By Cathy Jameson 

I recalled a time that I was outside coming home from a walk last spring.  With the siblings watching their brother for the few minutes when I needed some fresh air, I didn’t rush home.  He was fine.  They were fine.  I was not.  I can’t remember now what happened that had me step away, but I do remember sauntering silently down the street lingering and enjoying the quiet.  Our part of the neighborhood doesn’t see too many cars, so it’s not unusual for kids from other streets to bike down ours.  On my walk back home, I noticed two kids, then two more, then a whole bunch of kids ride past me.  Schools were off that day, which drew more middle schoolers outside than usual.  I know of a few of them, but my kids are older and don’t typically interact with them.  

As I got closer to my driveway, I planned the rest of my afternoon.  My thoughts were soon interrupted as several emergency vehicles quickly drove past me.  The kids were off their bikes already and were playing ball across the street from our house.  Spilling out of their vehicles, young men and women in blue uniforms ran up a driveway.  It was not for the neighbor I expected to need medical attention.  Usually, it’s the elderly couple next door to us that have called for help.  My husband would check on them because they each have had a history of medical problems.  Prone to falling, Jack, the disabled World War II vet, worried us.  But this time, the ambulance was parked at a different house. 

A large fire truck next careened down the street with its 4-man crew joining the rescue efforts.  The frustration I had felt earlier in my home, and whatever had prompted my need to walk away for a minute, paled in comparison as to what was taking place right now.  The ladder truck blocked my view, and I felt terrible for trying to peek around it.  I felt a bit like a nosey neighbor, but before my friend down the street texted me, I wanted to see who called 911 and why.  

Watching the middle school boys gather at the edge of their lawn, I quickly texted my neighbor down the street.  “Hey, the ambulance – it’s not for us this time.”

She was relieved.  

Telling me she was just about to text me, she asked if it was for the older couple next door.  We don’t get to see each other too much anymore, but this younger neighbor and I always text each other when an emergency vehicle shows up.  Before going into the special ed teaching field, she used to watch Ronan for me.  She knows the laundry list of medical conditions he has and of the times we’ve had to call 911.  She also knows how quickly seizures used to happen.  Those haven’t happened in awhile, but she remains always ready to swoop in and help me with my kids, especially when my husband is traveling for work.

The young middle schoolers gathered at the edge of the lawn and stayed attentive.  More of their friends had joined the front-yard football game, but all were keeping a respectful distance and were being quiet.  One of the boys glanced my way.  I quietly asked, “Do you know who needed help?”  He said, “It looked like it was an elderly woman.”  Ah, that’s the mother of the siblings who own the large house at the corner.  I appreciated his response and retreated to my house.  My kids greeted me with smiles when I walked in, “Hey, you’re back.  You could’ve stayed out longer, Mom. Ronan is okay.” 

I hadn’t been gone for more than 20 minutes.  It was just enough sunshine and time to step away from whatever had started to bug me.  By the time I’d come back home, whatever it was that bugged me was absolutely insignificant.  Hugging my youngest, I told her thanks for being in charge of all the things and all the people for me.  She smiled.  Having heard the sirens and seen the activity of the emergency responders she asked, “Was it for Jack next door?”  I told her, “Not this time, it was the mom of the adult kids who own the big house.”  We hadn’t seen the mom in a long time, so we prayed everything would soon be okay.  I know the feeling when, in an instant, things are not okay.  In an instant, things go from bad to worse.  They go from We’ve got this to Oh, no!  We don’t.  That’s when the adrenaline kicks in.  That’s when we call for help.  That’s when we pray for things to turn around.  

Which is what my daughter and I did for the lady in the big house at the corner as we watched the fire truck leave first.  

Then the ambulance.  

Followed by the police. 

Very soon after, life on our street returned to normal.  The middle school kids rolled back down the road.  First one boy, then two, then all of them.  Riding their bikes, heading to the next front yard, calling to their friends as they rode, you’d never know a near-death situation had just occurred.  While we have had to call 911, and we have had more than a few emergency room runs, we haven’t had a near-death moment.  I have mentally prepared for those, because of my son’s medical conditions.  

But I’ll hope and pray we never experience anything like that.  

Cathy Jameson is a Contributing Editor for Age of Autism.

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