January 5, 2014

Writing through Trauma

I was laying next to Joe on the pull-out sleeper, feeling his body jump in the way it does as he drifts away. I had been curled next to Ellie in her hospital bed, but found that I couldn't sleep as I was tempted to constantly open my eyes and watch her gentle, steady breathing. So I came to sleep with Joe in hopes that the familiarity of him next to me would help calm my nerves, firing like live wires throughout my body. No luck. I was just laying there, squeezing my eyes shut as the memory of her accident played again and again.

She's alright now. She's alright.

But still.

I haven't cried yet. That's why I'm here, rocking back and forth in the lactation room's glider, hiding out for some peace and quiet, typing this all out in hopes that the tears can come and that after the tears I will have rest. Joe said he sobbed on the way to Upstate hospital - a 1.5 hr drive from our home in Ithaca to Syracuse, NY. I couldn't sob then. I was in the back of the ambulance, stroking Ellie's hair and making small talk with the paramedic about the life of a first responder, asking the occasional question about what a depressed skull fracture actually meant for my daughter. Of course, she didn't have many answers. I'd have to wait until we got there - until the neurosurgeons took a look at her. In the mean time I clung to the hopeful information that her CT scan was clean: No signs of swelling or bleeding, the midline of her brain not showing any indication of severe trauma.

But still.

The doctor at Cayuga Medical Center back in Ithaca had rushed in to say that she had a fractured skull and that transport to a hospital with pediatric trauma care would be necessary. He mentioned neurosurgery and that they might need to lift that part of her skull back into place. That's when the tears first threatened to spill over. But I kept them back. Made all the necessary phone calls, made the plans that would get us through the next few days in case we were in Syracuse for long. Joe went home to gather our things and make arrangements for Wren's care. The ambulance came and I rode along with Ellie - who charmed the driver with her sweetness and told the paramedic how thrilled she was for the opportunity to "see the world." When we got here to Syracuse I started to feel more at ease. The doctors here are very comfortable dealing with her kind of injury and Ellie seemed even more alert and responsive than she had in the hours just following her accident. Still, I carried the weight of worry over my four year old having surgery until I finally couldn't wait for neuro any longer. I looked at the pediatrician handling her care and said, "So do you think this is a surgical case?" He seemed almost shocked by the question. Of course not! This was such a small fracture, her vitals were great - it would be very surprising if she went into surgery. And so I felt at ease for the first time since I saw it.

But still - I saw it.
I saw the accident and I keep seeing it every time I close my eyes to sleep.

Now that take-care-of-everything-so-her-child-survives-Mom is retired, the scared and traumatized part of me begins to awaken. I wish I could un-see it. But I saw her careening down the hill in the cemetery. I saw her face so full of glee as I chased after her runaway disc sled, desperate to stop it. She was laughing, blissfully unaware of how dangerously fast she was going - completely incapable of shifting her weight in such a way that would steer her safely through the curve. She went faster and faster down that hill as I screamed for her to hold on because my brain couldn't think of a way to yell for her to bail out - not a way that would have made any difference to her. And when she spun around, she faced me as the back of her head slammed into the stone outcropping of a platform - part of a grave marker, I think. One minute she was moving so fast, so fast down that hill. And suddenly all the force stopped for a split second as her body was folded forward by the impact and she flew a yard to the right. I saw her tiny, limp body fly through the air at a sickening angle before landing face first in the snow.

In that moment my entire being was filled with dread - horror landed in my stomach and stopped my world from turning, though my feet were still hurtling me toward her. She's gone. In a flash. She can't have survived that. I saw it with my own eyes and now my daughter is gone.

She wasn't moving. Joe and I got to her at the same time - he from the bottom of the hill and I from the top. It was only seconds after impact, but still, she hadn't moved. We rolled her over and saw her eyes, already open, staring blankly at the sky. We called her name, asked if she could hear us. She started to blink and cry. In that moment, when I saw that she was conscious, that she had movement and vocabulary, the most terrified parts of me went deep inside and the logical parts took over. Get her inside. Remove her hood and hat, register surprise to see so little blood. Insist that we go to a medical facility immediately. She needs a CT, she needs a CT. I told the doctor at the urgent care that the accident I witnessed was severe. Even though she wasn't vomiting and had even pupils, I insisted that the speed she was traveling and the fact that she took the force of impact solely on her head warranted a CT scan. He agreed and informed me that unfortunately, they couldn't do the scan at that facility. Thus began our travels to Cayuga Medical Center for the necessary image and then on to Upstate Hospital in Syracuse for further treatment.

And now, we....what?
Relax isn't quite the right word.
Celebrate doesn't match my mood.

Cry.

I cry with relief that my baby is OK. I feel gratitude that all she needed was one staple and 24 hours of observation before being released. I cry because my hands still shake and I continue to play that video of her in the moment of impact. I cry because she's going to be well, and I cry because she hurt. She's small and innocent and vulnerable and I cry that I didn't protect her from this.

Then maybe I'll sleep. Some more rocking, some more crying - and maybe sleep will come.

17 comments:

  1. So glad everybody is ok! Let us know if you need anything!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Wow, such a crazy story. Reading about the accident brought tears to my eyes. I am so so glad she's okay. Love you guys!!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Hi. You don't know me but I went to school with Joe. I have 3 boys...4, 2, and 1 and what you experienced is every mothers fear. You put your feelings into words so beautifully. I'm so thankfull that your sweet little girl is ok. My husband and I will pray for you all.

    ReplyDelete
  4. I'm so sorry Whitney! It is a miracle that she is doing so well and so cheerful! I can't imagine what it is like to watch your child get hurt. I hope that the flashbacks subside and Ellie makes a full recovery!

    ReplyDelete
  5. Just wow. I am sorry you had to go through all that. My mom-heart is sore for you guys. It is a relief she is ok. Crying is good. Be sure to have a long good one. And know that you have an army of prayers behind you.

    ReplyDelete
  6. So relived that Ellie is ok. When I got the call from Joe about the accident his voice cracked and I cried so scared for you both and I was so far away.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Oh Whitney! I'm so grateful she's okay! I can't imagine how scary that would be. We love you and are praying for a swift recovery! I hope that Ellie feels she has seen "enough of the world" for now!

    ReplyDelete
  8. Oh Whitney! I was thinking of you today. Thinking of texting you just to see how you were. Now I wish I had. Oh how I ache for you! I am SO RELIEVED that she doesn't need surgery!!! Make sure you have some good cries as you take care of sweet Ellie. Take care of yourself too. You are in my prayers!

    ReplyDelete
  9. Oh Whitney, I'm so grateful for the gift of Ellie's continued life with you and Joe. Life is so very precious. Love and prayers that you can all cry, heal and grow in just the right ways from this. Marti

    ReplyDelete
  10. Whitney, I absolutely and completely understand. You could be describing me after Charlotte's accident.

    Charlotte got hit on Monday morning. I cried Wednesday night. It took awhile but the trauma caught up.

    The images haven't left me yet. I still tense up when a car starts reversing anywhere near me or the girls. When I get really stressed, I have nightmares of it again, but this time with each of my girls. I still think about it. The curse of the mother is to have your heart outside of your body every minute. It still replays in my mind, like a DVD stuck repeating one scene. Every detail, every feeling, panic, relief, a Presence, peace, worry...like I just experienced it again.

    But. We are blessed. Our girls are alright. They were protected. We had access to great medical care. They heal. We can heal too.

    It will be alright. For both of you. For both of us.

    ReplyDelete
  11. I remember Fielding crawling over the hatchback of our Kia Sportage and watching the door tip down, landed on his head and opened up a big gash. I remember being unable to prevent the wide stroller from rolling over with (my now older) 3 in it. Just last week, I endo'd the jogging stroller trying to run a mountain bike trail and veritably smashed my girls under me after promising Charlotte everything would be fine...Nothing worse than watching your kids get hurt. But, parenting and living--they are dangerous business and we all admire the way you do both. Love, Scott

    ReplyDelete
  12. You are a brave and strong mama! That is terrifying, scary, horrifying, and everything else terrible thrown together. Thank goodness she will not have to have surgery, and I hope she recovers fast and strong. Have a million good cries and hold her tight!

    ReplyDelete
  13. Oh my goodness Whitney! I'm so sorry that Ellie and all you went through this! How terrifying. I'm so glad she'll be all right. Whew!

    ReplyDelete
  14. Whitney, I'm so glad that Ellie is ok and doesn't need surgery! Your story made my palms sweat and my heart race, even though Nate read it first and had already told me the ending. I so wish I could come give you a big hug! I hope the tears come soon and bring a sweet release. You and Ellie (and Joe and Wren, too!) will be in our prayers.

    ReplyDelete
  15. Whitney, I'm so glad that Ellie is ok. How horrific. I can't imagine witnessing that. I just read Haley's blog too. I think we will avoid the disc sleds for now.

    ReplyDelete
  16. I hope everything continues to play out the very best it can for you. What a wonderful blessing that she is doing so amazingly well, but how terrifying. Our prayers are with you.

    ReplyDelete
  17. Pulling for Ellie and your family - deep in the heart of Texas! Keep us posted -
    love you, Lou Ellen

    ReplyDelete