Dear Jesus - Part 2

Weeks ago, while my wife was at the doctor, she mentioned that a mole had appeared recently on her forearm. Dr. G, a melanoma antagonist, determined it was best to remove it. Which he did, right in his office. The procedure took less then ten minutes, and a single stitch sealed the deal. A Band-Aid was placed over the stitch and instructions were given to my wife regarding wound care and medicine was prescribed for pain. The only thing he forgot was to give us an idea of how to explain it to Ethan.

Later that same day, as Ethan got off the bus, he immediately noticed the Band-Aid. He loves Band-aids. Band-Aids mean owies. Owies mean scabs. And scabs need picking! After several minutes of him pestering her about what had happened to her arm, she reluctantly lifted the Band-Aid and showed him the stitch!

Picture one of those steam powered factory whistles erupting with a piercing screech!

Faster then Scotty could produce warp speed, Ethan was maxing out the warp drive of his compulsions and anxieties over the single stitch and the owie on his mom’s arm.

His mind and mouth went into overdrive as he asked, and repeated a litany of questions!

‘Mom, who did this to you?’

‘Doctor G.’

‘Mom, I’m going to kick Dr. G’s butt.’

‘No, we don’t talk like that, he’s a nice Dr.’

‘Did he use a knife? Like a pocket knife?’

‘No.’

‘Was it like a sword, like this…’ (as he reenacted a scene from his mind that seemed a cross between The Man in the Iron Mask and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.)

‘No, he didn’t use a sword.’

‘Mom, is that a hair?’

‘No, it’s not a hair, it’s a stitch.’

‘Like Lilo and Stitch?’

‘No. Like when you sew something, like there on your pants.’

‘Mom, I need to get the tweezers and pull it out.’

‘No, we don’t pull it out.’

‘Uuuuuuuuughhhh, Mom, I have to pull it out. It’s a hair.’

‘No, it’s not a hair.’

‘Mom, who did this to you?….’

The questioning repeated. Not just once, or twice, not even a dozen times, or even four score and twenty. The questioning went on and on and on! The same questions were asked and answered, and asked and answered, and asked and answered over, and over, and over for hours! It was as though the scene had been recorded on video and played on a continual loop. No question was ever asked out of order, and no question was ever missed.

What started at home right after school, continued in the car that afternoon, and through out Wal-Mart as we shopped for groceries that evening. Finally, when our breaking points were just about reached there was a lull – a calm in the storm.

‘Dad, I’m going to ask Jesus to take his hand like this (as he stretched out his arm to it’s full length and gently held it over his mom’s arm, slightly suspended above it, but not touching her owie) and make mom’s arm all better!’

‘You know, he could do that.’

‘Dad, then I would have Faux turn his head and cry a tear on her arm to make it all better!’

‘Well, I don’t think Jesus and Harry Potter are in the same category, but that’s a nice thought.’

‘Mom, who did this to you?….’