You know, right away, when someone is calling you with bad news don’t you? The time of the call, the tone of the voice, and the way your stomach just drops. Like that. Accidents happen. Like that.
Yesterday morning my Mum called me early with some bad news – my beautiful brother in law (the chef extraordinaire) had had a fall Friday night, fractured his skull, was in hospital, had bleeding on his brain, talk of being operated on. I drove up to Sydney as quick as I could to be with my little sis and fam. It was a long day, plenty of time just being a shoulder to cry on, an extra person to help be with him and his pain, someone to keep others updated, distracting her with stupid stories and making her admire my new hot pink nail polish, and just being there. I felt helpless and hopeless, scared and woozy, wishing I could make things better and pondering how peoples lives can be changed in just one moment.
He’s doing well. As far as head injuries go, his is a good one to have. They didn’t have to operate which was fabulous news, and he seems to be coherent enough answering the right questions about what month, date and year it is (I would struggle with those questions myself). Whilst he is in a significant amount of pain, and looks terrible, he will be fine. He will recover 100%. And he is one very lucky man. And I am so grateful.
I stayed at Mum’s last night, Luce did too, Mum made everything better with hot water bottles, fresh pj’s & sheets, hot soup & showers for us both, but I left back for home this morning as he was doing much better. You can bet Mrs “control the controlables” has been acting like a crazed woman since I got home sweeping, cleaning and trying to order the things I can. My little sis will be spending plenty of time next to his hospital bed in the next few days and would love to hear a funny story I bet. Tell her one won’t you? She’s tops. And I want her to think about good things and not be reminded of all the trauma and yuck she’s had over the past few days. St Vinnies Emergency is no place to be on a Friday night.
OK. I’ll start.
When I was in year 3 or 4 I called David Hanna is our class a really rude name. I didn’t really know what it meant, but I knew it would have some effect so I trotted it out. He promptly dobbed on me and I got in BIG trouble from Mrs Weston, the Principal. I had to get Mum to sign a letter saying that I was sorry for calling him what I did, so I asked Mum to show me her autograph pretending she was a superstar while I was playing after School. After I had the signature I wrote the apology on top and BANG! Done. Clever hey?
Love you Lucy, and Chrissy? Get better! x