Stands for Traumatic Brain Injury.
Cause: Helmet to Helmet hit on the football field.
Necessary Action: Go to the Doctor.
Treatment: Time off the Line.
Reaction: “It’s all your fault, Mom.”
Yep. I’m the one who insisted on him playing football, even though he begged to sing in the choir instead. I am also the one who told him he was a puss and needed to hit a whole lot harder. I refused to listen to his complaints about having a headache for over a week. Oh wait, he didn’t complain because I told him to lie about the headache and deny that he had one. I also stubbornly didn’t agree with him that he knows more than the ER Doc and doesn’t have a concussion. And I am definitely the driving force behind the national movement to save athletes from long-term brain damage by implementing more rigid protocols for allowing those athletes back on the field after a hard knock.
Obviously, All. My. Fault.
After yesterday’s second doctor appointment for the head, the appointment wherein the doctor said, “Yes, it is a concussion. No, you shouldn’t have been playing last week. Yes, you should have told your mother and coach about the headaches. No, you’re not going back in this week. And, yes, TBIs are very serious,” we walked out to the car in a torrential rainstorm, the silence between us thickening with each falling drop.
I unlocked my door and got in the car. He pressed his face against the window saying “Are you serious?” as I decided if I would let him in or not.
I begrudgingly did.
As we drove home I said, “Now is the time to say, thank you, Mom, for caring so much about my well-being. I am sorry, Mom, that I yelled at you and accused you of ruining everything for me…”
Then, “…repeat after me, ‘I. Was. Wrong.'”
“I can’t say those words, Mom. Not in my lexicon.”
‘Wrong’ isn’t, but ‘lexicon’ is?
I rolled down the window on his side (Love power windows. Also love the child-lock.) I figured a good dousing would at least make me feel better.
He still can’t utter the word ‘wrong’, but I think he gets the message.