When the unfamiliar number popped up on my call display just before noon, something about the exchange made me think it would be wise not to let it go straight to voicemail.
Good instinct there, Mum. It was the admin assistant from my daughter’s school, letting me know there had been an accident in gym class and she was sitting in the front office waiting to be picked up.
My daughter has Type 1 Diabetes, so when someone calls to tell me that something happened to her during gym class my first reaction is akin to panic. Does she have enough candy to bring up her blood sugar? Did she black out? Are the paramedics coming? What’s the quickest route to buy some time?
Today we were lucky, in that regard. The kids had been playing touch football and she went down hard on her left knee, was the school’s report. Not life threatening by any imaginative stretch, but I decided we would head off to the ER nonetheless.
I have to admit that my feminist heart swelled at the idea that my teenage daughter was playing football, even if only for diploma credit. She’s petite but strong, and you don’t want to be the one cornering her. Namaste has yet to enter her vocabulary, and she’s never been one to mince her words.
Triage and registration went quickly, as they usually do whenever a child with our last name and home address shows up at the sliding doors, and never was I more conscious of my hospital mom status than when I overheard another parent talking to her child about jujubes in the vending machine and I swear on my copy of the PSHCP Plan Member Booklet that I heard her say “g-tubes.”
This is the type of thing that alternately amuses and embarrasses my two older kids, so I should have known what was coming when I asked my daughter, who was already shuffling over to the vending machine, to get me a snack and to surprise me.
Two dollars and a dollop of side-eye later…? Yeah, she got me good.
I won’t say that a need for payback entered into it when the doctor finally examined her and sent her off to Diagnostic Imaging just in case there was something sinister lurking beneath the swelling, but she was getting around easily enough on her own power, and I really don’t know if this whole thing wasn’t just a ploy to get some crayons and a colouring sheet.
Thanks be, the X-ray didn’t show a break or a sprain, yet I was a touch deflated after the doctor asked her what had happened at school and she said that she was goofing around doing a cartwheel while everyone else was packing up at the end of class.
Ah well. I can never stay annoyed with her for long, and she’s promised not to try cartwheels without foam pads on the floor for a little while, at least.