Queasy

I like to think of myself as a strong woman, a strong mother. I want to be there for my girls,  handle the bumps and bruises of life well with them. But the truth is, I'm kind of a sissy. Pretty decent in an emergency, completely faint-hearted afterward.

Mae broke her collar bone a few weeks ago. It was after midnight, and I was sitting on the couch knitting. I heard the unmistakable sound of her gigantic skull on hardwood floor. I comforted her and put her in my bed to sleep. The next morning, she still had a lot of pain. I weighed my options:

Ice her shoulder, pump her full of ibuprofen, continue with my pleasant Sunday plans, and in general pretend like nothing was really wrong.

Or

Suck it up, be a good Mom, spend my entire day in the emergency room.

I'll admit that it took me ...a couple hours ... to decide. But ultimately, I wrapped her in a blanket and carried her the entire 50 yards to the emergency room across the street.

She was such a champ. The doctors were great, it was a Sunday morning and the brand new emergency room was completely empty. Something you may not know is that when you're that young and cute, your collar bone doesn't actually break in two, it bends. And hers was bent, and very painful.

Nothing about her breaking her collar bone or our trip to the emergency room made me feel queasy. I've been through enough in my life to make me at least that tough. And yet, I have this tendency to dwell on the details of accidents and wounds afterward, and grow uncontrollably queasy.

10 years ago or so, shortly after Chris and I moved to Chicago, I got a call from one of Chris' friends. Chris was in the emergency room, he had cut into his arm with an exacto knife opening boxes and had needed several layers of stitches.

I sped to the hospital, waited in the emergency room, and drove him to the pharmacy to pick up his pain medication. As we browsed the aisles he gave me the details of the accident. I tried to busy myself looking for the right medication, but instead collapsed to the floor somewhere between the Benadryl and the Maalox, pale, nauseous.

Unfortunately, this sort of thing happens a lot. Especially when I'm with the people I love, in circumstances where they could really use my help.

I passed out during Bela's first blood test, while I was seated. With her on my lap. I came to to find the male nurse fanning me with a clipboard as the woman who had just drawn the blood removed Bela from my arms with a disapproving flash in her eyes.

And a couple weeks ago, in our follow up appointment with Mae's pediatrician, I felt it coming on. Our doctor was explaining that a fractured collar bone could lead to damaged tissue and permanent bone malformation....I feel sick just writing this.

But while I fought off the tunnel vision and the intense wave of nausea sweeping through every ounce of my being, I put a big smile on my pale face and held Mae in my lap and started humming some Otis Redding in my head. I refuse to let them in on my secret: that their pain and misfortune are my maternal kryptonite. I want to be their Superwoman, for them to believe that I am the strongest woman they know. At least until they are old enough to read this blog.