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What if that hadn’t worked?
What if the steroid hadn’t helped?
What if she ends up in the hospital?
Now I’m the one who can barely breathe. Trying to keep it together, I lean over and kiss Amelia on the cheek. “Okay with her for a few minutes?”
She nods.
“I’ll be right back.” I gently touch Emmie’s head, then rise from the couch, walking like a zombie to the master bedroom.
I stop once I’m inside and look around.
I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m going. My mind is ablaze with what-ifs, and my chest is tight.
I reach for the bed, resting my hand on the comforter.
Think. Pause. Focus on one thing.
But I can’t. Thoughts tumble through my mind at an alarming rate, and none of them are calming or comforting. They’re all worst-case scenarios and raging fears.
I sink to the floor next to the bed and pull my knees up to my chest.
I count backward from five, but it doesn’t help.
I can’t find anything to ground me, and my thoughts run rampant. Pictures in my mind of all the horrible things that can happen.
Emmie coughing until she can’t breathe.
Her gasping with blue lips.
Other things I don’t even want to acknowledge.
Knowing I’d fall apart if I lost my girl.
Panic rips through me again. Tears fill my eyes but I snap them shut, letting darkness surround me.
She’ll be okay, I tell myself, but then another voice whispers, how do you know?
I don’t know.
I know what the doctor said. Less than five percent of kids are hospitalized with croup. Less than one percent need intubation.
Those statistics should be comforting, and maybe to someone without anxiety, they are. A reminder of the extremely low chance something serious could happen. Someone with anxiety knows that even if the risk is low, there’s still a risk, and they hyper fixate on that.
Now here I am. Barely breathing on the floor of my bedroom because I feel so utterly helpless, I’m paralyzed with fear.
Amelia
Emmie unlatches, finally asleep. Her breathing is calmer now, and the rasp in her throat has lessened. Leaning back, I look down the hallway. The bedroom door is still closed. Maybe Miles fell asleep, but I doubt it. That’s not how he works. He would’ve told me if he needed a nap.
Being careful not to wake Emmie, I stand up and head down the hall.
Miles has been on edge all day as Emmie got worse. He barely made it through the other night when she had a fever.
When I push the door open, I find him sitting on the floor, knees up to his chest, and head dropped against them.
“Miles?”
