The nurse – who was quite lovely and kept up a conversation to keep me easily distracted from her check-up – measured my blood pressure, heartbeat, temperature, and even pressed down on certain parts of my body and asked for pain out of ten.

“So,” she said after a few minutes. “We haven’t done a brain scan or anything, but we felt around your skull and where able to feel quite a sever fracture. It won’t be life-threatening; however we’ll need to keep an eye-out for symptoms that suggest your concussion is more sever than we originally suspected.”

“What is it at the moment?” I asked. “Because I passed out – surely that’s bad.”

“Passing out generally indicates a Grade 3 concussion, however you are speaking normally, can remember why you’re here, and appear to have general body functions. That’s a good sign.”

“Okay. What else, then?” She hadn’t made any indication that there was anything other than my concussion, but I was sure it wasn’t the end.

“You have quite a bruised eye and a cut from your cheek – whoever got you clearly has a good punch; however you also have signs of fighting back: your fractured knuckles.”

“Hmm,” I nodded, contemplating that information.

“Would you like to hear treatment options?”

“We’re going to keep you here overnight, just to keep an eye on any serious symptoms that may arise, and we’re going to need to do an MRI scan on your brain just to check for any internal bleeding, and an X-Ray on your hand to see how severe the fracture is.”

I was already feeling quite overwhelmed, but I nodded attentively. “Yep.”

“If everything goes to plan, you should be able to leave tomorrow afternoon, but you’re going to need to stay a few weeks off school to keep an eye on your head.”

“What?” I spoke, slightly shocked. “Why can’t I just go to school and take it easy if the concussion isn’t that bad?”

“It doesn’t seem that bad,” the nurse clarified. “But its still a grade 3 concussion and complications may arise if you’re not careful. In fact, I’m surprised you remember anything at all. Most people have some sort of memory loss for a few hours if not days and find it difficult to speak and move.

“Oh.”

“I think that’s it for now,” the nurse smiled, clearly not bothered by my slight rudeness. “I’ll check back in about two hours, but call if you need me.”

“Alright,” I nodded.

As soon as she left, however, I turned to my parents in distress. “What about my friends?”

“Huh?” They asked. Mum and dad where in the middle of a conversation about taking time off work, and what they would need to put in place to support me at home. But I didn’t care about that.

“What about my friends?” I asked again.

“What about them?”

“I need to go to school to look after them.”

“Darling,” mum frowned. “I’m sure they can look after themselves.”

“I know they can! But I need to be there to support them. They’re probably all very distressed about what happened today.”

“Maybe, but you can’t go to school. They’re going to need to manage for a few days.” Mum was clearly getting upset, and I knew she didn’t mean to be as blunt as she was, but it was still annoying.

“But—”

“Zoey.” Dad said, interrupting me. “I understand that you care about them so much, and its great, but we’ve spoken about this. You need to care for yourself, too.”

“Not when they’re more important.”

“They’re more important to you. But you’re more important to us.” He took in the look of disgust on my face and quickly clarified. “Obviously we care about your friends wellbeing very much, but you’re our daughter. We only want you to be okay.”

“I know, but I just won’t be able to stop worrying.”

Dad considered this for a moment. “We could invite them over after school some days to visit, if it makes you feel better.”

I perked up slightly. “It would, but that also doesn’t defeat the fact that they’ve never been at school without me there.”

“You can’t care for them if you can’t care for yourself,” he said softly.

Suddenly I didn’t know what today. “I guess…”

“Think about it this way: if you’re on an airplane and there is complications, you’re always told to put on your gas mask before anyone else. Help yourself before you help others. Mental Health and personal wellbeing is the same.”

“I know it’s just… hard.”

Mum spoke up again. “We understand, Zo. But you need to think about it this way. You’ve just been diagnosed with a grade 3 concussion. If you’re in pain, or feeling dizzy, can’t see properly, or can’t deal with too much noise, then how are you supposed to help them out? All I ask is that you stay home long enough that we know you’ll be able to make it through a school day, and then after about two weeks we can reevaluate.”

I huffed but nodded reluctantly.

“Thankyou.” Mum reached down and stroked my cheek. “Sorry for snapping before. You know I care about your friends… I’m just… worried about you.”

“S’okay,” I mumbled, trying – but failing – to stay annoyed. “I understand.”

“Thankyou my darling,” she smiled, clearly relieved. “You should rest now, though, before they send you in for X-rays and MRI’s.”

“Mhmm.” I didn’t have any complaints, my body already feeling tired and achy from even the shortest of conversations.

……………..

After the MRI and X-ray scans, I felt suddenly very drained. It was as if my body had mustered just enough energy to stay awake for these two very simple, not tiring at all activities, then decided to fall back asleep.

The next time I awoke, it much easier. Apparently, this time around, I was prepared for the blinding lights and boring white room.

Mum and dad were sitting in the exact same spot, in two chairs to the right of the bed, watching over me. If they weren’t my parents – with my best intentions in mind – it would be almost creepy.

“Have you been watching me like that the entire time?” I mumbled.

They chuckled, smiles making the room seem a little less dull. Clearly they were relieved I was feeling good enough to banter with them.

“Absolutely,” mum joked.

“That’s a bit creepy,” I smiled, my voice still croaky from sleep.

They laughed again, postures relaxing and smiles smoothing into something real, something calm, something grounding. It was nice to see, especially after the grimacing smirks Blue and Red had provided me with during the fight.

God I loved my parents.

“How are you feeling?” Dad asked cautiously.

“Good,” I muttered my default response, not really thinking it through.

“Zoey,” he said softly. “How are you really feeling?” His voice was sharp yet gentle, that steadying parental tone that made you want to tell the truth.

“I’m not sure,” I whispered, my voice suddenly much quieter than I originally intended.

“You had another panic attack.”

“I’m aware,” I said dryly. I didn’t mean to be so rude, but I hated the way the tone of his voice made it sound like that was a new fact to me when it wasn’t. the panic attack I’d had was humiliating. “I’m supposed to be the one comforting my friends, not the other way around.” In all honesty, I hadn’t actually meant to say that last part out loud, but I regrated it instantly.

Furrowed eyebrows and tightening lips. Mums face hardened into the expression that I don’t see often: it had only come out a few times, when she was either very disappointed in something I’d done, or was trying desperately to hide how she was feeling. My dad pulled a similar face, but his mouth turned into a frown and his eyes squinted slightly, as if he were trying to read my mind.

“Sorry,” I murmured, “I didn’t mean—” my voice trailed off, because I definitely did mean what I just said.

“Do you remember what you told you last time?” Mum said, her voice sweet and completely contradicting her facial expressions. “About how you need to put yourself first?”

Yeah. The word was on the tip of my tongue, but it didn’t leave. It stayed in my mouth with a sour taste. Truthfully, I knew that I needed to look after myself almost as much as I looked after my friends, but why should I?

What importance was I to myself when I could care for my friends? If I can’t care for them, then who even am I?

“Zoey… are you listening?”

“Yeah.” My voice was small and weak, and clearly worried something

“You can’t keep putting everyone else above yourself.”

“I know. It’s just… hard.”

“I get it darling; trust me I do. And it will get easier, I promise.”

“Are you sure? I just can’t even imagine what it would be like to not be worrying about my friends all the time. They deserve my attention and support.” My voice was suddenly fierce, and it was as though I was trying to convince my parents to elect me for president. Obviously they already knew I felt this way – I’d told them multiple times over the couple few weeks – but they didn’t seem to understand the depth in which I cared for my friends.

“And its great that you can give that to them,” dad stepped in. His voice was empathetic, full of understanding. “But remember, you can’t give them what you can’t do for yourself. You can’t make them feel better if you’re not feeling good yourself.”

“I know.”

The conversation ended there, my parents shooting one last glance at me before falling silent. It wasn’t awkward – our silence barely was – it was just… empty. Like there was more we all wanted to say, but nobody wanted to be first to say it.

I’d die before I was the first person to break it.

Me and my parents usually get along swimmingly, but this conversation has been going in circles for weeks, yet anytime it comes up we all act as if it’s the first time we’d heard of such a strange statement.

Mine was always I care about my friends more than myself.

Theres was always in order to care about my friends I need to care about myself first.

But I was. Taking care of them was taking care of myself, but they just didn’t seem to understand. I wasn’t going to try and force that opinion on them, because its okay we don’t all believe the same thing.