I’m Great in an Emergency. Except For Most Of It.

Hmmm. Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, much? I gotta get me some perspective.

My kid passed out in church once. Just fell face first onto the indoor-outdoor carpet. He'd been ushering. A very helpful and inordinately cheerful man from our congregation rushed up to me where I sat being religious in my pew and announced with a smile: "Your son just hit the deck."

Which, incidentally, explained why the boy hadn't been there when I'd turned to glance at him a moment earlier.

I must say that I behaved admirably. Rushed right to the back of the room, ignored the inquiring sea of faces, gestured to the EMT sitting on the back row (just a coincidence, not a requirement in my religion) and flew to my unconscious son's side.

I will pause to let you know that unconsciousness is not a state any mother likes to find her child in. I mean, at least it was in church, right? Not in a bar, a gutter, or during the A.C.T. But I hadn't even liked it a few months earlier when I watched this same boy go under anesthesia for oral surgery with the doctor sitting right there telling me that he was going to be fine. No, Mrs. Miller, he doesn't look dead he looks unconscious. Yes it is sometimes normal for the whites of the eyes to show. And no he will most likely not have much memory-loss whatsoever once he wakes up. Probably.

Anyway, in this instance I did not freak out. I knelt down, touched my son's cheek, and said his name. Once he opened his bleary eyes, I waved my fingers in front of his face and made him count them. Then I asked his name, the name of the girl he had a crush on, and where he was hiding his cash stash.

Okay, not really.

It turned out that my boy had not only locked his knees, but was suffering from slight dehydration owing to having been sick the week before and insisting on still playing in a soccer game. He had a narsty rug burn all up his face, had put his teeth nearly through his lip, had wrenched his jaw when his chin hit the ground, and had a fine fist-shaped bruise on his solar-plexus from landing on it—which probably saved him from breaking the jaw. But other than this, he was fine. The congregation was fine (except for the well-meaning organist who decided to comfort everyone by playing "Nearer My God To Thee" while we were taking care of the boy. Yes. A funeral song.) And I was fine. For a moment.

Here's the thing: I do great during an actual emergency. But the second everything turns out okay? I lose it. Like, I go into shock. I blubber, I shake, I feel queasy and out of body. I make everyone promise never ever to leave the house again, ever! So while I am marvelously useful during a crisis, immediately afterward I need to be sedated. This oxymoronically cancels out any good I might have done. Not to mention, it is seriously embarrassing to have a spazz-attack once things have calmed down.

Sadly, I fear it is getting worse. Last week after my littlest tyke decided to find out what happens when you push a car cigarette lighter in, make it turn red, then hold your finger on the center of it until your flesh sizzles and the car fills with a squeamish burned smell, I handled it beautifully. For fifteen and three-quarters seconds. Then I had to leave and let my husband and the after-hours nurse deal with the burn. I spent the afternoon hugging a pillow.

*sigh*

Maybe it is my advancing age. Maybe I just love my dudes and dudelets a little too much. Maybe I have overdosed on Cadbury mini-eggs. Whatever it is, I've either got to channel a bit more Zen, or get a valium picc-line installed in my neck.

In the meantime maybe I'll just do what my tot did when he fried his finger. He shook his hand so hard his entire body quaked. Then he screamed: "SON OF A HALF-EATEN SPIDER MONKEY! THAT HUUUURRRRRTS!"  *pause* *blink* Calmly: "Oh. Hey. That made it feel better."

Ah. Screaming. Why didn't I think of that?