Last Night

There are times as a parent that just scare the snot out of you. There are plenty of times that I cringe as Grant and Grace try some daredevil move at the park. But, I tell myself that it's not a "gonna die" move more like a "gonna break something move," and if it's just a broken arm we are dealing with, I let them do it, and I sit, no matter how hard, on the bench rooting them on through clenched teeth.

But, last night was not one of those moments. It was one of those "I'm pretty scared here" moments where, as a mom, you're keeping it together in front of the kids, but you're freaking out on the inside.

It started off as a fabulous evening with church friends. We've just joined a small group at our new church. We are so thankful for them. Not only are they real and genuine and love the Lord, but they make great chili and bake zucchini bread. All was well until Grant started coughing, and the coughing didn't stop, which quickly led to vomiting. And, that's when I knew we had a full blown asthma attack on our hands. And, without his rescue inhaler in hand, there was only one option: drive like a crazy woman to the Immediate Care center all the while telling Grant to stay calm.

Once there, we were ushered into a room with speed, hooked up quickly to a nebulizer, and they started pumping his little body with steroids. And, it usually does the trick. But, even after that, the doctor wasn't happy with his oxygen levels. And, that's when I started cursing the fact that I have ever watched a medical drama on TV. Tachycardic, blue lips, intubate. Not my favorite words.

I looked at Grant, and he looked fine. He looked like he did every other time he has had an asthma attack. He was laughing, joking, and the doctor even said that he was no longer laboring to breathe.

So, let's sign some paperwork and send me home with a bunch of albuterol, right? The country doc had a different idea. Mainly, he wanted Grant hooked up to oxygen and transported via flashing ambulance to Riley Hospital for Children. And, that's when I started to feel overwhelmed. Bret was trying to manage the situation via phone, as his booty was still in Texas (as I type this, his booty is in the Atlanta airport, on a flight delay), and I was trying to manage three nurses, six EMTS, a doctor, my daughter who was loopy at 11 at night, and my scared and sick little boy!

But, luckily, Grant was a trooper and thought his stint in the ambulance was fantastic, and now, for better (for the world) or for worse (for his Mommy), he wants to be a paramedic and firefighter. In the end, I declined the ambulance, took the prescriptions, headed home, and spent the rest of the night staring at Grant while he slept in my bed.

There's a lot I learned in that short (read: terribly long and scary) few hours: I hate when Bret is away. We make a good team together, but frantic, emergency phone calls over many a state are not our strong suit. I am swearing off medical dramas. My little world isn't insignificant to God, who is able to help a mommy keep it together. And, my little brave boy is so strong and so amazing, and I am thankful every moment of every day that he's mine.

Oh, and I bought a bigger purse at Target tonight. The rescue inhaler now fits.