That Time I Didn’t Have a Concussion

On February 18, I learn that if you have an open head wound, there’s no waiting at the ER. They make sure you’re in a wheelchair and take you right back to a room. Before seven stitches close the gash above my left eye, and before an x-ray confirms my shoulder fracture, a doctor tells me I have a mild concussion. I twist my face into a disdainful smile. What an idiot, I think.

The next day, when I overhear my husband telling a friend that I am concussed, he gets the same ugly smirk. Bah! I think. Why can’t he get his facts straight?

After my fall, I am propped up on pillows on the couch, doing that miserable calculation between pain management and side effects. Sleep is elusive and brief. On day three, I announce to Brad that the grand collie hasn’t been walked for six hours. While he’s out with her, I remember that, in fact, middle son took her not that long ago.

When he comes back, I apologize. I completely forgot Westy took her!  Then comes an ugly moment of recognition, followed by a confession.  Oh my god—I think I had a concussion!

Yeah, I think you did. This man of mine looks at me with such kind patience. He unhooks the collie from her harness and starts dinner.  I get up from the couch and wince, tugging my sling around my elbow.

In the kitchen I ask, Was I daffy that day, when you got home?

Yup. You told the same stories over and over. You’ve been pretty goofy.

Weston, who sat in the ER with me for hours, joins us and adds, Mom, you told me like ten times to go get some lunch. And you were really, really happy to see every single person who came in the room. I mean, even more than your usual personality.

A few days later, a half-moon of pain appears inside my forehead, a pulsing white headache that extends backwards through my skull. I am, once again, simply amazed. On bright days, I wear sunglasses inside. I close my eyes and become curious about the shapes of my headaches, how the half-moon becomes a crescent or sometimes splits into two purple lights. Over zoom, my doctor tells me that concussions need time and rest. She tells me not to go back to my normal activities and to limit screen time. No more one-handed loading of the dishwasher so I can feel at least minimally useful. No more binging Love is Blind on my iPad as the meds smooth down some of my bone pain. And no writing for week after long week.