Spider Tale

The other night, Sam was taking a long, hot tub before bed, happily playing with action figures and minding his own business, when he spotted a spider on the ceiling.

“Mommy or daddy”, he called out, in a calm voice, just reporting in. “There’s a spider in the bathroom!” Jeremy was watching hockey all the way upstairs and I was creating an online photo album all the way downstairs. So, between us, we were unconcerned. And busy. We simply answered, “Okay!”

A little more splashing and then Sam calls out again, this time not so breezily, “I think it’s a Daddy Long Legs. And it’s crawling onto the pile of towels!” Again, his distracted parents answer, “That’s alright! He’s not hurting anyone!” or something along those lines.

A little more splashing and then Sam calls out, this time with some measure of agitation, “I’m actually not that comfortable with being in the bathroom with a spider!”

This is enough to jolt me from the mesmerizing task at hand. Of course! Doesn’t the spider come washing out of the water spout in the children’s song? Who wants to be in the vicinity for that? Gives me the willies now that I'm thinking about it.

“I’m on my way, Sam!” I call out, climbing the stairs, adding “I understand exactly how you feel!”

But then he offers this additional confession, which shows we’re not quite on the same page after all. “It’s just that I’m afraid that when I use the toilet, the spider might get up my bum. Then I’d have a spider inside of me…”

Oh.

Shame that Mr. Daddy Long Legs had taken advantage of the ample opportunity to escape. Now we don’t know where that creepy spider is...

Breathe

Breathe. Breathe, Sam. Breathe. Please. I can’t believe how hard your heart is pounding. And how fast. Too fast. Is this okay? Should we wake you up, bundle you off to the hospital? You need to breathe. Real breaths. You’re panting, panting like a petrified rabbit - an image that keeps coming to mind. I want to calm you down, but you’re sleeping. Somehow you’re sleeping. I’m the one who can’t. Just breathe, Sam. Come on … please.

I’m counting again. Fifty breaths a minute. Fifty to my twelve. That can’t be right, can it? I want to do something to help – but you’re sleeping. You’re sleeping and your heart is beating 120 times a minute. So hard, so fast, I can see your pulse in your neck, your temple. I can feel your labouring heart pounding against my hand – my hand that I cannot lift from your chest. Not for hours now. I have this idea that somehow – by strength of will – I can slow your pulse, can deepen your breathing – that by wishing it hard enough I can make your body stop this, stop it – stop. Please breathe, Sam. Please.

I can’t stop it. I couldn’t all day. I gave you your puffers. I gave you cold medicine. I gave you drinks. I lay with you to watch Batman. And when you couldn’t chew your food at dinner time and began to panic, I gathered you onto my lap. I told you that – for your whole life – mommy’s hugs have always made you feel better. But not this time. This time you couldn’t quell the panic. Couldn’t get on top of the cough. Couldn’t take a big enough breathe to speak a full sentence. Time to go.

I had to carry you to the car. Your pounding heart hurts your chest – though maybe that’s the muscles that are pulled in tight around your ribcage. We drive. Drive in the cool and rainy winter night, trying to decide – is this an emergency? Do you need to go to the hospital? You’re breathing. Shallow and rapid, yes – but you’re breathing. Is this respiratory distress? You’ve eaten ice cream and now you’re sleepy. Can you be in distress and still enjoy Tiger Tail. Still fall asleep? Daddy and I exchange worried looks. We decide to wait. To let you sleep. To see if it gets any worse.

At midnight, you spike a fever, your skin suddenly hot to the touch, your hair soaked in sweat – your small body fighting off the virus that has caused this attack. My own worried heart beats a little harder, but you slumber on, your arm flung over my side, your shoulders rising and falling so fast. So fast. It’s a long, long night.

And then it’s sunrise and you’re using your inhaler. I’m counting again. Thirty-three breaths and 88 heart beats a minute. So much better. You’re going to be okay. You’ll stay home today and you’ll get better and better. And you’ll stay on your asthma meds this winter, so this can’t happen again. But if it does, you’re going to the hospital.

Your heart did just fine, but mine simply can’t take it.