Overreactive Freak-out of 2010

It only lasted ten seconds long--maybe twenty, tops--for me to have the most soul-shattering, terrifying, panic-ridden moment of my life. And I overreacted. I acted like a first-time mom, I guess. I know it's not the first time this has happened in the world. Probably wasn't even the first time that day or that hour. But I spent the rest of the night trying to slow my rapidly beating heart, trying to postpone Adelyn's bedtime so I could hold on to her just a little bit longer. And feeling more than a little silly about the scene I'd just created.

Around four in the afternoon I was feeding Adelyn, as usual. It was a normal bottle. No rice cereal, as her pediatrician recommended, because I thought adding it was making it harder for her to eat. She ate about three ounces and started drifting off. So I picked her up and gently put her in her swing. I've done this routine about 3,000 times since she was born. The second my hand left her back, her bright blue eyes shot open. And the crying started. The poor girl hadn't napped since mid-morning. She'd reached that point of being so tired all of my attempts to shuuush her to dreamland were worth nothing. So I grabbed the bottle and tried to feed her one more ounce while she was still in her swing. Sometimes even downing half an ounce more will help her drift off.

But this time, Adelyn took two tugs from the bottle and she jerked her head back. Her eyes got wide, wider than I've ever seen them, and she froze. I said her name over and over. She wasn't moving. Her eyes were just wide, staring at me, looking traumatized. Immediately I picked her up, waiting for the crying to erupt, but no sounds came out. She was not moving.

Again, this was all in the span of about ten seconds. And within that teeny, tiny time frame I contemplated my next step. Chill out? Try to burp her? Try to gently shake her? Freak-out? Call 911? I picked the last two options. By the time I picked up my phone she had started moving a little, but she was sort of jerking her hand up to her face. It wasn't her normal fluid motion. Before I had another chance to think I'd dialed 911.

The operator could barely hear me over my sobs.

"Ma'am, I need you to calm down and tell me where you are."

I quickly spurted out my address and said, repeatedly, "My baby's choking!"

"Did you give her food?"

"No, just formula."

As soon as the operator's voice came on the line, Adelyn started crying. At this point, though, it did nothing to alleviate the panic.

"Ma'am, if she's crying, she's alright."

Once that thought finally registered (and once my lifeguard training from years ago finally started to come back to me), I sat down with Adelyn pressed against my chest. She was still crying.

The 911 operator transfered me to the paramedics. The woman now on the line told me that if I hadn't given her food, and if Adelyn was crying, then she probably had just swallowed it down the wrong pipe or gotten too much too fast. I agreed she was probably right. I felt like an idiot for calling 911, something I have never, ever done before. One time in the first grade my friend called 911 from our teacher's room when the rest of the class was outside for recess. He got in so much trouble I learned my lesson then and there.

But in that ten seconds when she was frozen, not crying or moving, I decided I had a choice. I could call 911, probably in an over-reactive move, or I could wait it out. And if I did wait it out, and if God forbid something had actually been wrong, my life would've been over. No questions asked. I chose the first option.

The paramedic calmed me down over the phone. I made Adelyn a new bottle and started feeding her. We both caught our breath. I apologized for being such a worry-wart.

And then there was a knock at my door.

It was the paramedics. Five of them. And an ambulance. Apparently when you call 911, even if during the phone call you figure out it's going to be okay, the whole brigade shows up anyway.

So there I was, sitting on the couch, my face and shirt drenched with tears, my four-month old screaming her head off because I got up to answer the door rather than finish her bottle. And they all came in and stood around me, telling me I shouldn't feel silly for calling. They all had kids of their own. They all said they'd been there. Maybe not with the freak-out 911 call, but with the worrying too much about everything.

They all reiterated what I'd been told on the phone. That if I had her upright when I fed her (which I always do) and as long as it was purely formula, she didn't choke. She might have gotten too much at once and needed a second to re-regulate her breathing (they also told me this was normal, up to six months). They made me sign something saying I chose to keep her with me rather than send her to the hospital. Luckily they said there would be no charge.

Finally they left and it was just me and Adelyn, again. After feeding her I gave her a bath, her favorite thing in the world, and put her to bed. She fell asleep around 7:30 without so much as a peep of protest and slept soundly the rest of the night.

I waited until Jason got home from his bachelor party later that night to fill him in on what'd happened. At first I thought I just wouldn't tell anyone, Jason included, that I'd skip writing about this particular incident. Because it was all too scary and it left me feeling a little out of control with how terrified I'd been over nothing, apparently.

I changed my mind. I feel stupid, yeah, and still I don't think I could put into words the terror that seizes your body when you think something serious is wrong with your child. But it happened.

Overreactive Freakout of 2010 is over and done. Can't wait for 2011.