"Hi there, this is Pete's daycare."
ARGH!!
"Don't worry, Pete's fine."
OK - phew.
"But he's fallen over and cut his head..."
What?!
"...and we think it might need stitches."
ARGH!!
I never feel more foreign than when I have to deal with the enigma wrapped in a bureaucracy wrapped in a stupid idea that is the US healthcare system. Where do you take a child with a wounded head? Should I call an ambulance? A lawyer? Maybe do-it-myself so I have some life savings left at the end?
I contemplated all this as I raced to Pete's school like the superdad I am and burst into the classroom.
They were having lunch.
"One of Pete's friends pushed him," his teacher told me tactfully.
"HENRY PUSHED PETE OVER AND HE HIT HIS HEAD ON THE FLOOR AND THERE WAS BLOOD!!!" shouted Lily, Pete's smallest and loudest classmate. "Yeah, Henry did it!" chorused the other children. Henry was eating lunch on his own in the thinking chair. (Names have been changed to protect the guilty).
Pete wanted to finish his food before receiving medical attention - that's my boy! - so I wandered to the school office and tried to suggest, without seeming ridiculously naive and unprepared, that I had no idea what to do next. The answer, of course, was throw myself at the mercy of the free market!
Hospital was an option, but it's more efficient to go to a private "urgent care" clinic, a place normally set up in a high street shop front. Except you have to find one that accepts your insurance, and maybe wait a long time as people without insurance tend to use them instead of going to a doctor...ARGH!!
Jill in the office, taking pity on my charming British accent, phoned around and found one, which also happened to be the closest. Pete had finished his lunch so we left the scene of the crime and went to see what Obama-/ Trump-/ whatever-care was like this week.
Luckily (and as always) the nurses and medics were wonderful and managed to glue Pete together rather than stitching. He's always loved everything medical, probably because it reminds him of his happy days in the incubator before he was constantly hassled by mummy and daddy, so took it all with no complaint. I explained that I "don't do well" with blood so crouched on the floor, head between my knees, holding Pete's hand with my eyes closed.
My poor patched-up prince asked to stay at home for the afternoon, then spent the entire time pacing like a caged tiger, obviously frustrated not to be back at school. The nurse said that glue means any scar should be almost invisible. The wounds to daddy's mental health will take a good deal longer to disappear.
You should have seen the other guy!
All stuck up.
