The drive to the nearest hospital in Cedar Ridge should have taken twelve minutes, but that day it felt endless as Ethan’s cries filled the car with sharp, broken sounds that cut straight through me.
I kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror, whispering, “Hold on, sweetheart, grandma’s getting help,” while my hands gripped the steering wheel tighter with every passing second.
When I arrived, I barely parked properly before rushing inside, and the nurse at the front desk stood up immediately when she saw Ethan’s condition.
“What’s wrong,” she asked urgently.
“My grandson won’t stop crying, and there’s a bruise on his stomach,” I said breathlessly.
She led me quickly to an exam room where another nurse examined him, and the moment her fingers touched his abdomen, he screamed again in pain.
“That’s where it is,” I said, my voice rising uncontrollably.
A doctor named Dr. Harris arrived within minutes, his calm demeanor steady but serious as he examined Ethan carefully and asked when I had first noticed the bruise.
“About fifteen minutes ago,” I said, trying to steady myself.
He pressed gently around the area, and Ethan cried again, which made the doctor’s expression tighten slightly.