Halloween Horror Story: A Boy Named Trouble

Be ye warned… this tale may cause blood-curdling screams and wintry-month nightmares.

Once upon a time I was kid-sitting 2 of my cousins, Madison & Tate, while their parents went on a fabulous warm-climate cruise around the Hawaiian islands. In Utah, however, it was snow season, and you know what that means… fields of snow tempting me to release my inner Calvin & Hobbes. I’d been watching these 2 little brats angels for about a week and their parents were due back in a few days. It was a Saturday morning and my original plan was to go help my roommate at the time make a video to submit to be on the Apprentice. We’d had some kind of problem with the video camera, however, and I’d had to swap those plans for a day-o-scrapbooking at the little brats’ angels’ house. Let’s just put it out there right now that God does work in mysterious ways. I’d spent 20 or so minutes sitting in the middle of their living room floor sorting through photos and arranging them in nice piles around myself. Tate, the 12-year-old angel brat, who was really freakishly tall and muscular for his age (*I love you, Tate*), had gone outside to remove the snow from his driveway, as he was supposed to do. I was imagining spending a wonderful day inside, sipping hot chocolate and looking out the frosty windows at all the poor people who didn’t have slaves 12-year-olds to remove the snow from their houses. It was turning out to be a great day… until… I suddenly heard a very quick, but very loud scream that I just knew sounded like a 12-year-old boy who was NOT just being funny. But then the scream ended. And I took 3 really big and fast breaths and prayed and prayed that the screaming wouldn’t start again. I hoped it was just one of those screams that meant “something scared me but nothing’s really wrong” instead of “Oh my gosh, I just had my fingers chopped off in the snow blower” type of screams. Unfortunately for me (oh, and for him, too) it was the latter. As the screaming started up again I hopped up, ran to the bedroom, grabbed my purse and threw on my shoes, ran to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and ran out the door as he was trying to run into the house, still screaming, holding his hand and thrusting it into my face to show me the blood oozing out of it. Yes, it was gross, but not nearly as bad as I would’ve thought it could be. I stopped him on the steps and persisted he not take one step into the house because I didn’t want to have to clean blood out of the carpet. (I know how his mom is about cleaning.) I tried to calm him down by telling him that he only chopped up a tiny bit of the end of his fingers, but for some reason that didn’t register to him as reasons for calming down. At this point their neighbor came running over, having heard the screaming (who hadn’t, really… tough guys can sure scream like a girl when the time calls for it) and told me to call 911. I convinced him that it wasn’t all that bad (I know those ambulance rides can be extremely expensive) and that it would be just as effective if I drove him to the emergency room myself (it was only a couple blocks away). The neighbor jumped in the back seat of my car with Tate while I drove to the hospital. Here’s some of the conversations that took place on the way to the hospital:

Conversation Number 1:
Tate: My dad’s gonna KILL me. (sob, sob)
Neighbor: You’re gonna be ok.
Tate: He told me never to stick my hand in the snow blower. (sob, sob) He’s gonna hate me:
Neighbor: He won’t hate you, he loves you, and he’ll be very glad you’re safe.
Tate: I knew I shouldn’t have done that.
Me: (crickets chirping) (I mean, seriously, what are you supposed to say except, “Yeah, duh!” but that didn’t seem appropriate at the time.)

Conversation Number 2:
Tate: I’m never gonna be able to play soccer again
Me: Tate, your feet and legs are fine, you’ll still be able to play soccer.
Tate: But I’m the goalie, I need to be able to catch the ball.
Me: Tate, your going to be able to catch a ball, you just barely got the very tips of your fingers chewed up a little bit…
Tate: (starts sobbing even more) My dad’s gonna be SO mad at me.

We pulled up to the emergency room doors and went in. Tate was still screaming so of course everyone in the waiting area turned to look at us. (I hate drawing attention like that but Tate was being such a drama queen… understandably, I guess)!

By the time we were in a room Tate had calmed down a bit and was mostly just in a lot of pain. I had to call Madison, Tate’s older sister, who was at work at Dick’s to get her to go to their house and get their insurance information and the letter that gave me permission to make medical decisions for them. This was a mistake, I admit. Madison does not deal with emergencies well and, while I’d been a little pre-occupied when we’d left the house, she did not miss noticing the blood that had splattered all over the snow at the time of “the incident”. Up to this point I had been able to fool her into thinking it was no big deal but the blood gave it all away and she started freaking out. She made it to the hospital and luckily I caught her in the hall before she saw Tate. We’d finally been able to calm him down and I knew if she came running in in a huff that he’d just get worked up again so I grabbed her firmly by her shoulders and told her she HAD TO CALM DOWN before I would let her in to see Tate, that he was all right, he was going to survive, and that she needed to act mature and be strong. Well, that lasted for all of 2 seconds but I think it helped a bit. Finally, Tate’s aunt showed up and I (happily) relinquished all guardianship duties to her.

Then I realized I was in a hospital.

Then I almost fainted.

At least I waited til an appropriate time to lose it!

So, I excused myself from the room, which now was getting very crowded, and found a seat and put my head between my knees. Some firemen, really, REALLY cute firemen, brought in another patient and a few of them took a look at Tate’s fingers and I tried to pretend to faint into one of their arms but they weren’t paying enough attention to me. So I just sat on my chair, and dreamed of their biceps!

Anyways, fast forward with me 4.5 years and now Tate’s an Eagle Scout with a groovy trick.

Can you do this?


And despite all the rougher years, I think he’s a pretty decent kid young man. I still have the opportunity to stay with him once or twice a year while his parents are out gallivanting around the world. Tate and I have an unwritten understanding that he’s not allowed to hold anything sharper than a butter knife while I’m around.

As for his sister, Madison… she’s busy coping with the hassles of college and married life.

She can be a little clingy sometimes! (Jk! She’s gonna be SO mad at me when she sees that picture!)

And me, well, I don’t like hospitals. But I guess the good thing is I don’t think about that too much when I’m in responsibility mode. Tate’s mom said it was probably a good thing I was there when “the snow blower incident” happened because she would’ve panicked and been too freaked out to do anything. Lucky me, I guess?!

And now I have my own house, and I’m one of those poor people who doesn’t have a brat to shovel their snow. Le sigh! But I’m always very, VERY careful when I use my snow blower. Lesson learned!

PS. It is relatively easy to get blood out of your car seats when they’ve been pre-treated with stain-resistant spray! Which is lucky for Tate, or I would’ve had to bill him for a cleaning fee!

PPS. I don't think Tate even plays soccer anymore, he's more into football and wrestling, which you apparently CAN do with a stubby finger!