Last night we spent three hours in the emergency room.
Don’t worry. Everyone is alright. I debated about taking Terra, who’d cut her lip on our coffee table, for nearly an hour before making my decision to go. The cut wasn’t ghastly, but I used to work in an Emergency Room and gunshot wounds aren’t ghastly when I’m in the right frame of mind.
Terra was fine. The big gash that appeared to go straight through her bottom lip turned out to be two unconnected cuts. The hour I spent debating, pacing, searching the internet for information on cut lips, and consulting friends for their opinions, Terra spent icing her lip, and wearing a makeshift butterfly bandage. By the time we saw the doctor there was nothing more they could do to improve her healing outcome.
What I was really looking for in that time before finally deciding to go to the hospital, was his opinion. I just wanted to hear him say, “She’ll be fine, don’t take her.” I wouldn’t have gone. I would’ve trusted his decision and I would’ve stayed home. But he isn’t here anymore.
It’s not a bad thing, that I have to finally fully rely on my maternal instincts, my own knowledge, and my own skill, but it is a learning process. I was so accustomed to having him here for the big decisions; the car problems, whether or not we’d vaccinate, the home maintenance, and the severity of injuries.
Being a single mother means he’ll no longer be here to manipulate my decision making, but he’s not here to validate me either. Sometimes it’s hard to not have his reassurance that I’m doing the right thing. I’m learning.