Today was not a good day. I cried over spilt milk. Not figuratively. Not metaphorically. Literally. It was not my best parenting moment, to say the least.
To be fair, it wasn’t exactly a glass of milk; It was a collagen protein shake. But it did have almond milk in it and it did spill all over the sofa, floor and my son, so it’s basically the same thing. Anyway, I’m not proud of my reaction, but it’s the truth. My truth. In stressful situations, I often cry, scream, swear, bitch … and then I do what needs to be done. It’s not pretty, but it’s who I am, for better or worse.
Let me back up and start from the beginning …
Two weeks ago, while in Maryland for his final lacrosse tournament of the summer, my 15-year-old son was badly injured. Badly enough that he was taken off the field on a stretcher and transported via ambulance to a nearby hospital, where fentanyl was offered and surgery suggested. We opted against both and drove straight home to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHoP), where he was admitted and prepped for surgery early the next morning. After three days in the hospital, we (and I say “we” because I stayed with him and slept on the couch next to his hospital bed) came home. That’s when shit got real.
It’s like when you have a baby: You’re in the hospital with round-the-clock care and attention, and then three days later you’re discharged with nothing more than a stack of papers and warm wishes. You’re left alone with a helpless human being to figure out what to do next. WTF?! Sure, bringing a teenager home after surgery isn’t exactly the same as bringing home a newborn baby, but just a like an infant, my 15-year-old currently cannot take care of himself. At all. He needs to be fed, bathed, dressed, held and put to bed every day. Okay, maybe not held, but you get the picture. Right now, he cannot function without help. I am seriously at his beck and call all day every day. He can’t reach down to adjust the pillows under his knee, scratch an itch on his foot or even reach the TV remote. He cannot get in and out of bed or the shower alone, or get on and off the toilet without assistance (can you say teenage toilet training?). He’s basically a 5’10” hairy newborn with a cell phone. Let that sink in for a moment … I’m pretty sure I did not sign up for this.
To say this caretaker business is cramping my style would be an understatement. Waiting on someone hand and foot is not my jam. To all my nurse friends, you guys rock. Mad props to Kerry, Caitlin, Tricia, Aimee, Liz, Kathy and everyone else who does this on the regular. Seriously, I don’t know how you do it. Two weeks in and I can honestly say that I am not cut out for this profession. [Note to my aging parents: I promise to find you a comfortable nursing home when the time comes. You may be better off!]
But this experience isn’t really about me. Yes, it’s been challenging and stressful for me and I’ve lost my shit more times than I should publicly admit, but the true warrior these past two weeks has been my son. To endure a season-ending injury at 15 years old is devastatingly painful, both physically and emotionally. But despite a few down moments, he’s been tough. Tougher than I give him credit for. He’s refused all opioids and any narcotics stronger than Tylenol and Motrin (I guess the high school’s scared-straight anti-drug assembly worked!) and he continues to challenge himself physically every day — in between long sessions of Fortnite and binge watching Netflix and lacrosse videos, of course. In a few days, the staples come out (the three screws stay in) and hopefully the surgeon will clear him for physical therapy. He’s ready. I’m ready. Actually, I’m not sure who’s more eager for this next stage of recovery to begin, him or me. Either way, I think we’re both looking forward to him being more independent again — especially when it comes to showering.
They say everything happens for a reason. It may be cruel and unfair, but this injury has provided my son some much-needed downtime to refocus, reevaluate and plan for the future, not to mention learn a new skill (stringing lacrosse heads) and finally start his summer reading! But more importantly, I think it’s provided perspective about what’s really important — our health and the people in our lives. For me, once I stopped crying over the smoothie mess, I laughed uncontrollably about the absurdity of it all and then felt a wave of gratitude. Gratitude for my son’s health (the break was bad, but it could have been so much worse) and the expert staff at CHoP who cared for our son professionally, compassionately and competently; for my college bestie who hooked us up in the ER, visited daily and provided both emotional support and medical knowledge to help us make informed decisions; for our lacrosse family who helped us on the scene and followed up with countless messages of support and concern; and for our extended family and friends whose love and solicitude has brightened our days and filled our hearts.
As with all things in life — good and bad — this place we’re in now won’t last forever. And even if this next stage of recovery is difficult, it too shall pass and we will survive it. I will survive it and my son will survive it because we are both stubborn, strong and badass like that. Besides, we lived through the awkwardness of sponge baths and toilet re-training together, so we got this.
– LJDT
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