The back of my baby's skull connected with sickening force onto bitumen this evening. I felt the thud reverberate through my feet, it was that hard. Do you know what I mean when I say bitumen? The lovely doctor at the hospital didn't. It's the hard gear Aussie kids call 'ashfelt'. The stuff roads are made out of. It is hard, rough, black, and unforgiving. It's also fantastic to bounce balls on, which is why most outdoors basketball courts are made of asphalt, or bitumen.
The Mouse's head didn't bounce.
The reason my baby was playing on the school asphalt at 7pm on a Thursday was because we were attending an end-of-term family BBQ evening. It had been really low-key, very enjoyable - a sausage sizzle, a crazy hat parade, and an Easter egg raffle. All of my crowd from last year were there, so I spent about an hour and a half chatting with my friends while alternately chasing Mais and wiping sauce off various children's chins.
In the last few weeks, the Mouse has abandoned all vestiges of babyhood, to the point where she vehemently told Jack a week or so ago, "I NOT a baby!" Which is fair enough - after all, she is the age Phoebe was when the Mouse was born. She chatters non-stop ("Mumma, Jack tool!" "Yes, Mais, Jack's at school." "Mumma, Beebee ninda!" "Yes, Mais, Beebee is at kinder." "Mumma, Daddy vork!" "Yes, Mais, Daddy's at work." "Mumma, tar!" "Yes, Mais, that's a car." etc. etc. etc.....) She has become particularly insistent that we understand every word she utters, even the really nonsensical baby chatter that flows from her lips when the enthusiasm is just too hard to control. She sings songs constantly, both real and made-up, labels everything, and insists on a verbal exchange. It's very adorable, and only mildly exhausting because I know it doesn't last.
I very nearly didn't go tonight, because Mais has been battling a nasty cold and cough all week, and has just managed to pass it on to me. But since I knew how disappointed Jack would be if we missed the parade, I manned up and got us all there in time for the sodiges. The Mouse was having a ball running with Beebee and her friend Milla, and it wasn't too hard to keep her in a safe area. In the last 30 seconds that we were there, as I said goodbye to a friend, I watched Maisie fall far too quickly onto the asphalt. She fell backwards, so she couldn't break her fall with her arms, and smacked her head mightily on the ground.
The group of adults I stood with all felt the impact of her little head hitting the bitumen. Only I saw her fall. Only Jack saw the kid who pushed her, and who slunk away as the adults ran to scoop her up.
There was no blood, no eyes-rolling-into-the-back-of-the-head, no convulsions. What there was, was silence. This was the thing that scared me most - the fact that she did not cry, or scream, or chatter. She was just silent, with her face buried in my neck. Once we put the ice pack on her poor swollen skull, she began to cry with pain. I was so relieved.
We took her straight to our local hospital, which was in the throes of what the triage nurse called "a feral night". She warned me that we would have to wait four hours, as was standard for concussion observation. I didn't care. As long as my Mouse was safe, I'd stay all night.
In the end, we were so lucky, in so many ways. Jack was taken safely to his mate's house, to spend the night having (we can only assume) a Star Wars festival (and for that I must say thank you and sorry! to my beautiful Renee and Darren - you are life savers! (or should that be light sabres??)) We were permitted to wait in the paediatric waiting room, away from the psychiatric patient waiting to be admitted in the ED waiting room. Maisie happily played with Phoebe, only pausing to tense up when a nurse or doctor entered the room. We only waited an hour to be seen - something the nurse apologised for profusely, which I couldn't understand. An hour in an overcrowded Emergency Department, in a hospital taking the overflow ambulances from the other surrounding hospitals? Are you serious?
Once admitted, Maisie was seen by the kindest, most patient nurses and doctors you could hope for. She was given a teddy to cuddle (and take home - thank goodness! He was promptly named 'Daddy', which is quite fitting since he is dark purple and very furry, and is in her arms as we speak...) and was allowed to clutch Beebee when the really scary heart monitor went on her finger.
The haematoma on the back of her head swelled greatly while we were in there, and began to weep. I was so relieved we were there. The doctor who let us come home under strict observation instructions warned us that since it was such a hard knock, they would have kept her in if she were any younger. But he allowed us back to our cold, dark home under the promise that we would dial 000 if she were less-than-perfect in the next 24 hours.
Which is why I am here, talking to you (which I have wanted to do for a week, but had a whingy snotty toddler and a job (also, at times, whingy and snotty) to deal with). Over the last week, I was going to tell you about the cockroach in my handbag, and Archie's visit to the vet with his three 'helpers' in tow, who filled the vet's waiting room with farts, and about our (absent) concretors, and about other stuff I can't remember now. Instead, I am filling in time while my girl sleeps her headache away.
Apparently we only need to wake her once tonight, to check that she is still responding to stimuli. I highly doubt that once will feel like enough. I worked hard at making that skull, and the skin that covers it. It took me a long time to craft that perfect little face, and the personality that lights up her smile. I spent months creating that gorgeous little body. I have spent years pouring love into the entire package. I'm not about to let her light leave my life, just because I needed to go to sleep. If I need to stay up all night, just to keep her safe, then that is what I will do.
I know all kids fall over. I know most kids are fairly unbreakable. I know we were awesomely, supremely lucky tonight (and not just because we could escape the howls of the second psychiatric patient in the ED ward...) It's just that, in less than a second, my little girl got hurt in a way that could have been so much worse. I'm simultaneously stunned that she's relatively ok, relieved that we were home before midnight, and weepy. Just because I am.
And at the next family BBQ at school, the Mouse is wearing a stackhat. No arguments. Because her head might heal, but I don't know if my heart could stand up to another incident like this!
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