Facing mortality is a part of growing up. I remember the first time someone I actually knew died. We were in high school, and one of the kids was born the same day as I was. My parents came to tell me he had drowned. My first question was “Is he OK?”. Right, kids don’t really appreciate the fact that life has a beginning and an end.
I’m hoping my youngest son had that same realization this week, but I’m afraid he may not have. I was in bed early when my wife came to tell me that he was in the hospital after a motorcycle accident. It’s the call every parent dreads. You hear that your kid has been in a serious accident and all of your alarms go off.
We ran to the hospital and found him in the ER. He had a handful of broken bones and was pretty much out of it on pain killers. They did surgery all the next day, and that evening when we went see him. Again he was pretty subdued and sort of out of it. I guess that’s all part of surgery recovery.
Last night he was back to his normal optimistic self. He thanks the nurses whenever they come and do anything for him and talks about how he is going to expedite his recovery and therapy. I guess that’s a good sign, but I expected him to be a little more shaken up by the whole thing. He’s already bored of laying in bed and wondering when he is going to get on with the recovery. I think it’s going to be a long six months as he recovers.