A Father’s Letter To His 9 Year Old Daughter: Part II

Author’s note: For Part I of the letter to my 7-year old daughter written hours after she suffered a head injury, go here.

When I did reach you there was blood on your nose, lip, cheek, and head, and there was grass in your mouth. Your arm was limp and curved slightly. My first thought was you had possibly dislocated your shoulder or had broken one or several bones in your arm. Now I know that you were simply coming out of unconsciousness, so you did not quite have control of your limbs.

I am grateful to have volunteered as a cross country, basketball, and baseball coach this school year, so my CPR and First Aid training was fresh. I know this provided some help in my initial check on how banged up you were. However, even with that training, this was something I had never experienced with either you or your siblings. This accident looked as if it could have snapped your neck, your spine, cracked your head open, or possibly all three.

Or worse.

Frighteningly, we were 2.5 miles from home at the bottom of a hill that would take a long time to climb up with you injured and taking the time required to avoid slipping on the steep incline. What’s crazy is that I had my phone on me but didn’t think to use it immediately. As you know, we do not have mobile reception at home, nor in many of the hiking areas near our house.

So I ordered your injured brother to run home with his newly gained limp to tell mom to come back for us with the car. Then I remembered the phone, hoping there would be a signal. I ordered your brother to stop and come back.

I had a signal—no small miracle where we were living in Bavaria. I used WhatsApp to phone your mom because of course she didn’t have mobile reception at home.

Thank God she was working from home.

Thank God she wasn’t on a work call at the moment and was able to answer the call. I told her where we were and to drive the car up the logging trail to us, and I would carry you down to her.

As I started the walk down the trail carrying you, you repeatedly asked, “Is this a dream Daddy? Am I OK, Daddy? Am I bleeding, Daddy? Is this a dream, Daddy?”

It was the repeated, “is this a dream, Daddy” that had me so worried.

With the cut, bump, and bruise on your head, it was clear you had a concussion; however, the continued questioning of whether or not you were in a dream frightened me because you were frightening yourself with this question.

As your Dad, I have always told you, “it will be all right,” because it really will be all right.

I have said it with confidence and dismissiveness.

But it was hard to do it with either of those traits as we walked down the trail

When your mom said we should call the military clinic, I told her no, we would be going to the children’s hospital in Regensburg.

When your mom said we should turn back to our home for her ID—a five minute delay—I told her no.

What I couldn’t say out loud to your mother is that I was panicked you would go into seizure or worse, drift back into unconsciousness. I saw a clock ticking and knew I had to get you to a full service hospital that could treat you immediately.

You may be asking why we didn’t call 112 (Germany’s version of 911). Where we lived, honey, it would have taken almost as long as it took us to drive on the Autobahn to the children’s hospital in Regensburg.

What I didn’t tell your mom is that on the drive to the hospital I had to adjust the rearview mirror so that I could not see your face, all bloodied and beaten up. Initially, you were in that field of vision, and seeing my normally joyous Eva so listless and bloody, I started to tear up. I needed to be strong for you and having to drive was too much, not being able to touch you, to hug you, to comfort you.

All I kept thinking is that any normal adult would still be lying on the ground back there after taking that beating.

I’ll never forget the time we were all eating dinner in the house on North Avenue.

One of you kids said something about never seeing me cry. Then you all piped in and said excitedly that yes, you all wanted to see me cry. At the time I assured you and your siblings that I do, in fact, cry. It was a lighthearted conversation, and I think I joked that I would be sure to let you know the next time I cried.

Well, I cried many times today. I am so scared for that little brain of yours. As a parent, more than ensuring you have fun, have friends, laugh, or smile, or anything, my job is to protect you.

For as long as I can remember in the back of my mind I have dreaded thinking of you and your brother and sister in college. I thought, “If they do half the reckless and stupid things I did in college, how will I ever be able to sleep, waiting for the proverbial phone call in the middle of the night?”

I don’t think of it often, but I do think about it.

And so, I cry today because the truth is revealed to me. It’s not only when you are 18 that I need to worry and fret, it is now as well.

While I would do anything to protect you, doing anything and everything can’t guarantee your protection.

If I cannot protect you from something as seemingly harmless as running down a hill, then I know there are even more things out there I cannot protect you from.

I cry because this time, after you were hurt, I can’t simply kiss your boo-boo, put a band-aid on it, and tell you it will get better.

Author’s note: Eva was admitted for observation for 48 hours and subsequently discharged with no invasive procedures required. She was directed to step back from online schooling as screen time was restricted as part of her therapy for mending her brain following the concussion. The swelling on her face diminished on day five and slowly the missing details of the incident are returning to her memory.