My son and his wife (and my brand-new grandson, Baby Jack) live in the middle of the woods (i.e. nowhere) in Wisconsin where he works at a residential school for troubled high school boys. He called me today, which is rare. After several minutes of “How’s my grandson? Send pictures!!” Graham got around to the real reason he was calling.
“I got a concussion at work,” he said nonchalantly, but I have enough of a Mother Radar to know that he really meant “I got hit in the head and I’m a bit scared about it.” Unfortunately, I had just finished reading the recent article in Time (Sept. 29, 2014) about the high school football player who died after getting concussed at a game. So, let’s just say that the Mother Radar was on full blast.
What could I do? I live 1,500 miles away. I ran through the list. Did you fill out Workers Comp paperwork? Are you doing what the doctor says? Are you drinking enough water? Check. Check. And check. I told him that I loved him, to hang in there (and to maybe look for another job). Then I hung up.
I don’t have a lot of natural mother instincts. I’ve always had a job. I was the high school mother who would donate money rather than spend time sorting band uniforms. I didn’t let Graham bring his laundry home from college. But my mother heart was sure beating quickly today.