Micah's Major Mishap

When we made our Summer to-do list in May, one of the activities most anticipated was our trip to Jumpstreet.

image from their website, here

Yards and yards of tumble tracks turned up at the ends.  Three giant inflatable bounce toys.  A foam pit.  A dodge ball court.  Every kid's dream.

I piled all five kids in the Suburban, drove through Taco Bell for their mega 12-pack, and we made the 25-minute drive out to Chandler.

Lucky for us, when we arrived very few people had the same plan for the day--the place was deserted.  My kids were in heaven and they scattered in every direction.  Evie and I headed for the couch in the little kid area, made ourselves comfortable, and began laughing at the antics.

Our exciting adventure ended within five minutes.  I didn't see it, but Micah came speeding down one of the inflatables, hit a weird angle and careened off at an uncontrollable direction, landing smack on the back of his head.  I looked up to see him staggering drunkenly towards me, crying.  A lady behind him described what she'd seen, adding, "It was really loud."

For the record, I consider myself an experienced mom.  I've done concussions before--four times, in fact.  Twice with Ben on the football field, once with Lily off a kitchen chair, and once with Heidi at gymnastics.  I know what to watch for and what the warning signs are.  He never lost consciousness.  He never threw up.  His pupils were equal, small, and reactive.  Younger, less experienced me would have freaked out, but with all these other head injuries under my belt, I was pretty calm. 

He landed on the couch next to me, with his head in my lap.  He cried for a while and refused to go play or even sit up because it hurt too much.  After about fifteen minutes, we moved to another chair where we could watch the big kids on the tumble tracks.  He fell asleep (for those of you less experienced head injury folks, it's okay if kids fall asleep for a little while after a head injury, as long as they can be wakened and are reactive as they sleep--twitch, move, whatever), and I stayed close as I cheered the other kids.  He slept for about ten minutes, then popped up, ready to bounce, jump and go crazy.  I let him try, but it was too much for his head, so we got ready to leave--this was about 45 minutes since his fall.  We piled back in the car and began the journey home.  Ben promised Micah he could play his new Wii game with him, and this seemed to comfort Micah a little.

Then

As we got nearer to home, Micah became more and more agitated, hysterically crying and complaining about his head.  He was inconsolable and loud.  Less than a mile from home, he suddenly became quiet, and I began to get concerned.  Lily looked in the back seat and said, "He's okay.  He's asleep."  Um, no.  He had passed out.  Lily tried to waken him, but she was unsuccessful.  I sped as quickly as I dared home, gave Lily and Ben instructions to get the rest of the kiddos in the house, and I carried  now-hysterical Micah to the kitchen counter.  Holding his face in my hands, I screamed in his face, "Micah, is it getting worse?  Talk to me!"  He would neither address me nor calm down. I gave him Tylenol then carried him to the couch where he immediately lay down and passed out again. Now my concern was morphing to panic.  I barked quick directions to Ben, and Micah and I hurried back to the Suburban, this time headed for the emergency room.  He lost consciousness at least once more on the twenty-minute drive to the hospital, with my whispered prayers and tears trying to waken him from the front seat.

Once admitted to the pediatric ER, I thought he would calm down and return to normal.  Wrong again.  They attempted a C/T scan, but he was so crazed and agitated--he even escaped the strap--that they almost had to sedate him to complete the test.

I carried him back to our room after the completed test, and there I experienced probably the hardest two hours I've ever had as a mom.  Completely irrational.  Hysterical.  Could not listen to reason.  He kept begging me to take him home and shrieking for a drink.  A few times he would come to his senses, and he would pitifully state, "Mom, somebody help me.  I'm going to die.  My head is going to explode."  A few times, I would be sitting right in front of him, he would look straight at me, then scream, "Mommy!  Where are you?  Help me!"  Through my sobs I would try to calm him, telling him I was right in front of him, can't you see me?  And he alternately could or couldn't.

I was so scared.

Finally, he crashed.

And when I say crashed, I mean completely and utterly exhausted to his soul.  Poor guy.  I was so happy to see him finally peaceful that I tried not to disturb him, even when the doctor came in and told me that there was no evidence of an internal bleed or a fracture (Thank Heaven). But when he said we could go home, I tried to rouse him, and the hysterical behavior returned, much to my and the doctor's surprise.

Even though the scan was clear, he decided to admit Micah to the PICU, where he could have a neurological consult and be observed overnight, just to be sure.  He was diagnosed with a Level 2 concussion, accompanied by post-concussion syndrome--a state where we just needed to wait for his brain to hit the reset button.

One dose of ibuprofen and an attempt to take vital signs later, we were on our way up to the PICU.  That seemed a little much to me, but . . . whatever.  Once up on the second floor, he was evaluated by the on-duty doctor and the neurologist.  And then, he woke up.

And when I say woke up, I mean he had hit the reset button.  He wanted Gatorade and to resume watching Bolt.  He watched two more movies (Guardians of Ga-Hoole and The Sorcerer's Apprentice), ate a few Doritos, and showed me he could read and reason.  I was convinced that we could go home, but they insisted we should stay overnight.  When Brad got to the hospital, he agreed with me, and we decided to leave the hospital AMA (against medical advice), promising we'd wake him once in the night and that we'd watch for any further issues.

By the next morning, Micah was hardly complaining of a headache, and now that it's been five days, he complains that he can't dive or jump on the tramp or go to Bounce U for at least two more weeks while we wait for the bruise on his brain to heal.  He's back to playing the piano constantly, light saber fighting, and swimming three times a day.

And he's counting down the days to July 29th--the day he can go back to Jumpstreet. Can I do it?  I don't know.

Things I learned from this whole ordeal:
Even if you've been there and done that with one kid, the next one will throw you a curve ball, sure as I spent seven hours at the hospital.
I so often forget how life can change in an instant.
And never underestimate the power of a quickly whispered prayer of desperation. He listens.

Linking up to Jenny Matlock's M at Alphabe-Thursday.