Blood in the Snow? Yep, It Was Mine

Okay, here we are in mid-Spring, and it may seem a bit odd to be writing about an adventure in the snow. But a recent post on the old medicine cabinet standby from the 50s and 60s - Mercurochrome, got me to reminiscing about how my mom handled most minor cuts when I was growing up. I saw MOST, because what follows is my recall of what I'm sure traumatized my mom for years after.

There was blood in the snow, and no amount of Mercurochrome was going to take care of it.

When I was a kid, our medicine cabinet (actually a full shelf in the linen closet in the hallway, if I remember correctly, contained all kinds of home remedies. Back then your friendly family doctor would pass out large brown glass bottles of penicillin like it was candy. (I don't think you even needed a prescription for it.) Cod liver oil, castor oil, hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol, cough medicine I'm sure contained cocaine, were lined up, with that bright red bottle of Mercurochrome taking center stage. (I suspect my mom had it at the front, because with 5 very busy and somewhat clumsy kids, there was always some sort of minor emergency involving blood.)

My mom's way of dealing with injuries was fairly matter of fact; she coddled none of us. Fell and twisted your ankle? Doesn't look broken - walk it off. Antibotic? Mom's spit would work just fine. Generally her philosophy was, If you're screaming, you obviously are fine; you're not dead. Blowing on 'owies' was how she dealt with things for the smaller ones. That is, until the day of the red plastic snow shovel incident.

My brother Tommy and I (just two years apart, the oldest of our gang of five) had gotten matching red plastic snow shovels for Christmas, just in time to 'help' dad shovel after a major snow storm. Of course, our 'help' consisted of running around the yard, packing the snow with our boots, and generally doing everything we could to get out of actual work. My dad didn't seem to mind - after all, we were outside playing, having fun, and staying out of my mom's hair while she coped with the two younger ones, still in diapers.

Tommy and I got the bright idea that those red snow shovels might make great fighting swords, and we started swiping them wildly at one another, laughing. That is, until one swipe brought my younger brother to tears. He dropped his shovel, ran to my dad, yelling, 'I didn't do it.' But of course he did - I just had no idea what he was talking about! And then I looked down and saw it - drops of red in the snow. Took me a second to realize it was blood. But I was puzzled as to where it came from.

My dad came running over, grabbed me, and I went to adjust my stocking cap as he pulled me into the house. And then I saw it - my mittens were soaked in blood, and those wet drips falling down my face weren't melting snow. Dad brought us into the house, not even bothering to take our boots off first (a major crime in my house). He hollered at my mom to call Dr. Sowada, our family doctor who had an office on Arcade near Maryland. I can still smell the antiseptic his office reeked of. We were often in that office for one thing or another, but he was a regular visitor to our house as well. Back in those days, doctors still made house calls; I hear it's become a thing again - I keep getting calls from my Medicare provider offering them to me.

The Ray kids were notorious for having medical emergencies. I still remember the day my parents held my toddler sister Suzanne down on the kitchen table while he lanced a huge abscess under her chin that had developed after she bashed her face on her crib rail. Another story for another time.

My mom could barely dial the phone, and she was shaking and pale. Dad made her sit down while he put an ice pack on my face. Of course I fought it like crazy; I still had no idea what was going on with me and why there was blood in the snow and on my mittens. Turns out the very sharp edge of that new plastic shovel Tommy was swinging had caught my eyelid just under the eyebrow and sliced the skin open. Facial wounds bleed freely, and I'm sure it looked a lot worse than it actually was, but it was more than my mom could cope with. No amount of Mercurichrome or bandages was going to take care of this one.

Dr. Sowada showed up with his standard black doctor bag and had my dad lay me on the kitchen table. (That grey and white flecked Formica and chrome table was the site of more than a few medical procedures over the years, most of which involved at least one parent pinning the child down while the other one kept the rest of the children out of the kitchen. That was my job during Suzie's 'operation'; that one took both Mom and Dad to hold her still.)

I don't recall exactly what type of pain killer was used; I just know I about fainted when he pulled out his needle and thread and leaned in towards my eye. I have a vague recollection of a towel being hastily put over my face, and then only tugging. So there must have been novocaine or at least an ice pack because I don't remember it being painful, just rather shocking.

He did a good job, I think - Dad said three stitches only. The cut went part way into my eyebrow, and if you look really carefully, you can still see the remnants of the scar. Oh, and he did have my Dad swab it with Mercurochrome after it was done, just in case.

Do you know you can still buy Mercurochrome on Amazon? It's missing the all-too-toxic mercury these days, but it still looks to be that lovely bright red color...kind of like blood.