My Son’s Concussion, My Mommy Fail

by Randi Olin for Raising Kvell

I didn’t learn about my son’s concussion until a day after it had happened, when I saw the middle school phone number on my caller ID. “Daniel’s here,” Nurse Nancy said. “He apparently hit his head yesterday. He’s not feeling well.”

“My head hurts,” Daniel said in a soft whisper. “And this morning it was blurry when I read for too long.” My “mama bear” instincts went into overdrive even after he followed up with, “but I got some Tylenol and it’s starting to feel better.”

“When did you hit your head?” I asked. “Do you want to come home?” I couldn’t help but pepper him with questions, probably enough to reverse any effect the pain medication had already had. He wanted to stay in school, he said, go back to class and go on with his day. I stared out the front window, watching the leaves fall from the massive elm trees, making their way down to the ground in a dance of rust and oranges twirls.

How could I have missed this? I thought I had mastered being “in tune” with my 12- and 15-year-old children’s needs, keeping sufficient distance when necessary, yet always maintaining a watchful and empathetic eye. Especially since my maternal mishap from seven years before, when Daniel was 5. When he tripped over his light-up, multi-siren shiny red fire truck and broke his fall with his right hand. He cried. We iced it. And then we put him to bed, assuring him it would be all better in the morning. He woke up hours later, screaming in pain. A call into our pediatrician led to a late night run to the emergency room. Four x-rays and several consults later, Daniel left with a splint on his arm, and a cherry lollipop in his mouth. The next day, when he chose a fluorescent hue of blue for the color of his cast, the nagging feeling of maternal failure lingered in my mind.

As soon as Daniel came home from school I was waiting for him, with a container of pineapple chunks and homemade banana bread. “You O.K.?” I asked, putting my hand on his shoulder. He nodded. He told me it had happened during the Yom Kippur services the day prior, when he and his two friends left their seats for an extended trip to the bathroom. I remember it now. The three boys had been sitting a couple of rows behind my husband, Doug, my daughter, Emily, and me. When Daniel walked down the aisle, he glanced over and gestured his head towards the door, mouthing “bathroom.” But, at the time, how could I have anticipated that what he really meant was a walk to one of his friend’s cars to grab a football? That after having a catch, one of the boys put the football back into his car and inadvertently slammed the trunk on Daniel’s head? My son cried as he walked back to service, walking a couple of paces in front of the other boys so as to hide his tears.

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