The Day I Saved My Childs Life

A day I never thought would happen

I’m tired today. Tired of walking on eggshells. Not even walking. More like dragging my saggy belly, wooden limbs, and mushed up head over and through them. While there’s still egg caked and congealed on them. The shells, that is, not my body parts. Tattered banners and torn shreds of memories from last week’s shenanigans spew across my mind like a misfired ejaculation.

The half term week was a full one. A two day trip to London via train, where my little family gathered museums, restaurants, a West End show, Platinum jubilations and just too much muchness to its little chest and then tried not to suffocate under the insensitive sensitivities of autism.

Another two day adventure to a theme park later on in the week.

Friday in the middle was supposed to be a rest and relaxation day. No intention of giving a nod to the Grim Reaper. I should have remembered he lurks in the shadows. Old buddy. Old pal. Mother fucker.

“Alan, Alan, Alan!” I screamed for my husband.

The Big One, my beautiful girl, lay on the stairs. Head down in the corner of the sea green wall. Curled into a naked, foetal ball with feet two steps above her head. Her brown eyes were open. Staring. Unseeing. Wet hair stripes across her cheek. Arms outstretched with scabbed, scratched wrists towards me. Her sodden towel, pink with grey flamingos, tangled around her leg and trailed up the stairs. Angry red welts on her chest and bruise purple bands across her lower abdomen and top of her thighs. A green plastic fairy wing crumpled on the bottom step.

“Call 999”, I yelled.

I scooped my girl up in my arms, in hindsight not the cleverest thing to do considering she’d fallen headfirst down 8 steps. Light as a feather, I laid her down on the floor, thankful when she startled awake and demanded in a groggy voice to know what was going on. I grabbed her EpiPen as she drifted away from me again, losing consciousness for a moment until the sharp shock of the adrenaline kicked in. Having a needle rammed into her thigh might have had something to do with her waking up at that point as well.

Anaphylaxis.

An allergic reaction.

A life threatening situation.

I never thought it would happen to her. She has the medicine with her at all times just in case. We stay away from the things we know — all nuts, sesame, raw egg. We’re careful. This was the first time and the bugger is, I have no idea what caused it. She hadn’t eaten anything. No one else had either. The BBQ was hot and smelled good with browning food. Bellies were empty.

In the hours and days after, I’ve grabbed on to ideas and possibilities. Maybe pollen got into her open eczema wounds. Maybe she got bitten by something tiny and lethal. Maybe there’s a reason.

God, there has to be a reason.

Please, let there be a reason.

The nurse says there might not be. My baby might be someone who has idiopathic anaphylaxis. A life threatening response to something unknown. That’s an actual thing.

In the meantime, “you did the right thing, mum”.

“If it happens again, you know what to do, mum”.

“Carry on as you were, mum”.

With every ring of the word mum in my ears, panic rises. What if it happens again? What if I’m not there next time? What if she dies?

Breathe, mum, breathe.

I am comforted by the fact that, when push came to shove, it wasn’t me that knew what to do. No, something bigger, braver, calmer than me, took over in that moment and led the way.

Maybe it wasn’t the Grim Reaper lurking after all.