The Tea Room Community Group
This is a private group by invitation only. It is a group for those who have a loved one with a brain injury. This group was not founded by me but I will serve as the founder temporarily as one of the first members.
As I mentioned to Lyndee, I have found that writing about my son's accident just. . . helps. Here's one I wrote last year because I just couldn't get the endless loop of feelings when I first heard of the accident out of my head.
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Suddenly I am cold. Not a chicken-skin kind of cold. Not a body-hugging kind of cold. This is the bone-chilling, soul-numbing kind of cold that only comes from knowing, with utmost certainty, that something is dreadfully, horribly wrong.
Not wanting to bother the receptionist again, I approach a police officer standing guard near the emergency room entrance. "Can you please help me find my son? I got a call that he was in an accident. The ambulance was supposed to bring him here, but no one knows where he is."
(My God, you sound like a scared little girl. The cop is going to think you're a nutter.)
I swipe the tears from my cheeks and try again, embarrassed to discover that now I am beginning to ramble. "I know you're not from my town, but maybe you know the police there. Maybe you can call them and ask where my son is. Maybe they know where the ambulance is. Can you please help me find my son?" The last words are barely audible because I am crying in earnest now.
(Get a hold of yourself. For God's sake, you are overreacting.)
But I know. As somehow a mother does, I know.
The officer escorts me to the same kind but harried receptionist who has already told me twice in the past 20 minutes that the ambulance hasn't arrived yet. For the third time I begin my story. "I got a call that my son was in an accident. He was dirt biking with friends, and the ambulance was supposed to bring him here. . ."
She consults her computer monitor. "I'm sorry, but he's still not here." Fleeting awareness crosses the woman's face as she clicks the mouse once more, and a gentler tone infects her voice as she continues, "Wait. I think I know where he might be."
The receptionist swivels away from me and whispers into the telephone, then I am following her through a maze of sterile hallways. She ushers me into a small room not far from a set of double doors stamped boldly in red with the words TRAUMA BAY. "Are you here alone? Is anyone with you?" she asks.
(No. Dear God, no. No, no, no, no, no!)
-----
I can't control the shaking as I dial the phone.
"Son has been in an accident. Hon, they say it's bad."
(Oh my God, I can't do this alone.)
"No, they won't let me see him. All I know is he hit his head. No, they won't tell me anything else. "
(Jesus Christ, stop asking questions!)
"Please drive fast."
(I need you. . .)
"Please, Hon, please hurry."
I sink into a chair. The terror within me threatens to escape, and in an effort to contain it I shove a fist hard against my mouth. A sob claws its way out, then another. I keen, and I wail, and I howl.
There are no words, only the sounds of a mother's pain.
--------------
Suddenly I am cold. Not a chicken-skin kind of cold. Not a body-hugging kind of cold. This is the bone-chilling, soul-numbing kind of cold that only comes from knowing, with utmost certainty, that something is dreadfully, horribly wrong.
Not wanting to bother the receptionist again, I approach a police officer standing guard near the emergency room entrance. "Can you please help me find my son? I got a call that he was in an accident. The ambulance was supposed to bring him here, but no one knows where he is."
(My God, you sound like a scared little girl. The cop is going to think you're a nutter.)
I swipe the tears from my cheeks and try again, embarrassed to discover that now I am beginning to ramble. "I know you're not from my town, but maybe you know the police there. Maybe you can call them and ask where my son is. Maybe they know where the ambulance is. Can you please help me find my son?" The last words are barely audible because I am crying in earnest now.
(Get a hold of yourself. For God's sake, you are overreacting.)
But I know. As somehow a mother does, I know.
The officer escorts me to the same kind but harried receptionist who has already told me twice in the past 20 minutes that the ambulance hasn't arrived yet. For the third time I begin my story. "I got a call that my son was in an accident. He was dirt biking with friends, and the ambulance was supposed to bring him here. . ."
She consults her computer monitor. "I'm sorry, but he's still not here." Fleeting awareness crosses the woman's face as she clicks the mouse once more, and a gentler tone infects her voice as she continues, "Wait. I think I know where he might be."
The receptionist swivels away from me and whispers into the telephone, then I am following her through a maze of sterile hallways. She ushers me into a small room not far from a set of double doors stamped boldly in red with the words TRAUMA BAY. "Are you here alone? Is anyone with you?" she asks.
(No. Dear God, no. No, no, no, no, no!)
-----
I can't control the shaking as I dial the phone.
"Son has been in an accident. Hon, they say it's bad."
(Oh my God, I can't do this alone.)
"No, they won't let me see him. All I know is he hit his head. No, they won't tell me anything else. "
(Jesus Christ, stop asking questions!)
"Please drive fast."
(I need you. . .)
"Please, Hon, please hurry."
I sink into a chair. The terror within me threatens to escape, and in an effort to contain it I shove a fist hard against my mouth. A sob claws its way out, then another. I keen, and I wail, and I howl.
There are no words, only the sounds of a mother's pain.
There was a older couple sitting next to Tims friends, and the woman leaned over to her husband and says "Ohhhh dear it was a Motorcycle accident" and she starts to cry..... it was like the whole ER waiting area was just waiting for my arrival....