I thought about this for a second and responded, “Really?”
She said, “Yeah.”
“Huh,” I said.
I opened the heavy sliding van door (this was 1979!) and guided my twin into a seat. Meanwhile, our parents loaded up the hockey nets, Thermoses of hot cocoa, and canoe cushions we used to sit on in the snow. On the 2 minute drive home, my sister stared straight ahead.
“Can you see yet?” I whispered.
“No,” she whispered back.
For some reason we had no inclination to tell our parents she had been blinded. Nor did we ever consider that this might be an actual medical emergency! We did not, in my family, go to the ER--ever. Even when my dad cut his thigh open with a chainsaw, all he said was, "Tell your mother to bring me a towel." (The one and only ER visit of my childhood occurred when my mom sliced her Achilles tendon by kicking a trash bag with a broken wine glass in it, and even then, she only went because my aunt, who is a nurse, was there and made her.)
Now, when my sons play hockey, it takes them twenty minutes to put on everything from what they call their "nut protector" to their neck guard. (We also have to sign nine pages of waivers, including statements like "Parents will not drop objects over the glass onto the bench of the opposing team," before they can get on the ice.) I have to confess that by March, I find the whole hockey thing just a wee bit wearisome, and wish my kids were only playing on a pond across the street. But I am sure am grateful for the helmets.