Mom goggles

Over lunch yesterday I stopped off at the pool to give the kids their goggles. They’re at day camp and I had forgotten to pack them. I wasn’t sure exactly what time their group came to the pool – but figured I’d easily find at least one of them.  But I didn’t. And after a good deal of searching I figured they were in the late group with pool time from 2 to 4. 

Turning to leave I caught sight of something my brain couldn’t comprehend. 

Time stopped. My eyes had fixed on a young child, not moving, being pulled out from under the water. Unconscious. I saw the tiniest flicker of blue suit. The boys’ suits’ are blue. TERROR. Gut-level terror crept up my neck and threatened to choke me. I couldn’t move my large muscle groups. I couldn’t speak. I was essentially frozen. In what seemed like 20 minutes, but was more like 1 second, I was (finally) able to move my eyes up to the lifeguard’s post. He was blowing a whistle in short bursts – signaling other guards and getting kids out of the pool. “CALL 911!” a male parent thundered, then went back to performing CPR. That little body – no life in those limbs. 

Intellectually, I realized this wasn’t my child – this is a little girl. But the lizard part of my brain hadn’t caught up yet. Moms all around begin screaming – shrieking - for their own children. Lizards, all of us. 

“Purple group?” I managed a tiny whisper to a woman rushing by. “Camp..group purple..boys?” Nothing. “Pool fall?” I whispered, or maybe I didn’t. I don’t know. “Purple twins?” 

 “PURPLE WON’T BE HERE TIL 2.” Someone said as she whizzed past. 

Deep breath. They’re not here. My boys are not here. Another deep breath. I could breathe again! My inner lizard understood – it set my limbs free. 

I fog-walked to a picnic table near the entrance where an older girl was sitting with a towel over her head. “Are you ok?”

She looked up, tears in her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t like things like this,” she said. I sat down. “I know… I’ll sit with you if it’s ok.” She nodded yes. “I won’t leave until it’s over.”

“Thank you. I hate these things.”

“I know…”

“I’m going to faint,” she said.

“Slow your breathing. Think of something really, really, REALLY boring. Like math!”

(A tiny giggle)

“Good.”

She was getting control of it. So I gave her my next best trick for calming anxious nerves. “Tap one hand on the table, then the other. One hand then the other.” She might've rolled her eyes a little. I said,  “Weird, right? But it works. Try it.”  She did. She calmed and we chatted a little about middle school. She kept the towel over her head.

The emergency squad was there in minutes – maybe seconds. Miraculously the injured child had been revived thanks to quick thinking, quick acting good Samaritans. The paramedics put her on a big stretcher and brought her out to the ambulance for a ride she’ll never forget. She is expected to be just fine. 

I waited for the red lights and sirens to stop – for all the emergency vehicles to leave. “It’s all over. Everything is just fine.” My benchmate came out from under her towel – relief on her freckled face.  I gathered my things and took a few steps toward the exit. 

 “Hey, that tap thing?” she said, “Thank you for that.” I nodded and smiled. 

Thank you, I thought to myself as I got into the car.  Thank you for letting me be the comforting mom in a terrifying situation. I needed that in a fundamental way that I still don't entirely understand. Perhaps I needed someone else to hear me say everything would be just fine - so I could believe it myself. Or maybe it's more primal than that. I don't know. I do know the taps are an EMDR exercise I do with Sam when he’s anxious. And when Jack can’t fall asleep I say with a wink, “Think of math.” Works every time.