Last week, I received a phone call from the school.
“A. isn’t doing well. … nearly lost consciousness several times… so pale… vitals drop… brady-ing… “
I heard the words through a fog.
I made my excuses and my exit from the moms’ ministry group I’m a part of and pulled little G. out the door.
I called the ped from my car.
“Monitored… carditis… ER… go straight there.”
And I did. I picked up my boy and took him to the ER.
Hours later, he was loaded into an ambulance and I climbed in beside him. We rode to our state’s capital city and arrived at the Children’s Hospital.
A flurry of events followed, including figuring out logistics for being with our son and caring for our daughters and trying to keep, well, LIFE afloat. Story hour, gymnastics, pageant practice… somehow, it was critical to me that I juggle it all and hold it together.
The end of the week brought my son’s return home (joy!) and marked the beginning of a long, drawn-out battle to get a prescription filled (frustration!)
Somewhere in there– I’m not even sure when– I received a phone call from the Faith Formation coordinator at our church. She suggested that I relinquish the job of teaching this week and, instead, serve as assistant. This means I don’t have to lesson plan. Basically, I help pass out snacks and maintain order.
It’s a little bit of a relief, I guess. I don’t have so much to do today, now. The pressure’s off, I suppose, in that I don’t feel the need to come up with some great, exciting ideas to entertain a troop of first graders for ninety minutes.
But I’m struggling.
It’s a bitter pill to accept help sometimes, isn’t it? I mean… when I was right in the throes of it, I gladly and gratefully accepted child care, rides, etc. But… now?
I feel guilty.
Tell me I’m not the only one who struggles with accepting a helping hand?