You know how you theoretically know something but you don’t really KNOW you know it until you’re sitting face-to-face with it? The last couple of days have delivered me one of those types of learning curves when it comes to the whole “letting go” part of the Mommy Adventure.
Sunday afternoon, while The Girl was happily toiling away at her place of employment, a rather large sign fell on her head. (ON! HER! HEAD!) I guess she was bending over, trying to pull a big box out of a cart, when the thing dropped off the wall and hit the back of her head hard enough it broke the stupid sign.
She was stunned, but wasn’t KO‘d. The killer headache came about half an hour later, when the adrenaline wore off.
The Area Manager on duty saw the entire thing. Did he:
[ ] A) rush to my baby girl’s aid, checking to make sure the vicious sign hadn’t broken her head
[ ] B) have her take a break and ice the lump on her skull, then recheck to see how she felt once the shock of being shocked wore off
|My brain-fogged girl trying
to think her way out of a
[ ] C) have her fill out an accident report
[ ] D) all of the above
[X] E) none of the above
Did he, on the other hand:
[ ] A) stay exactly where he was standing
[ ] B) laugh his ass off at her
[ ] C) loudly tease her about breaking a sign
[X] D) all of the above
[ ] E) none of the above
Before we form a well-justified mob with pitchforks and picket signs (because I promised I wouldn‘t), there were a few higher-up-the-food-chain Managers working who did express some concern, even though no accident report was filed. After all, there was no one to cover The Girl’s area, so they figured they could wait and do it after her shift. (By which point the computers were down, so she was asked to go home and see how she felt the next day!)
Thanks to the wonders of modern technology (a 20 year old girl and her speed-of-light mad texting skills), I was kept up to date on the day’s fun and games. Meaning by the time she got home, I had worked myself into one hell of an Avenging Mother-Beast state. I wanted my daughter to not be in so much pain she couldn’t think straight. I wanted answers. I wanted action. I wanted someone’s head on a platter!
All The Girl wanted from me was a promise. “Mom, I can fight my own battles. Just promise me you won’t say or do anything, OK? Let me handle this.”
|The hospital lo-jacked The Girl. I wonder how many patients they
lost before they decided this was a good idea?
This all happened Sunday. Monday was spent chauffeuring The Girl, first to her place of employment to fill out an accident report (a day later than she should have), then to PromptMed, where they refused to touch a head injury. Finally, we ended up at the ER (because no one else would even examine her) where we spent the rest of the afternoon.
The diagnosis was “contusion” which is WAY better than “concussion.” They determined the amount of pain she was in was causing the brain fog (which this house is overly familiar with) and opted not to do a CT scan. What they did do was give her a lovely handful of pills that didn’t make her headache disappear, but did make her not even care she had a head. (Again, something this house if overly familiar with).
|This? Would be what The Girl created
after the pain meds kicked in.
It was dubbed “Rasta Fan.”
Yep, she’s my daughter alright!
Yesterday we had to drop off the forms from the Doc, releasing her to return to work today. Since Dopey was a little dizzy from the pain meds, I was allowed to escort her inside the building after repeating my promise (about a million times) to keep quiet and be good.
It was hard as hell and I may have cracked a tooth from clenching my jaw, but I made it out without uttering a single word to anyone! (Clenching wasn’t explicitly covered in the terms of our agreement, so I was free to flex my “pissy-face” muscles all I wanted.)
Ya know, I kinda thought by this stage of the game the sleepless nights of worry were in the past. I figured it would be more of a coasting-‘til-grandkids thing now, with the raging Mamma Bear taking some well deserved hibernation time.
OK sure, my Mom used to tell me that you never stop worrying about your babies, no matter how old they are and that parenting wasn’t an 18 year commitment, it was a life sentence. But when in my life did I ever listen to my Mom anyway?
When it comes to my own offspring, I know the worry always came easy. (TOO easy.) I know, with the raging Mamma Bear always just below the surface of every smile, protecting them was more natural than breathing.
What I never counted on was how impossibly hard it would be to one day hear, “Mom, I can fight my own battles. Just promise me you won’t say or do anything, OK? Let me handle this.” and taking that enormous step back, sending the Mamma Bear off for some R&R, and letting go.