I'm Worried About My Worrying

Photo credit: Google Images

Recently, my friend posted an Instagram photo of her children that brought me back a decade to a time when my three children were little and life was full of firsts. In my friend’s photo, her two daughters sit on the edge of a swimming pool with two other children, while their swim instructor stands in front of them, chest-deep in the water. A lifeguard carrying a long rescue tube stands guard less than two feet behind the children. In the caption, my friend joked that she was afraid if she took her eyes off her girls they would drown, even though there were two lifeguards within arm’s length of both of them. This resonated with me as I recalled my children’s swim lessons; during their classes, I would sit on the bench next to the pool, hyper alert and laser focused, ready to jump in and save them. Instead of enjoying watching my babies learn a skill that would bring them pleasure for the rest of their lives, I thought of a thousand things that could go wrong. I was afraid that they would drown in the shallow end, surrounded by seven trained lifeguards and twenty observant parents.

                                                      Photo credit: Google Images

How many parents can relate to that deep-seated fear that we laughingly acknowledge as irrational paranoia, but that paralyzes us even still? I love the commercial that shows the well-meaning mother wrapping her son up in bubble wrap and putting a helmet on his head before letting him go outside to play. I laugh in embarrassment because I have been that mom, and I roll my eyes in resentment because I have also been the bubble-wrapped kid.

Now that my kids are 13, 15, and 17, I like to think the age of worry has passed, and that I’ve moved on to more sophisticated ways of screwing up my children. This summer, I had the chance to find out if I’ve overcome my affliction when my 15-year-old son asked me the following question:

“Mom, Can I go to an end-of-the-year bonfire at Justin’s house on Long Lake?”

[In a fraction of a second my mind processed the following rambling, uninvited thoughts:]

What did you just say to me? Are you insane? I’ve never even met this kid. You think I would send you to his house before I meet his parents and conduct a thorough background check? Besides, do you know how many people suffer third degree burns from bonfires each year not to mention all the people who burn to death? I read that burning to death is the worst possible way to die. I saw a re-enactment of the Salem witch trials and it was horrifying to watch them burn. What if that happened to you—burning to death from your toes up like a witch—how could I live with myself knowing that your last moments on earth were filled with agony and terror and that you called for your mommy but I wasn’t there? And do you even remember how to properly light a match so that you don’t burn your fingertips? What if you accidentally lit the whole book of matches on fire and it went up in flames and scorched your face? Lighters are worse, they can explode in your hand; they’re tiny tanks of highly explosive gas just waiting to blow your fingers off. Maybe we should have a quick refresher on fire safety. What if this kid’s dad is a child molester or his mom offers you meth? Wait, are his parents even going to be there? Kids might be drinking and then go swimming drunk and you could drown and drowning is a horrible way to go, too. Or, you could get hypothermia and lose your feet. I saw a man on TV who had frost bite and his feet turned black. Why don’t you just wait to swim when a lifeguard is on duty? And not at the lake either, I’ll take you to a pool so I can keep an eye on you, too. What if you went under while the guard was looking somewhere else? Will there be girls at this party? What if a girl tries to kiss you? I don’t even know her family and I don’t want to share my grandbaby with a bunch of crazy strangers, and what if she’ll be a bad mother to my grandkids? If she has even one bathroom-duckface selfie on her Facebook you’re not allowed to date her. Oh sweet Jesus, what if someone tries to kill you because they find out you’re a Christian? What if they force you to rob a bank or beat up a homeless man as initiation into their gang? What if they TEASE you? Nope, I think it’s best if you just stay here where Dad and I can keep you safe in our completely normal, perfectly sane home.

But what I said was, “Sure, bud. A bonfire sounds like fun.”

So maybe the worry isn’t gone. Maybe it never will be. Maybe I need therapy. But the point is, I hope the bonfire doesn’t melt the bubble wrap to his skin.

Running from Help

Photo credit: Google Images

Kari the service dog is trained to detect when her diabetic owner’s blood sugar drops to dangerous levels. Let the superhero-like magnificence of that skill sink in for a minute. This dog can actually smell the chemical changes in her owner’s blood. With such a powerful sniffer, it’s a complete mystery how Kari ended up wandering through my neighborhood wounded, lost, and unable to sniff her way back home. Maybe she got sick of her responsibilities and abandoned her family in search of a better life, maybe she was too scared to find her way back, or maybe she just got lost. Whatever the reason, for seven days Kari starved, froze, and drifted alone, too terrified to respond to our rescue attempts.

Many residents in my neighborhood use Nextdoor, a social network that allows neighbors to communicate with one another privately. One December day, multiple postings appeared from concerned neighbors about an injured black lab roaming the neighborhood. According to the posts, one of the dog’s legs appeared to be broken and she was extremely skittish, running away when anyone approached her. A windstorm was knocking out power and blowing down trees all over town and this poor dog was lost in the thick of it. I called animal control and was told that because our neighborhood is outside city limits, we had to capture and confine the dog before they’d come get her.

A few days later, as I walked past my front door, I looked out the window and there she was, standing on my porch. A faded red collar with tags dangled from her scrawny neck. I knew that she’d run if she saw me, but I also knew I could save her if she let me. I could feed her and warm her. I could protect her. I could bring her home.

Praying for a miracle, I opened the door and she darted across my lawn on three legs, her right hind leg dangled uselessly. I grabbed my dog’s food dish and leash, jumped in my car and followed her. She knew I was pursuing her, so she ran as fast as her three legs would allow. I’d lost sight of her but could still hear her tags jingling, so I followed the sound. I found the pitiful girl two blocks from my house eating the garbage that had spilled from my neighbor’s overflowing can. I stopped the car and held a bowl of gluten-free, probiotic-enhanced, beef and sweet potato goodness out the window. She lifted her head for a moment, hungry for the good food I offered, and then returned to the trash.

“Come here, girl, it’s okay,” I said in my most sing-songiest mommy voice, shaking the bowl. “Just let me help you.” I tossed her a handful of food. She lifted her head once more and looked at me with wearied, bloodshot eyes before limping away, too exhausted to run. I followed her through the streets, keeping my distance, gently coaxing her to come to me. But she refused the safety and rest I offered. I saw how much she wanted it, but she was too hurt and frightened; she would have rather died than surrender herself to me.

I’ve been where you are, I thought.

I followed her for forty minutes before giving up. Later that afternoon, my daughter and I scoured the neighborhood unsuccessfully, and the dog spent another freezing night outside. The next morning, my wonderful neighbor, Karen, who is involved with dog rescue, obtained a humane trap from the animal shelter and set it in an area where the dog seemed to spend a lot of time. Karen placed food inside the cage and neighbors checked on it often.

Within hours, one of my neighbors found the scared dog in the cage, read the tags on her collar, and called the owner who lives less than two miles away. When the dog’s owner learned that Kari, her service dog, had been found alive she wept so hard she had to hand the phone to her son, who also cried for joy. And when the family and Kari were finally reunited, Kari cried harder than all of them.

The vet examined Kari and her leg wasn’t broken after all, she simply pulled a muscle. Maybe she pulled it running away from home, maybe she pulled it trying to find her way back. But no matter how she hurt herself, Kari’s injuries will heal and she’ll go back to serving the one who loves her.

Meanwhile, I'm sending my dog to diabetes detection school. All she can do is “sit” and she's not even good at that.