By Mare Biddle
“Don’t touch him,” the ER doctor barked at me. “You can’t touch him because you conduct current. We can’t tell exactly what his heart is doing.”
“My hair? Can he hold my hair?” I took out my hair tie and wrapped my three year-old son’s frightened little paw around a thick bunch.
My hair was long that year. I had worn it short most of my adult life. I don’t particularly like long hair: handfuls to wash, tangles to blowout, layers and layers to straighten. Repeat. I don’t recall making a decision to grow it long. I must have skipped a few appointments, and then soon enough it had passed my shoulders. The perfect length to braid, or pile up, or as it turned out, to hold.
“This kid’s not crashing on me. Let’s get this done, people.” The emergency room doctor ordered Adenosine and explained that it would re-set my son’s heart; take it from 266 beats per minute back down to a normal 100. He did not explain how that would happen. Continue Reading…