Coup Contrecoup
672 run, 328 to go.
Decorum is gone. The littlest is vomiting in the ER late at night so you shout at the desk person who is asking if he was born in May or June, to get him something to vomit into. You hold your hand under your boy's chin as he retches, you hold him steady. You scoop him up, cradle carry him into triage and hold him while they take pulse ox and temp readings. They tell you to wait, you watch his hazel eyes wander and roll, watch as he struggles to stay awake. You report his inability to stay awake as he starts to retch again. Demand (don't they GET this?) something to catch his sick.
Someone comes to take you into an examining room where he is laid out on a clean white bed. You explain his dive bomb adventure (and into the comfiest couch in the world, who would've thought?), how he repeated the funny looking, arms-at-side-head-smash into the cushions three or four times. They say he'll need a CAT scan, you carry your warm sleeping boy down sterile, cold, quiet halls. You lay him on the table, position his sweet skull in the brace designed to keep him still. A technician lays heavy lead aprons across your little boy, says "he's covered completely with lead." You check and double check, adjusting the drape by centimeters.
You leave the room, peek through a door hinge at the scans being taken. There is his brain. Last time you saw shots like that, he was floating inside of you. Technician opens the door to the scan room, you see that after the lead drapes, she had strapped your baby's head in place. You see, in a flash, the fortune that is yours - this is a quick trip, a goofball injury, no biggie. But still. He is strapped down and covered in lead drapes.
Minutes later, a radiologist has cleared your boy. He has a concussion, but no traumatic injury. It was just a couch she says, but it was a repeated motion.
Coup Contrecoup.
Brain slams forward, hits skull - coup.
Brain slams back, hits rear of skull - countrecoup.
Reverberation, shock.
She says it will be a bad next few days. He might be disoriented, he needs quiet and rest.
Coup Contrecoup.
There will be a follow up, a co-pay, the business of injury conducted in offices, but actual healing is done by way of rest and time. Body and mind find their own way to healing, you can only wait and watch, call for help if disorientation persists. He'll need rest they say, it may be a bad few days. Still though, you count your blessings.
Everything is going to be ok.
*** a special shout out to the man who offered a smile and a thumbs up during today's exhausted 4 miler. Much needed sir, thanks.
Be well,
Jenny
Decorum is gone. The littlest is vomiting in the ER late at night so you shout at the desk person who is asking if he was born in May or June, to get him something to vomit into. You hold your hand under your boy's chin as he retches, you hold him steady. You scoop him up, cradle carry him into triage and hold him while they take pulse ox and temp readings. They tell you to wait, you watch his hazel eyes wander and roll, watch as he struggles to stay awake. You report his inability to stay awake as he starts to retch again. Demand (don't they GET this?) something to catch his sick.
Someone comes to take you into an examining room where he is laid out on a clean white bed. You explain his dive bomb adventure (and into the comfiest couch in the world, who would've thought?), how he repeated the funny looking, arms-at-side-head-smash into the cushions three or four times. They say he'll need a CAT scan, you carry your warm sleeping boy down sterile, cold, quiet halls. You lay him on the table, position his sweet skull in the brace designed to keep him still. A technician lays heavy lead aprons across your little boy, says "he's covered completely with lead." You check and double check, adjusting the drape by centimeters.
You leave the room, peek through a door hinge at the scans being taken. There is his brain. Last time you saw shots like that, he was floating inside of you. Technician opens the door to the scan room, you see that after the lead drapes, she had strapped your baby's head in place. You see, in a flash, the fortune that is yours - this is a quick trip, a goofball injury, no biggie. But still. He is strapped down and covered in lead drapes.
Minutes later, a radiologist has cleared your boy. He has a concussion, but no traumatic injury. It was just a couch she says, but it was a repeated motion.
Coup Contrecoup.
Brain slams forward, hits skull - coup.
Brain slams back, hits rear of skull - countrecoup.
Reverberation, shock.
She says it will be a bad next few days. He might be disoriented, he needs quiet and rest.
Coup Contrecoup.
There will be a follow up, a co-pay, the business of injury conducted in offices, but actual healing is done by way of rest and time. Body and mind find their own way to healing, you can only wait and watch, call for help if disorientation persists. He'll need rest they say, it may be a bad few days. Still though, you count your blessings.
Everything is going to be ok.
*** a special shout out to the man who offered a smile and a thumbs up during today's exhausted 4 miler. Much needed sir, thanks.
Be well,
Jenny
Oh no!! Who would've thought? How is he today??? How are you?
ReplyDeleteHey Rob, he's good. Slept a ton and watched a movie or three. The visuals all night though, tiny boy sliding into the CT scan machine, rolling eyes, dizziness trying to knock him down. It may take me longer to recover...
ReplyDelete