One Week Changes Everything

One week changes everything. I woke up this morning and realized that one week ago, life was completely different.

Last week I finished my to-do list for Miss A’s 5th birthday party. We had family and friends over who we hadn’t seen in months. My sister and her kids came up as a surprise. We had a back yard pool party with bean bag toss, ladder ball, badminton, Hubby grilled burgers and hot dogs for dinner and was now working on lighting a big bonfire in the middle of the yard, the kids swam. It was turning into the perfect evening.

I looked over at one point and saw my 6 year old nephew jump from the ladder into the pool, right along the edge. I walked over and told the kids to jump to the middle of the pool so they didn’t clip their arm on the side, or even worse: hit their head. I walked away from the pool, facing the group of adults sitting in lawn chairs, and heard a symphony of gasps. I whirled around to see Miss A lying on the concrete outside the pool. I rushed over and picked her up, she was screaming, my sisters rushed over “She hit her head!! She hit her head!!” A flash through my mind told me you never move someone who hits their head, too late now. Miss A had somehow fallen from our 4-ish foot high pool onto the cement below-head first.

I screamed for Hubby who was in the shop looking for fuel for the bonfire and we rushed her inside the house. I peeled her out of her swimsuit and inspected her for bumps, bruises and cuts. I kept asking her questions, but she wasn’t responding, just crying and moaning. I told Hubby I was taking her to the ER. I remembered the response time from the fire. We didn’t have an extra 20 minutes to wait for the volunteers to show up. Hubby went to get my car. I finished dressing Addy. She didn’t have anything bleeding, she hadn’t broken the skin, she was getting a pretty big goose egg.

Hubby stayed back with Miss E and the yard-full of people. My friend Amber offered to drive and we took the fastest and scariest trip to Fargo I’ve ever been. I kept asking Miss A questions, but she wouldn’t answer. She kept moaning, crying and trying to doze off. I tapped her face and poked her arms and told her she couldn’t go to sleep. She still hasn’t uttered a word, but she did take a swing at me out of frustration. I was glad because I knew she could at least move her arms. Amber flew us down the highway with the emergency flashers on. We had a plan: if the sheriff tried to pull us over, I’d call 911 and tell them we aren’t stopping until we get to the ER. I crossed my fingers we didn’t have to test the plan.

Just as we pulled into the hospital parking lot, Miss A lost it. She started puking all over, I could hear her bowels letting go, everything inside was going outside. I screamed to pull the car over. I grabbed Miss A, wrapped her in a blanket, and covered in vomit, ran over the boulevard to the ER entrance and inside. They took us back immediately. They hooked her up to all kinds of sensors and monitors. They said they’d prep to take her back for a CT Scan. I sat down and realized no one had offered me a mask, which I thought was strange, but I didn’t give one flip about Covid right now. I also realized I hadn’t grabbed my phone. It was still laying in the backseat of the car…probably in puke. I scanned the room for a telephone. Nothing. How am I going to let Hubby know we made it? A few minutes later, a masked Amber showed up and handed me my phone and told me she’d scrape out the backseat of the car. Angels sometimes come in the form of masked, vomit-cleaning, phone-delivering, ground-speed-record-breaking people you’ve known your whole adult life.

The doctors asked questions and got ready to take Miss A back for a CT Scan. A nurse asked Miss A if her tummy hurt, she nodded. Did it feel this a punch or sick? “Sick.” I felt a rush of relief. Miss A spoke!! Thank God!! She can move her arms and can talk. I let myself feel a glimmer of hope as we went back for the CT Scan.

Twenty minutes later a masked doctor came in with a copy of the scan with an arrow pointing to the picture of my baby’s brain. “She has an impressive fracture.” I lost it. A day that was lined up to be a perfect summer evening, was ending with a masked neurosurgeon telling me that my daughter has an impressive skull fracture. He said he’ll get a couple more opinions, but it doesn’t appear to need surgery. There was mention of possible blood on the brain. I cried and cried holding my daughter’s hand. I let all of the negative, guilty scenarios flow through my head. What if she doesn’t walk? What if she’s more injured than they think? What if she’s never herself again? Why didn’t we line the outside of the pool with 6-inch thick rubber? Do they even make something like that? What if there is blood on her brain? What if she has a seizure? What if? What it? What if? As I sat there losing my mind, but trying to look like I wasn’t. Miss A fell asleep holding my hand.

I hit the nurse button. She’s sleeping! She isn’t supposed to be sleeping!! The nurse assured me that she could sleep. All of the sensors and monitors would tell them anything they needed to know and Miss A is in the best place she can be right now. I held my daughter’s hand and sobbed.

After two days in the hospital, more specialists than I can count, some not-terrible hospital food and a list of guidelines, we brought Miss A home. We’re trying to keep our wild child to a dull-roar. Medication on a schedule helps to keep the headaches and nausea manageable. Screen time has been slashed to near-nothing. Loud noises and bright lights are discouraged. I haven’t worked since the accident, well not for the employer who pays me anyway. Trying to keep Miss A calm, quasi-sedated and injury-free is probably more work than I’ve had in a long time.

There’s good in the bad though. Her eyes were undamaged, her vision is good. More people looked at her brain scan and decided there isn’t blood on her brain, or at least not enough to worry about. Her shiner-eye changes every day and seems to be fading already. She’s still happy and loving and as passionate as ever. She’s moody and irritable, all symptoms of her concussed brain, but she’s here. We have more art hanging around our house than I’ll know what to do with. She’s becoming a Go Fish shark (see what I did there?). She can still swim. The first thing she asked when we got into the car to head home from the hospital: “Can we go home and go swimming???”.

We’ll keep our fingers, toes and eyes crossed that she’s going to be just fine. We’ll just have to take it one week at a time. One week changes everyting.