It’s no small accomplishment that on my injured daughter’s last night at my house after her nine-week recuperation, we were able to share a dinner table to celebrate that her doctors have cleared her to return home. It’s actually been nine weeks, eight hours and 16 minutes, but why would I be counting?
Let me give you a few reasons.
The first week after her foot sprain from hell I popped back into small child mothering. I prepared her favorite treats and delivered them on a tray with a freshly cut flower and her morning coffee. A month later, I was tossing her a rice cake at 6 a.m. on my way back to bed.
In my defense, I immediately started dreaming about the nutritious snacks I would make for her the next day.
When she finally was able to move around the house without crutches I celebrated by spreading peanut butter on her rice cakes.
Speaking of crutches I thought my daughter, the fashionista, would be happy that I color coordinated the wash clothes I wrapped around her crutch handles to cushion her hands to match her tennis shoes. I wanted her to be the hit of her physical therapy sessions. Her response: “Really, mom, I’m not five years old.”
The one place I felt I excelled as a caregiver was icing. The medics told her to elevate and ice her battered foot every hour. I was mommy on the spot bringing ice to her bedside and placing it gently on her very swollen, bruised foot. I learned quickly that gently means different things to different people.
“It feels like you dropped a bowling ball on my foot.”
Although she has now reached the point where she can fetch her own ice, I am suffering from PTSD. Last night I woke in the night screaming
“Ice! Ice! Do you need ice?
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There were days we drove each other crazy.
And there were days that I may have forgotten to tell my daughter, the overachiever, how much I admired her dedication to getting well. She not only did her exercises she kept challenging herself, often with tears in her eyes from the pain. Maybe she was motivated to get away from her annoying caretaker and return to her own home.
Either way, not only are we having a meal together, we’re still talking.