your three-year-old back and forth to try and soothe him from his swollen privates while we waited to be seen by a third-rate physician at CityMD.
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