These Things Happen
By Krista Steele
@kristasteele_
“I’m taking Lucy upstairs for a quick bath,” I said over my shoulder to my friends Rachel and Sarah. My darling daughter had quite literally pooped all over my Saturday night plans by having a massive blowout just as my friends and I sat down and took the first bites out of our pizza. Little did I know, this would be the highlight of the evening.
I unlatched the newly installed gate at the bottom of the stairs and made for the bathroom sink. With the water running, I set Lucy down in her bedroom and checked to make sure she wasn’t going anywhere. At seven months old she was just beginning to crawl, and I made a mental note to remind Jeff once again to install the gate at the top of the stairs as well.
While she entertained herself with a basket full of clean laundry in the frame of the bedroom door, I turned to check the temperature of the water, running my wrist under the faucet. Not too hot, not too cold, just right. Then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a flicker of motion and heard Lucy whine as her tiny body pitched over the top of the stairs.
What happened next felt like it unfolded in slow motion, but it was only a moment. My body moved on impulse, following as she tumbled over every step. In the span of a single second, I imagined the worst waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs: silence, her body limp and lifeless, her neck hanging at a wrong angle like a baby bird fallen from its nest.
My heart beat faster than a hummingbird wing. Someone was screaming, the sound wild and primal and loud enough to announce to the whole neighborhood what I’d done. Or rather what I didn’t do.
It seemed like whole minutes had passed before I reached the bottom of the stairs. Sarah and Rachel were there, wide eyed and frozen to the spot. Fear and adrenaline shot through me like lightning, every move electric. I braced myself against the impact, prepared to witness the wreckage, but I found no such thing. There she was, eyes open and searching until they rested on mine.
I pressed her body to my chest as she let out the sharp punctuated wail of pain and fear, the sound a tether to reality, to life. I moved on instinct without stopping to analyze or overthink . She melted into me as I breathed her in and leaned against the wall, my whole body exhaling at her warmth in my arms. Only then did I realize that the scream I’d heard on the stairs had been my own.
“Someone call Jeff and someone turn off the water.” Sarah dialed Jeff and Rachel ran up the stairs. I heard the water stop just as Jeff picked up, the sounds of forks on plates and laughter in the background.
“You need to come home” I said, matter of fact. Sarah held the phone next to me and we walked toward the changing table I’d abandoned only minutes earlier.
“Lucy fell down the stairs.” I said into the speakerphone as I lay her on her back and checked her from head to toe, awkward but serious, like a child playing doctor. Not a scratch, not a bruise, not a bone out of place. A miracle, an actual miracle. Jeff stumbled over his words, stunned and confused. “Please come home now” I said and pressed the red button to end the call. On the other end of the phone, Jeff was just down the street eating chicken wings with Sarah’s fiancé and Rachel’s boyfriend, watching the Cincinnati Bengals lose their 8th game in a row, or was it 9?
While we waited for Jeff, I FaceTimed my Dad, knowing he had the cell phone number of my old pediatrician who happens to now be Lucy’s pediatrician, the only person I trusted in a moment like this. The phone seemed to ring for an hour before the machine picked up. I started to leave a message until I heard his text come through.
“Can I call you in a bit?”
“No. It’s an emergency.”
He FaceTimed me back almost immediately, his reading glasses perched on his nose, his face too close to the screen. My confession fell from my mouth without thinking, like a penitent shrouded in her shame. Looking at Lucy perched in my arms he said “she looks fine to me.” Her eyes followed the dog’s path to the front door and turned back to me when I said her name. “She’s going to be just fine, kid” he told me “There’s no need to call Dr. Dan and definitely no reason to go to the ER” before giving me our pediatrician's number anyway.
Dr. Dan is in his early sixties and looks the same to me now as he did when I was a child. His hair is more grey, his belly a bit more round, but he’s still the same Dr. Dan I’ve known my whole life. He’s soaked up Saturday afternoon beers with a turkey sandwich and potato chips at our kitchen counter after golfing with my dad. He’s distracted me from the pain of countless shots by singing Here Comes The Sun while strumming his acoustic guitar. While I felt guilty interrupting his Saturday night, and quite certain he’d be calling CPS after he heard what I’d done, my need for his reassurance surpassed any self consciousness. When he didn’t pick up, I left a frantic voicemail confessing every detail, sure it both could and would be used against me in a court of law. Even if Lucy was okay, certainly I had just proven what I feared the most: I didn’t deserve the privilege and responsibility of being her mother.
Just before I hung up, I heard Jeff walk through the door and handed Lucy to him. He wiped a stray tear from her cheek and examined her hands, her fingers, her feet, every inch of her. “Babe, she’s fine” he said to me and set her on the floor as she pushed against his chest, wriggling out of his arms. I watched her crawl to the couch and pull herself up to stand in front of it, listening to Jeff reassure me that there was no need to take Lucy to the emergency room, no need to call the pediatrician. But I didn’t hear him, not really. I wanted someone else to make the decisions. I no longer trusted myself to know what to do. I no longer trusted myself to keep my baby safe.
A few minutes later, my phone pinged with a text message.
Krista, if Lucy is acting fine I do not feel it is necessary to take her in. Just check her every 2-3 hours as she sleeps to make sure her color and breathing are ok. Dr. Dan
I imagined him at dinner with friends, rosy cheeked, tipsy, tapping his response between bites of dessert, as if these things happen all the time.
Sarah and Rachel paced our first floor, packing up their things, straightening pillows, fiddling with their keys, nervous and quiet. The air in the house was electric. The friction of fear and relief setting the atmosphere cracking and humming.
By then, Lucy acted as if nothing had happened. Rachel and Sarah hugged me tightly and left the rest of the pizza in the fridge before heading for their apartments. Following them to the door, I told them to send me the bill for the hours of therapy they’d no doubt be needing.
After clicking the lock into place behind them, I collapsed onto the couch next to Jeff, watching Lucy study a set of teething keys. Not a scratch. Not a bruise. Not a bone out of place. I confessed the whole story to him next. It was one second. I was just checking the water. “Honestly, it could have happened to anyone, babe. These things happen. She’s okay. The only person who’s not okay is you.”
Jeff was right. I did not sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Lucy fall, heard myself scream. I all but crawled in her crib.
Some time in the middle of the night, I checked on her again. She lay on her side, mouth open, her pink dog lovey clutched to her chest. I rested my hand on her back, felt the silent rise and fall of her breathing. I could have lost her. The thought made my breath catch in my throat.
For several days I was not okay. I was a neurotic watchdog, always on the lookout for danger. It took me a long time to fall asleep and when I did every dream was a nightmare. I heard that same primal scream, saw my baby bounce down a flight of stairs with no end, arms and legs flapping like a doll until she faded into darkness.
What surprised me was that the more I said it out loud, the better I felt. I told the whole story to friends, my sister-in-law, other mothers. Over and over again, I said the thing I never thought I’d say “I turned away for one second and she fell down the stairs.”
No one turned away. No one stopped being my friend. What they said was “Oh that happened to me, except mine fell down the basement stairs.” And, “Same here, and mine was in a walker.” They said things like “you’re a great mom” and “these things happen.” I let myself soak in their words like a warm bath, felt the truth of it soothe my aching soul. Their reassurance became my way forward, the path to trusting myself once again. Lucy was okay and now so was I.
Guest essay written by Krista Steele. Krista is a therapist, writer and speaker. She lives in Columbus, Ohio with her husband Jeff; their daughter, Lucy; and dog, Hank. Krista believes in the power of storytelling, gathering around the kitchen table, and the words "tell me more." You can find more from her on Instagram and at Kristasteele.net.
Photo by Sarah Stauter.