New Year's Day Hangover

The shrill call of bored children dragged me from a blissful sleep into the cold hard morning of single-parent reality. There was no pecking a husband on the shoulder to inform him it was his turn to feed the troops, now it would always be my turn. Why hadn’t I asked the babysitter to spend the night? What was I thinking?

Throwing back the warm, cozy quilt my mother had so lovingly stitched, I forced my feet to find the floor and sat up. It was then the first sledgehammer struck my head, the next blow followed in close succession, and then continued its rhythmic beat until I seriously considered lopping off my head. What on earth was wrong with me? I soon realized I was experiencing one of those hangovers I had heard so much about. I should have stopped at my usual two drinks, but someone kept filling my champagne glass to make yet another lame toast about the New Year. Happy New Year, it wasn’t.

About halfway down the stairs, I had to bite my tongue to keep from yelling at my sweet children for laughing and having fun while playing Pac-Man. It wasn’t their fault I had been so stupid, so I smiled and bid them a good morning.

The sledgehammer seemed to pick up speed as I made my way into the kitchen and turned on the griddle to make the French toast I had promised the kids for breakfast. I swallowed two aspirins with a glass of orange juice and promptly gagged. Fortunately those two little pills stayed put in my tummy. Each pop, sizzle, and clang seemed to hang out inside my head, neither keeping time with the heavy duty sledgehammer. If only they could find the same beat, maybe my head wouldn’t hurt as much.

After breakfast, those happy children made their way outside to play at the playground across from our apartment. I breathed a sigh of relief, until the telephone started ringing. I slapped both hands over my ears in a failed attempt to block out the high-pitched noise. The only way to stop it was to answer before the next ring, so I grabbed the phone and said hello.

My friend Pat was in the mood to discuss the party last night. I wasn’t, but poured a cup of coffee and settled in to see if I could hear her over the pounding inside my head. Fortunately, she was in a talkative mood because all I could hear was a mumbling rumble. Occasionally I would slip in an “uh huh” or a “yeah” and she seemed happy with that.

About ten minutes into that one-sided conversation, the front door flew open and banged into the living room wall. A gang of kids rushed in, led by my distraught daughter.

“Mom! Come quick. Brian fell off the monkey bars and he’s not moving,” she screamed over the sound of the sledgehammer.

I threw the phone on the floor and fought my way through the throng of children, almost knocking down one or two as I ran toward the playground. I could see my son lying on his stomach on the asphalt playground. As we ran, Tami explained how Brian had been walking across the top of the monkey bars and fell off. Her story rang true since Evil Knievel was his hero.

My entire body shook with fear, as I knelt beside my son. He was on his stomach, face sideways, one arm beneath him. His head rested in a pool of blood and his whole body quivered.

Pat, who lived in the same apartment complex, rushed out to see what was going on after I threw the phone down. I screamed at her to call an ambulance, and then to get her keys instead. We only lived a couple of miles from the hospital. It would be faster to drive than wait on an ambulance. I sent Tami to another friend’s house to have them call her father.

While waiting for Pat to get her keys, I tried to lift my son in my arms, but his limp body was too heavy for me. As I struggled under his weight, a man came up and offered his assistance. Picking Brian up as if he were a baby, he settled my boy in the back seat of Pat's car.

As we drove to the hospital, I assessed the damage. Brian’s right hand was about an inch lower than his wrist…an obvious fracture. All I could do was pray he would be alright.

By the time the doctor examined Brian, he had regained consciousness. He was in pain, but his only serious injury was a Colles fracture. I refrained from a meltdown until that moment. Only after I knew my son would be okay, did I release the tears.

Since we lived close to the hospital, the doctor allowed Brian to go home. Once he was settled into bed, I went outside to find the man who had helped me get Brian into the car. I didn't find him, no one knew who he was or where he lived. I wish I could have thanked him. He will never know the extent of my gratitude.

Funny thing, when I saw my son lying in a pool of blood, the sledgehammer in my head stopped pounding. Now when someone asks what I have planned for New Year’s Eve, I always say snacks and a movie. New Year’s Day will forever be associated with pain, both mine and Brian’s. I made a promise to myself that day. I would never have another New Year’s Eve hangover. So far, I've kept that promise.