Granny State A heart-stopping trip to A&E
This week: Granny loses her confidence
It’s a Sunday morning. I’ve collected Rose on my morning dog walk and have brought her back to our place. It’s not a formal working day but I often do this during my “free time” to give my daughter and son-in-law a break. We have a lovely hour giving her a sneaky second breakfast (she vociferously demands Newish Husband’s toast). Then we have a little play in the middle sitting room which is Rose’s “safe” zone with toys galore. I’m just about to take her back for her morning nap.
And then it happens. Rose suddenly shoots past me towards the hall so I pursue, one step behind. The sitting room door is open wide but she veers right. To my horror, the side of her head collides with the handle. I pick her up to comfort her. My granddaughter’s mouth is open in a silent scream. I’ve seen this before but usually it only lasts a couple of seconds. Yet this one continues. At the same time, she goes floppy and her head falls back, eyes open. I scream. NH comes dashing in. He pats Rose on the back and, to my huge relief, she starts yelling. But her eyes are half shut and she retches without actually being sick. I grab Rose back from NH and run across the road to my neighbour, a midwife. I babble incoherently to her teenage son but through my haze of panic, I gather his mother isn’t in. Then I dash back and call my daughter. Again, I can barely speak. The fear inside my body is hot and cold and… gut-wrenching.
“Should I call the ambulance?” asks NH. I don’t know. Rose isn’t unconscious but something isn’t right. Memories of the first aid course which I did when she was three months old have evaporated, apart from the cold bit. So I grab a packet of frozen Quorn and hold it against the large lump above her ear.
When her parents arrive, she is more like herself but still sobbing. My daughter is briskly calm. “We’ll take her to A&E.” I hold Rose’s hand and say my prayers. I try to keep her awake but her eyes are closing. “Actually,” says my daughter, “they say it’s all right for them to sleep after a knock.”
Not in my day, I think to myself. It’s an hour’s drive to the hospital. None of us can speak. After nine months of looking after Rose two days a week, I hadn’t exactly become blasé but I had grown confident. So how could I have let it happen?
We are seen by a triage nurse after a 40-minute wait. By then, Rose has woken up and – to our huge relief – is toddling round the casualty waiting room, intrigued by the other patients, especially the one with a padded eye.
“She seems fine,” declares the nurse, “but it might be wise to see the consultant. It’s a two-anda-half-hour wait.”
My daughter rings her father to update him (he lives three hours away). “It wasn’t mum’s fault,” I can hear her saying. I recall the time when our eldest son, then 11, was felled unconscious during a cricket match – my ex-husband and I were beside ourselves. The consultant, when we see him, looks about 23. But he seems to know his stuff. If the lump had been a centimetre bigger, then a CAT scan might be in order. It’s also a “good sign” that the lump isn’t squidgy.
By now, Rose is positively bouncing around. We’re allowed home. But I’m a nervous wreck. I follow my granddaughter like a shadow, even when my daughter is with us. I book in for a refresher first aid course. NH, meanwhile, has ordered door handle protectors. (“Purple or fawn?” he asks.)
Right now, I’m dreading tomorrow when I have Rose on my own. It’s like being back at day one.
Next week: When there’s a grandchild to love, it’s easy to neglect your daughter
‘After nine months of looking after Rose, I hadn’t exactly become blasé but I had grown confident. So how could I have let this happen?