What If?

I fell over in the street yesterday.  It was a Proper Incident; there was chance meeting between my foot and the ubiquitous nail-left-sticking-out-of-the-pavement so beloved by Russian workmen, followed by a crazy lurch forwards, a lack of free hands to stop myself hitting the ground (I was just walking out of the supermarket), a set of impressively grazed knuckles, and a nasty thud as my right temple hit the bumper of a parked car.

I lay there for a couple of seconds, wondering why my head was pounding so and whether the noise in my ears was normal after such a blow, before realising that the impact with the bumper had set off the car's burglar alarm.  (Do nothing by half measures, that's my motto.)

I was shaken, but felt fine once I'd brushed myself off, wiped the blood from my hands, and driven home (I know, I know, but it was the only way).  Then I sat down with an ice pack held to my temple for about 3 hours and watched a kids movie.  I was a bit teary, but after a visit from a lovely neighbour who checked my pupils, and some time on the sofa I felt sure I would be OK.  Of course, I wasn't - not completely - in hindsight I had a mild concussion, but all's well that ends well.  Yes, I have a bruise, and a slight headache still, but that's only to be expected when you do a reasonable impression of a crash test dummy without the air bag - or, indeed, the car.

Would I have gone to the hospital to get myself checked out if we'd been in London? Probably, yes.  Not because I really thought I had done myself serious damage, but just to put my mind at rest.  As it is, I picked up the kids as usual in the afternoon, had a reasonably early night, and woke up this morning feeling much better.

But I have a confession.  When I put my sons to bed last night, I made sure that I gave them proper hugs, and told them that I loved them.  Not that I don't do that most evenings, but you know how rushed these things can be at the end of a long fraught bedtime routine.  And whilst we were going through our own long fraught bedtime routine last night, I remembered a woman that I met when Boy #1 first started nursery.  I didn't get to know her well; we'd only chatted a couple of times at the school gate before she left London on a short trip with her 2 year old and her new born son to go and visit her parents in the US, to introduce them to the newest member of her family.

You've probably guessed that the reason I'm telling you this is because she never came back.  She and her family arrived at her parents, they went to bed, and she - well, she never woke up. She had developed DVT on the flight, and died in her sleep that night as a result of it.

Clearly, this made an impression on me.  I don't think of her often; I have to be honest and admit that I can't even remember her full name, but every now and again her story comes back to me.  And whilst yesterday I knew I was going to be OK, that I hadn't seriously injured myself, the thought kept crossing my mind.  What if?

So without making a big song and dance about it, I made damn sure that my boys knew I loved them when they went to bed last night, and did the same again this evening.  I'm sure it won't last long, this new initiative - probably only as long as the next underwear in the loo incident when they get undressed for their bath - but it's already garnered me some extra cuddles and some 'I love you, Mummy's back.

Because you never really know what tomorrow morning might hold.