On with the show.
Death has come to visit my house. Death, or rather, the subject of death. Emily sees death everywhere but not in the "I see dead people" kind of way. Remember that she's six, so her world is about a foot in diameter, all around her.
It started with a phone call from the school. "Hi, this is Arlene, the school nurse. I have Emily in my office and she is hysterical because she thinks she has eaten peanuts." Oh great. I haven't showered yet. Why is it I never get a call from the school to come pick someone up WHEN I AM SHOWERED? (I already know the answer to that question, so don't bother to answer.) I bet the front office staff and nurse think that I never bathe.
Its not that Emmy doesn't have a reason to be afraid of peanuts. She IS allergic to them. And she HAS seen her brother go to the hospital several times because we had to use an epi-pen. But we, as in the very patient school nurse and I, determine that she did not eat anything with peanuts. She's just freaking out.
A few days later, another call from her teacher. "Hi, this is Mrs. Fultz. Emily thinks she has eaten peanuts, but I really don't see any ingredient that can be considered a peanut product."
Hmmm, I think. Still not showered, so....."Tell her she's okay, and if she doesn't calm down, send her to the nurse for a benedryl. It won't hurt for her to have one, and she'll feel better." Maybe I had better shower, just in case.
I really do shower, everyday.
Where does death come into all this? Just wait.
A couple nights later I pass her room and she calls my name, as if she wants to trap me in her doorway by asking I-don't-want-to-go-to-bed questions. I act as if I did not hear her and she's fine. A few minutes later I hear crying - frantic crying - and Jonathan is holding her trying to calm her down.
"I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die."
Why oh why Emily are you going to die?
"I drank something and I'm gonna die."
Oh crap. What did she drink?
"I don't know what it is. I have to show you. PLEASE! I have to show you before I die!"
And the way she said that was not a please-help-me-so-I-won't-die kind of pleading. It was a I-am-going-to-die-no-doubt-about-it-but-before-I-go-I-want-to-let-you-know-why-I-am-dying kind of pleading.
How considerate in her time of need. From now on when faced with a difficult situation, I will most definitely think, WWED?
She leads us downstairs, in the garage (oh no! there is lots of awful stuff to drink in the garage) out onto the driveway (whew!), into the neighbor's yard (okay, something weird is going on here), to the other side of the neighbor's yard and VOILA! She points to a cape honeysuckle flower.
"Riley made me drink it!"
You know, he does have an airsoft gun. (those blasted things, but that is another post) I picture him holding it pointed at her, "Drink the honeysuckle water or else! Wahahahaha!"
I turn my head away from her. Jonathan turns his head away from her. Please don't let her see us laughing at her.
Apparently she drank it some 4 to 5 hours before she freaked out. But in all fairness, it is quite common for us to not see the error of our ways immediately. A nice bedtime reflection seems to be good for her soul.
Hysterics cause 6 year olds to stay up so late that they don't make it to school the next day. There is no convincing a resolute 1st grader.
Fast forward.
In the movie theater. Don't know what movie. Eating popcorn. Apparently too much popcorn. Heartburn sets in. Her face gets panicky. I explain to her what it is (I am assuming at this point because I rarely, if ever, get heartburn). She believes me - until it hurts a bit more. We try a drink or two. She sits on my lap. She gets more and more worried. Starts to cry.
"Take me to the hospital. I'm dying! I'm dying! Take me to the hospital! Call an ambulance!"
People look at us, not at the movie. Lots of people.
Please Emily, panic a little quieter. Can you whisper that you are dying?
Fast forward.
I'm in the kitchen with Lisa, our babysitter/nanny. I hear feet pounding on the stairs. I look at Lisa and say, "You know what is coming, right?"
Emily runs in the kitchen with a distraught face and declares, "I'm having a heart attack!" And she means it. Literally. "My heart is beating too fast!"
I think, well duh! You just ran down the stairs at breakneck speed. Ooops, did I say that outloud?
And so it goes. Everyday is a new crisis. My finger is hot, but the others aren't!
My eye itchs, my eye itchs (complete with crazy jumping up and down)! (Well, scratch it!)
"Nite nite, Emily, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite." Now I can see more white in her eyes than green. "I don't want them to eat me!" I really should think before I speak. Now she'll be up for 3 more hours. Okay, think fast.
"Nite nite, sleep tight, don't let the cute puppies on your bed lick your face!" (This is where I pick up her stuffed animals and make them pretend lick her. Whew! It worked.)
On the bright side, she has enough sense to refuse to sit on the Easter Bunny's lap. "I'm not that kind of person," she says.
