Headbanging

Last night after dinner we went to see the new house. We do this most nights after dinner, and often a friend will come along to see it too. Last night it was Melissa and Ayla. The grownups wandered around and ooh-ed and ahh-ed about the house (which is getting so good you can’t even believe it). The kids played outside in the chilly windy evening, playing hide-and-seek and watching the surfers bobbing like seals in the choppy sea. And then sudenly, as I was trying to lock the balky new door, Michael got in the car (which we had brought because of the load of boxes that came along to the new house) and drove away. Naomi told me that Aidan had hurt himself and Daddy had taken him home, but that it wasn’t a big deal and Aidan was mostly just crying for nothing. So we finished the tour, said goodbye to Melissa and Ayla who scootered their way to bed as we walked home.

At home, though, it didn’t seem Aidan had been crying for nothing. He was still weeping in Michael’s lap with a goose-egg on his forehead and a bleeding elbow. His head was hurting, his elbow was hurting and—more worrisome—his vision was blurred and he was having difficulty reading. I’m a big believer in the frozen-peas-cure-most-ills school (to wear, not to eat), but blurry vision after a head injury seems like the right time to go to the doctor. We bundled Naomi and her gear for the next day into the car, and dropped her off at Carolyn’s to have a rare school-night sleepover. And I, who used to be an avid MASH watcher, kept Aidan awake while we drove the 10 minutes to Paraparaumu to go to the emergency care centre. By this point Aidan’s vision was less blurry but his stomach was really hurting, and he was tired beyond all recognition.

Ah, but New Zealand is a beautiful country in so many ways. We walked into the urgent care centre and were the only ones there (other than the medical staff). They took us in overlapping waves, Michael filling out the forms while Aidan and I went to talk to the lovely Irish nurse (“What’s a handsome boy from America doing in New Zealand with such a lovely Irish name as Aidan?” she asked in her Irish lilt.) She took lots of notes which turned more serious as his symptoms were laid out before her—the blurry vision, the nausea—and she told us the doctor would be in “in a few minutes.” Less than 30 seconds later, a gentle, no-nonsense doctor came and talked earnestly to Aidan and to me. He asked lots of questions and then gave us our directions: this was a concussion, not clear how bad, but his gut sense was that it was not serious and Aidan would make a full recovery. We were to observe him at home, though, waking him every 90 minutes to check his pupils and have him answer a memory question or two. No school for 2-3 days. No sports or bike riding or anything for 6 weeks. Getting one mild brain trauma was probably not a big deal; getting another before the first one healed was a very big deal.

We came home and put our boy to bed and suddenly all the symptoms were mine. I felt shaky and nauseas, and I was teary with worry. I know too much about the brain and the long-term effects of even seemingly minor brain injuries. I happen to love Aidan’s neo-cortex. His anguished, “Mommy, I used to be such a good reader. Will I ever be a good reader again?” from earlier echoed in my head as I watched him sleeping deeply. I read about concussion until I was shaking with exhaustion. We woke him the first time, an hour into his sleep (but well before ours), and he was nearly impossible to rouse. He couldn’t answer simple questions (“What is your sister’s name? What is your Grandma’s name?”) and couldn’t keep to his feet. His pupils responded normally, though, and he is a deep-sleeping kind of a guy in the best of circumstances, so it was hard to know whether this was trauma or exhaustion. We set the alarm for 90 minutes and fretted ourselves to sleep.

Now, there was a time, about a year ago, when I was overcome with how alone we were here, and how far away we were from everyone who loved us. One of my deepest fears was that something would happen to someone and there wouldn’t be any slack in the system. As I fell asleep, I felt the relief of a much healthier system than before. Carolyn would make Naomi’s lunch and get her to school in the morning. Melissa was on deck for anything we might need. Rob, who had come home from work while we were at the doctor’s, had offered to take a night shift with Aidan so that Michael and I could sleep more than 90 minutes in a row. And I had emailed my mother with all the symptoms to run by her knowledge of the brain to get started with recovery techniques, supplements, etc. while I slept. This was quite a rich system, actually.

The second time we woke Aidan up, he remembered his sister’s name pretty quickly. The third time he could remember the names of all of his grandparents. The third time he woke with a. “Yeah, Mom?” and when I asked him his address, he sleepily asked, “The old one or the new one” and then gave me both. I cried myself to sleep several times, but the last time was with relief: that was Aidan I had heard there, and the upward trend was exactly what we wanted to see.

This morning, I woke to emails from my mother and from one of the best brain doctors in the US. On a Sunday morning, she had mobilized her troops and gotten advice from experts who know an awful lot about ameliorating the effects of head trauma. They offered reassurance and advice about which brain-healing supplements to offer my little concussed boy. (Chuck Parker, the brain doctor, will write a blog on what to do with a kid who has a minor head injury to avoid long-lasting implications; I’ll attach a link to that blog as soon as it’s written.) Carolyn and Melissa first called in and then stopped by to check in on us all. I felt surrounded by help and support.

And Aidan? His bump has gone down, but he’s decided not to get a hair cut anytime soon (the doctor says it’ll be a rich purple bruise for 3 weeks). He is cheerful and playful and loving all the attention. His reading has returned to normal, and his two biggest sadnesses are that watching a computer screen isn’t good for his healing brain and that he’ll have to miss the first month of soccer practice. Other than that, he’s a happy camper, loving the fact that children all over the village rode to school this morning in helmets because of the lump on his head (Aidan was riding Ayla’s scooter with no helmet when he crashed and hit his head).

I’m going into work for a few hours while Michael and Rob and Aidan head to buy legos (which are good for a healing brain) and grapeseed extract (among other things) which is also healing and inflammation-reducing. And I am newly grateful for my friends and my family. And, while I never—not for a second—lose track of how lucky I am to have these two magnificent children in my life, today I was aware of my good fortune in a very front-of-mind way. To be a mother is the most wonderful and terrible thing in the world (probably to be a father is too, but I don’t have much experience there). Last night I had a glimpse into the terror of it; today I will give thousands of kisses, play some board games, and revel in all of the joys of bringing a magnificent boy like Aidan into the world, and then protecting him as well as I can for the journey. Buckle up everyone, and wear your helmets. This life-thing can be a dangerous ride.