Center Stage

Last month my family experienced a bit of medical drama. My son was playing second base during a very intense baseball game. The score was 3-2 in our favor in the 4th inning and all of us in the stands were cheering for our boys to hold their opponents back.

The other team has a great player who stepped up to bat and we were all nervous about him hitting a homerun. Instead, he hit a high pop fly between the second baseman (my son) and right field. My son backed up intending to catch it, but didn't call it out. The right fielder rushed forward with the same intention and didn't call it out. The inevitable occurred and my son fell backward and hit his head on the right fielder's knee. He got up a bit dazed but seemed to be okay. In an extaordinary feat, the right fielder actually came up with the ball and the play was saved! We groaned and then cheered in unison. The coaches ran out and asked all the right questions and my son gave all the right answers and the game resumed.

Another batter came up and popped another fly ball to my son who caught it for the third out - like a pro! The crowd was ecstatic! Then, suddenly my boy began to cry and appeared to be in distress. The coaches all ran out and talked to him but couldn't make sense of why he kept talking about what he'd forgotten.

The parents around me were all expressing concern, so I went to the dugout to see what the hullabulloo was about. I admit to thinking that my boy was over-reacting as he usually does as an 11 year old. I was ready to tell him to "man-up"! But, I quickly assessed that he didn't know what he was talking about and his brain circuits seemed to be on standby. His team mates could see I had suddenly gotten serious. They packed up his gear for him as I questioned my son and then I stood up straight and announced quickly that we were leaving for the hospital.

I couldn't walk fast enough as my mind replayed the recent tragedy about that actress, Natasha Richardson, dying of what seemed like a minor head injury on the ski slopes. I can't explain the way all my motherly instincts kicked up a notch when I realized my child may really be in danger. I had horrible visions of a tiny blood vessel in his brain leaking slowly as we raced toward my car. Everything seemed to move in slow motion although I was told later that I had moved myself and my son out of there with lightening speed. My heart was in my throat as my baseball friends helped me get our stuff in the car and wished us God Speed as I spun out of the parking lot.

My son continued to sound like a broken record all the way to the hospital. He kept repeating, "Did I get hit by the ball?", "Where are we going?", and "Are we going to the game, now?" til I thought I'd scream in frustration. I started off answering his questions truthfully, but when I realized he wasn't retaining my answers, I just started saying "yes" to all of them instead of wasting my breath. It turned out, after spending four hours in the emergency room with some strange people and $1700 later, that he had a mild concussion with amnesia and was going to be just fine. He has never remembered the actual incident, but since it's not necessary for college, I figure that's alright.

The lesson here: In baseball, always call, "I've got it!" when going for the pop fly. And, try to avoid the ER on Friday nights if at all possible.

Most of our friends expressed appropriate concern by calling or texting the next day to make sure our son was alright. However, there's always those one or two people who get all caught up in other people's drama and insist on making it there own. The coach, for a short time, blamed himself for letting my son continue to play after the collision. Guilt, Guilt, Guilt! I was able to convince him finally that he needn't lose any more sleep about it.

Another parent (I'll call her Patty) apparently was crying at the field after we left it - as if my son had died. She made up a story that my son had hugged her in his delirium and lamented to her about how he couldn't remember anything. (He was never anywhere near her during the whole incident.) Patty also told several people (not present at the game) that my son had been violently ill on the field after his fall. (Not true and ewwww!)

I began to feel like our experience had be intruded upon and made a spectacle of by someone else's unwarranted needs and behaviors. Granted, it was a disconcerting situation, but it was not tragic and I resented anyone trying to make it so. For the next two weeks, every time we ran into someone from our baseball field, I found myself subjected to the most bizarre rumors.

Most of us appreciate a little sympathy or empathy, but stealing another person's drama to gain center stage...oh, please! If you find that you are one of these people, try noticing the reaction you truly get from those who have known you a while - averting or rolling eyes, stepping away, mumbled "oh, really's"- to your seemingly amazing stories. Is that really what you are shooting for?

The lesson here: Being on center stage when you haven't been called there can have the effect of making you an outcast.