Ocean

July 16, 2009

After the Clutch House of Blues show in Atlantic City the other week, we hung out for a few days on the Boardwalk. We knew Dan was getting ready for tour, and that it would be fun to just hang out en famille, with no agenda beyond bursting balloons with darts and eating iced custard.

The evening of the Fourth, we were on the beach by the Steel Pier, playing in the waves. My older two could play all day- the first thing J did was get his pants soaking wet before we headed to the Foundation Room for dinner- but W doesn’t like sand on his feet right now, and was anxious to get back to the hot wood of the Boardwalk. I finally gave in to his insistent tugging on my hand, and picked him up to trudge up the dune.

At the top sat a woman with vivid red hair, mascara streaming down her cheeks, crying the ugly cry. Great, gasping breaths choked her, and as she saw me pause and look, she hid her face like a child who thinks she’s invisible if she can’t see you.

I sank down next to her on the sand and put my arm around her, with W straddling my lap and studying her curiously. She leaned her head on my shoulder and continued to sob. I had the feeling that something was lost, and greatly missed. Nothing replaceable, like money or a job. Something precious.

After a few minutes, she slowed down and asked W, “How old are you?” And he, who never ever speaks to strangers, and in fact crosses his arms and acts affronted when approached, answered “Tree.” “Oho,” she said. “My little granddaughter is two.”

“Does she live near you?” I asked, and she stared straight at the ocean and answered, “No.” I saw her lip quiver and her determination not to blink: I know all those not-crying tricks, and launched into a series of W stories to steer us back to safe waters.

I never asked what was wrong- I didn’t want her to have explain, and I couldn’t do much good. I just wanted to be a shoulder for a moment. As Dan and the other children returned, we said our goodbyes and headed to dinner at a place far, far too fancy for our children- but nice enough to let us come anyway.

The Foundation Room is lovely and quiet, the walls lushly covered with patchwork silk. They tucked us into a huge booth with a curtain, which was great since our jeans and concert Ts didn’t so much meet the dress code. Few tables were filled, as people were busy snagging prime spots for the Borgata/Harrahs Fireworks.

We studied the menu, looking for some kid friendly items amidst the goat cheese and calimari. (Which was amazingly good.) We ordered angel hair with parmesan for the two littles to share, and explored the restaurant while waiting for food.

It arrived quickly, and since we were all ready to eat our own arms, the  table fell quiet, with everyone methodically tucking in. That’s probably why it took us a minute to notice. But I heard a sound I couldn’t place, and looked across the table to see W’s face, a strange color, with a terrified look in his eyes. Dan noticed at the same moment I did, and since he was next to him, did a mouth sweep- nothing changed, except we got more scared. ( We know now, that’s not what to do- but even though I’ve been CPR certified for 20 years now, I swear to God I forgot everything in that moment.)

I vaulted to the other side of the table and grabbed him. He was now making no sound at all, and in my head I was screaming for help. I thought, “We should get someone,” but as I was thinking, my hands had taken over everything else, and was reaching in his little body, looking for the issue. But still, nothing changed.

I felt as though we were frozen, invisible, our little drama acted out in silence as we focused, knowing these seconds mattered perhaps more to us than any other, ever.

At a complete loss, fear taking over, I turned him over at a steep angle and began whacking him on the back, probably much too hard. After about four of those, a wad of pasta shot into my lap. He was still silent, eyes huge, as I shook him gently and said, “Talk! Say hi! Talk! W!” He began to cry, a weak mew of a sound, and I picked him up to change him in the bathroom. As quickly as it began, it ended, with everyone else’s lives in the room unchanged.

But I had seen a glimpse of the ocean. A peek into the abyss, of how quickly one goes from being in the sand and the waves, to being the one staring out with mascara streaming down her cheeks. I stood in the elegant bathroom, squeezing him until he wriggled in irritation. “Noo-noo, Mommy”, he said, and pulled a long string of pasta off of my shoulder. “Eat it, Mommy, eat it,” he said, and I knew he was all right.

I remember that moment he felt foreign, when his eyes looked so blank and frightened that my actions became purely mechanical. “Get it out…let him breathe…” my brain refrained. And I remember the moment when I knew the incident would be nothing more than a blip, a dip of my toe into the ocean, not a desperate swim against a tide that would never fully abate.

And I’m grateful.

(Note: the Heimlich maneuver is the preferred method of aid for choking victims, even children. because it expels the item quickly and forcefully, without risk of forcing the object further into the airway- For more information, here’s a link to the AHA’s Child Choking page.)

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