I wish I could say that Thursday started out like any other day, but it didn't. Emily awoke at 3:30am fitful and stimmy. She crawled into bed with me and I tried to calm her down with some of my usual tactics - tight hugs, deep pressure rubs, wrapping her snug in blankets - all ineffective. She tossed and turned and whimpered, occasionally trying to calm herself by scripting a few phrases from her cartoons. By 5:30 I gave up and clicked on The Disney Channel for her and began my day. The morning ran its course, I got the boys off to school and Em and I were alone. She was no worse for wear, having her usual level of energy (high) where I shuffled around with my eyelids at half-mast, making a pot of really strong coffee and mentally rearranging my day so I could find time to squeeze in a nap.
Around 10:00 my dad stopped by to fix the front door that Emily had broke when she was told she could not go outside. As he fixed the door I chatted about my morning while Emily flitted around him jabbering, as if she was telling him about her morning too. The task was done, Gramp got on his coat and Emily, on cue, began to become upset. She very quickly recovers, like a light bulb went off above her head - "Car? Emme go? Shooes? Socks? C'mon Gramp, lessh go!" It's 10:30, and Em has to get on the school bus in an hour. I start to protest, but my Dad is already getting her coat and putting on her shoes. "I have to go to Great Harvest (bread bakery) today anyway, we'll just go do that real quick and be right back." All I can think about is a 20 min. cat nap, so I let her go and watch her bounce out the door, her face glowing and beaming because she is going in the car with Gramp. The door shuts, I get her stuff ready for school, grab a blanket and sink into the couch. What seems like only moments later my phone rings and it is my Dad.
"I need your help. Emily ran away from me and I think I broke my arm." His voice is frightfully calm. My heart skips a beat and I feel the blood leave my face. A thousand questions race through my mind - Did you catch her? Are you OK? Do I need to call the police? An ambulance? Where the hell are you? ...I pick the last one, scramble to find a pen and write the location on my hand, not taking time to find paper. Phone, purse, keys and out the door I sprint in my monkey jammies. It occurs to me as I speed erratically through traffic that I was paying bills this morning, so my wallet is still sitting on the kitchen table. I don't care, I'm not stopping for anyone, even police. Racing, racing down a residential street, scanning for a glimpse of Emily's lime green windbreaker, Dad's yellow sweatshirt...not seeing them, not seeing them... YELLOW! Screeching to a halt, throwing the car in park, I jump out and approach my Dad, with one arm bloodied and hanging limp at his side. A bone juts out just above his wrist. "EM!?!" is all I can say, and a woman comes out from her yard, "She's in here! She's safe." And then, everything catches up with me, I feel my knees go weak and I start to sob and I collapse in this woman's arms.
Emily is cheerfully playing on the swing set of this woman's house with the other children that were there - completely unaware and unfazed by what has just transpired in the past 10-15 minutes. I scoop her up and attempt to put her in the car, which leads to an immediate and intense meltdown - kicking, screaming and failing. This time, I am oblivious to her reaction as I shut the door and turn my attention to my father. "Get in the car Dad, I'll take you to the ER" "No, just take me to my car, I'll drive myself to the ER so you can get Em to school" SERIOUSLY? Did that just come out of your mouth? "Um, no....I'm not letting you drive - get in the car." "OK, but only to my car, you have to get her home to calm her down." "Dad, you are NOT driving with a bone sticking through your skin!" (I think to myself, Are we really fighting about this?) His reply was, "What? I still have one working arm!" "DAD! Get. In. The. Car."
Driving to the hospital, I have a million questions that need answers, but only one out of the two people here are out of danger, so I wait. I call my brother to meet me at the ER - there is no way I can help him in with a still melting Autistic child in my backseat, throwing booster seats and toys, kicking seats and trying to pull my hair. Scott meets me, gets Dad out, and I drive home. We get inside and Emily sheds her clothes, her trademark ending to a meltdown, and plops down on the sofa to watch Dora. I call Mom to tell her what just went down.
To say I "lost my shit" is an understatement. I hyperventilate, I scream, I sob....I had so many emotions and thoughts running through my body at a thousand miles an hour, like an electric current - it was extremely hard to decipher them and pick and choose which one to address first. I am mad...but at what? I am remorseful...all I wanted was 20 min to close my eyes. I am responsible...or at least I feel like it. I am thankful...she did not run the other way into a huge busy street, and she is safe.
The rest of the day is one big, sucking, emotional drain. I go back to thank that wonderful woman that helped with Emily, crying the whole time. Then back to the ER, where my Dad lay to be looked over by surgeons. Sobbing again. He has literally shattered his forearm, breaking it in 7 places and splitting the bone. It will take 4 hours of surgery, 3 metal plates and multiple screws to put his arm back together. Through the morphine drip, he tries to tell me what happened....
After Great Harvest, he tried to get Emily back in the car and she bolted. She ran the entire length of the strip mall and then around the corner towards houses. (This is the part where I thank God and everything that is Holy that she did not run the opposite way into heavy traffic, where surely the outcome would have been grave.) Dad ran after her, and tripped in a bump on the sidewalk towards the end of the mall, and that's when he broke his arm. But that wonderful man, that beautiful 64 year old man, with a fake knee, and now a bone sticking through his skin, got up, and chased my daughter another 2+ blocks until he caught her. Amazing.
Exhausted in every way imaginable, I go home and collapse on the couch. Looking at the clock, I have 40 minutes till Emily gets off the bus...but what I wanted more than anything I cannot do...sleep. Every time I close my eyes, the "Emily Escapes" movie plays in my brain. I see my Dad go down, the bone piercing his skin, the look on his face as he fell. I see him getting up, most likely in tremendous pain, and continue to run, and realize he has to run FAST. I feel his pain, his panic, his level of adrenaline at that moment. But what is eating at my gut, what makes my heart hurt so badly, is that he had to feel that feeling...that sick, panicky, vomitous horrible feeling that comes with a child escaping you - especially one with Autism. That feeling that grabs at your throat and turns your blood to ice when you realize no amount of yelling their name, or screaming for them to stop is going to make them return to you. ...all you can do is run like hell and pray.
