It was Easter Week. My sister and brother-in-law, Linda and Ches were moving in next door to us. We were putting things away, playing music, and just having a noisy party. It was getting late in the day and Richard left to go referee a basketball game. Ches began to fire up the barbeque grill. I looked at then nine-year-old Rob and when I saw how grubby he was I sent him next door for a shower. About five minutes later I suddenly got a powerful feeling that I had to go check on him. My aunt, Karen said, “I’ll go with you.” When we opened the front door, we heard him singing and then there was a huge crash. I ran in and found him standing in shards of glass from the shower door, which he had opened with a Karate kick. Blood was spraying out of his leg. I reached in and picked him up by the armpit with one hand. (Adrenalin—powerful stuff!) I clamped my hands over the two worst slashes (I could see that the entire calf muscle was severed and pulled apart) to try to stop the bleeding and told Karen to call 911. I did not see or hear a thing, except Rob’s quiet frightened face until the room started to fill up with people in blue. A fire truck, an ambulance, a police car, and the paramedic’s truck screamed up, sirens blaring to the street in front of the house and I didn’t hear a thing.
While the emergency room doctor sewed him back together, (57 stitches) he told me that if I hadn’t gone to check on him when I did he never would have made it to the front door. If Karen hadn’t gone with me I wouldn’t have been able to let go of the wounds to call 911. No one would have heard me if I called for help because of the music playing on outside speakers next door.