Emotional Poverty and The Holidays
I was on vacation this summer, four states away, when I got the call that no mom ever wants to have. The call that just reading about, causes a pit of dread in your stomach, even if you have never received it. My son had been in a car accident while traveling for work and was life-flighted. His work dispatch did not have any details for me at the time other than that. Shock took over my body — panic had not even set in — just shock. I wasn’t sure if he was alive, no idea the extent of the injuries, or even what happened to him.
I set to pack up my things, throwing these that didn’t belong together in my suitcase like a zombie: shampoo in my make-up bag, my dirty hiking boots on top of a nice white dress. I kept stopping mid-way looking around in a blur. At some point in all this someone in my family took over and loaded the car.
I am unsure what I did during this time except start random sentences that I couldn’t finish. Within 30 minutes we(they) had the condo packed up and I was in so much shock that I needed to be helped to the car, physically unable to walk steadily. This was a first for me; I am not an emotional person. I don’t often cry or get out of sorts. There were not any flights available and I was 12 hours away from my son, condition unknown. This is when panic set in.
