Am I Really Cut Out To Be A Mom To 3 Boys?

I’m pretty sure it was the word “ambulance” that made me go into full-throttle panic mode when I listened to the voice mail from my son’s high school. The message was from the athletic trainer who calmly explained in her message that Big Dude had been hurt during basketball practice. I waited for her next sentence to be — as it almost always was when I received these types of calls — “but he’s fine.” Except she never said that.  Instead, she said things like, “he’s in a lot of pain,” “we don’t want to move him.” And then, “we’re calling an ambulance if you don’t get here soon.”

I had been in the shower when she called so I quickly dialed my husband next. He had just hung up the phone with her and received pretty much the same info. It was Big Dude’s knee, maybe his knee cap. I felt like throwing up. My husband works about 1/2 mile away from our house so I told him I was jumping in the car to pick him up so we could head over to the school, or the hospital, or wherever we could get to him the quickest.

“I’m freaking out!” I yelled into the phone.

That reaction did not surprise my husband at all. I don’t have a history of handling emergencies well. Just check out my Hurricane Sandy post for proof.  And with medical emergencies, that involve my children, forget it: I’m a useless, emotional wreck. When Big Dude was 4, he cut his cheek open to the bone after tripping and hitting his face on a bench after he ran through the lobby of our former apartment building in NYC. As I watched the blood spurting out of his cheek, I screamed, cried and froze. I’d like to think I panic like that only when I know my husband is there to spring to action. During that episode, my husband and our doorman sprinted to Big Dude, put paper towels to his face and carried him outside to get a taxi to the hospital. I stood there, unable to move, holding Middle Dude, who was sleeping in my arms at the time. As they ran outside, I stared at the puddle of blood on the lobby floor and started to pace back and forth, unsure of what to do, other than cry. I sincerely hope I would have acted differently had my husband not been there.

It’s puzzling to me that I react so poorly to medical emergencies. I was raised in a family of medical people. My father and brother are both physicians. My mother is a nurse. Clearly, the gene to practice medicine skipped right over me. But still, you’d think I could handle blood and injuries better than most. Nope. In fact, I have a somewhat legendary reputation in my family for being a complete mess in any medical situation.

It all started with my sister-in-law’s c-section delivery of my niece.  All went smoothly and we went in to see her after the delivery. She was resting comfortably in the bed, but she was shaking uncontrollably. No one explained to me that this was a side effect of the epidural wearing off. All I could picture was her stomach being cut open moments before and therefore reasoned that she must be shaking because she was in excruciating pain. Suddenly, I felt faint. I somehow held it together and put my head between my knees, and my sister-in-law offered me her ice chips and juice.  Ridiculous that the person who just gave birth was taking care of me.

Back to my latest medical drama…When Big Dude reached the hospital in the ambulance, we were waiting outside. They gave him a nice dose of morphine so I could see through the ambulance window that he was spacey and calm. I felt bile rising in my throat as I looked at his pale face. The EMTs confirmed that he dislocated his knee cap and the doctor was going to put it back in place. From my years of watching “ER” and “Grey’s Anatomy” I was all too familiar with the screaming patient who has a dislocated arm or leg shoved back into position. My husband asked to go in the room with the doctor while he fixed the kneecap.  I couldn’t. I knew I’d faint, vomit, or both. I stayed outside the room with the EMT who comforted me and told me Big Dude was going to feel so much better as soon as the kneecap was put back. I was afraid of hearing my son screaming, so I walked a little further away, sat down, and wept.

No high-pitched screams. It was done in seconds. And yet, I still felt waves of queasiness as we remained in the ER for x-rays and further instructions. The next day at the orthopedic surgeon’s office, more nausea. And when we take him for the MRI, I’m sure I’ll feel it again. Every time my husband talks about it or describes what happened to someone else, I yell, “don’t say the word kneecap or knee – I can’t take it!”

Through all of this, I asked myself the same question: Am I really cut out to be a mom to 3 boys…3 boys who all play sports, 3 boys who sometimes beat each other to a pulp, 3 boys who are bound to have more trips to the ER? Someone, somewhere must think I can handle it. I’m still wondering if I agree.

Big Dude’s New Accessory