I like to think I'm good in a crisis, although it's probably more correct to say that I'm good at going into denial in a crisis. What with my relentlessly Pollyanna-ish view of the world, I can turn any car crash into a positive learning experience.
Years back, when my son was five, he fell over our banister, taking a plunge into the deep Victorian stairwell below. My husband and I were in the kitchen at the time, unpacking some shopping, when we heard a heavy thump, followed by wails, as my son came running down the hallway spitting out teeth, his broken arm dangling, his chin literally hanging off his face. I took one look at him and declared "Well, I think we might have to get you to the GP. That chin looks like it'll need a couple of stitches!" Luckily my husband's more pessimistic world view prevailed, and the boy was whisked straight to hospital.
Illustration: Robin Cowcher
When our latest family crisis struck my husband was overseas for work, leaving Pollyanna in charge. This time the culprit was a glass bowl, dropped and broken, and a shard that was left behind on the floor by my excessively optimistic vacuuming. My daughter then managed to kneel on said shard, leaving her with a nasty cut on her knee.
It didn't look very serious to me, and I thought about putting a bandaid on it then telling her to go outside and play, to avoid getting blood on the carpet. But then I heard my husband's voice. And so, contrary to my every impulse, I rushed my daughter off to hospital.
It was a quiet night at the Children's, so we managed to see a triage nurse straight away. She confirmed that the cut was shallow, but that it would need stitches. Still, my daughter was not reassured. She was terrified of the stitches she'd been prescribed, regarding them as far worse than the cut itself, and so started working herself into a state.
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When we spent time at the Children's with my son I had been mightily impressed with the care and attention he received. But then his injuries had been serious. With my daughter, things were very different. She would suffer no lasting consequences from this gash. With a bit of luck, we'd be home in time to order in some pizza for dinner. Still, as we sat there waiting for a doctor, I became acutely aware of how much care was going into her treatment, the same care and attention that was offered to every child who turned up in the emergency room that night.
When the time finally came for her to get her stitches, and she once again gave in to tears, the nurses coaxed her back into a calm place, joking, asking about her friends, her cat, and her dog, distracting and cheering her. And each time she started sinking back into panic, they pulled her back up again.
It must be such hard work, being that nice all the time. Even I, Ms Positivity, was exhausted by having to remain upbeat and entertaining, and it was my own daughter I was trying to cheer.
When I was in labour with my firstborn, there was a midwife who attended me, keeping me calm, reassuring me. Her shift ended well before I gave birth, but she promised that she would stay with me until the end, which she did, offering me the comfort and confidence to birth my son. I will never forget her kindness, yet I can't recall her name, or even her face. Just the fact that she made me feel safe, giving up her own time for a complete stranger.
When the stitches were finally done, and we settled in back at home over our pizza, my son asked my daughter how it had felt. Did stitches hurt? She replied that she'd been very dizzy, because of the laughing gas they'd given her, and so didn't remember much. But she did recall that there was someone with her, stroking her head and telling her "It's OK".
"Who was that lady?", my daughter asked me, a puzzled look on her face. She was a nurse, I replied. Yet once again, I couldn't give her a name, or tell her any more about this kind woman who had briefly stepped into her life, staying beside her until she was no longer frightened, then moving on, to the next complete stranger who needed help. An ordinary day at work for her, but one that had made such a huge difference to a frightened little girl.
@monicadux
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