Two weeks ago I got a concussion after losing my footing at the ice rink and falling on my head. I know. Highly cautious middle-aged mothers are not the typical profile for concussions. (And, not the first concussion in our fam). I’m still a little baffled, but there’s a small slice of time that has been blotted from my memory files.
The EMT who rode with me in the ambulance reported: “that young girl – was that your daughter? – gave us a very detailed account of what happened.” I can already see that since Dan’s memory is skewed towards events like “5 elk seen at Columbine wallow in 2009” and Col’s towards “WWII airplane design,” that Rose may turn out to be the family historian.
The healing has been slow, steady, and completely non-linear. The hardest part has been when the kids are both needing something different but simultaneously, and it requires all my mental skills to chip away at the avalanche of words and emotions and get to the heart of their request. Okay, so you’re offended, Col, because Rose has been blowing her nose in the top bunk? And Rose, you love pears, but Daddy ruined the oatmeal by adding pear sauce? I mean, it’s mind-bending enough without a bruised brain. Sometimes I walk into the already-brewing chaos and ask, “How can I help?” and Dan says, “Go hide in our room.”
On a really challenging day, nauseated, dizzy, and weak, Dan called the ER nurse who asked if I had been playing any contact sports. “Just parenting,” he answered.
Of course the kids have also been my greatest medicine. Our friends have generously stepped in to invite the kids on playdates, and having just one kid at home is like having Mother Theresa come by with art supplies and comfort. Because I haven’t been able to homeschool, nag, worry, evaluate, or any of my usual parenting activities, I’m kind of like a friendly, slightly confused, noise-sensitive auntie who’s moved in. I join the family for meals, smiling benevolently at the children, even if I’m sometimes sitting at the table with my eyes closed and my hands over my ears.
With Mother Theresa (Col) I invent Pokemon characters and he draws them.
Also, if your mom is in bed, you don’t need to check with her first before receiving a haircut from a friend!
Because complete brain rest is crucial for healing, reading is sadly forbidden (my mom even texted me at one point to say: “no thinking!”), so I began listening to podcasts. For many days I stayed mostly in bed listening to podcasts from the live radio show The Moth (in which incredible storytellers tell mesmerizing stories) while the kids drifted in and out of my room.
(Recommended: Anything by her. This one about a free ride service for the GLBT community in Oakland, CA. Also this one about an exorcism for depression caused by evil spirits in rural Africa. Masterful storytelling about a wedding toast gone awry by Malcolm Gladwell.)
(Note: beloved local writer/performer Sarah Syverson is bringing The Raven Narratives, a live storytelling show—like The Moth but with Southwest flair—to Durango. More here).
I really don’t understand exactly what happens to the brain during a concussion, but it seems like some mental armor that leans towards busyness and self-protection gets stripped away. It was like some intellectual part of my brain checked out, exposing something more primitive. What was left was raw emotion, heightened physical sensation, and a bewildering appetite for food and, well, my hot husband.
So, for days, I laid in bed listening to The Moth Live Radio podcasts, crying and laughing and falling in love with all the storytellers. And then I’d ambush Dan, who may have just been innocently checking on me, though always willing to oblige. After it seemed that a pattern was being established, Dan mused in his grateful but unattached way, “I guess this must be part of your healing.”
Col’s lego narwhal, which in my highly emotional state, had me convinced it was OK that he doesn’t always start written sentences with capital letters. If he can build a lego narwhal from scratch, he can do anything!
Last night, upon my mom’s recommendation, we put on Mozart, for its brain-organizing benefits, while playing Ticket to Ride (our current collective favorite board game). Between my turns, I tended dinner; Col whistled and tapped the table; Rose smuggled the rat to the table via her hair and then shrieked when the rat scratched her neck. Which is to say, it was ordinary family life, requiring highest brain function and tolerance; and it all felt reassuringly normal.