My Twice Baked Potato

It’s been almost a week since my mother’s accident.

When we came in from the beach and all those messages came through our phone, everything else stopped.

We didn’t know the details, the severity, the whole story of what happened.

I think I’m glad about that.

We wouldn’t have waited until it was light if we did.

We wouldn’t have been able to get even the sleep that we did.

We wouldn’t have been able to function if we had the whole picture.

I think my brain purposely kept me in the dark because as I sit here, I know that’s the trauma center. That’s where those people go when those horrific accidents take place out there.

Not my mother.

Despite the broken ribs, fractured thumb, pelvis injury, deep contusions, black burnt heels, horrible memories…she wants to know what I’m having for dinner.

The experts are evaluating.

The respiratory people want her to breathe.

The orthos want her to move.

The therapist wants her to forget.

Funny thing, my mother has a lovely roommate. They giggle and laugh late at night when they should be sleeping.

Together, they complain about the  unrecognizable veggies in the omelet and the fact they always need to go to the bathroom when the nurses are the busiest.

Thank god for this stranger because she is a constant right now in this otherwise chaotic time.

My son senses this chaos even though I try to hide it.

There’s shorter fuses and more tears. Increased nervous habits and more clinginess during the day. He saw me upset and scared out of mind. He acted like he didn’t hear it, but he did.

He’s healing too.

Despite it all, we are grateful and we remind her to be thankful when she’s frustrated, tired or overwhelmed.