The staircase in my house has 12 stairs that lead from the kitchen to the basement.
When we first set up the gate guarding the entrance to the staircase from the kitchen, I never imagined that someday I would step out into the downstairs hallway just in time to see my daughter's walker be launched from step six and flip her over and slam her little body down face first on the hallway floor.
But tonight, that horror happened. And it happened fast.
I've walked those 12 steps holding Etta hundreds of times. I've helped her walk up the stairs dozens of times. And I've shut that stupid gate over and over again. Each time I've gone down, I've shut the gate. Each time I've come back up, I've shut the gate.
Tonight, I didn't. I ran downstairs to set the Braves game to record. I was standing by our office desk and heard a noise. I stepped out in the hall just in time to see it unfold in front of my eyes.
There are some things in life that simply can't be unseen. I'd give anything to unsee the image of my little daughter helplessly skipping the last six steps of the staircase in a tumbling walker.
But since I can't unsee it, I will say that I was super impressed and I attribute her well-being to the fact that her body did nothing of any type of attempt to brace itself--which I think probably helped her avoid serious injury. What I saw rolling through the air was a limp, noodle of a body...and I think that helped keep her safe.
I got to her quickly. Pulled her out of the walker, completely unsure of how she was. I kept her neck stable because the way she landed on it was haunting. I carried her into the living room downstairs. Laid her on her back and hovered over her. I quickly checked her legs and her arms, hoping and praying that I didn't find a broken one. I kept her head steady until she, completely freaking out, rolled over. At that point, I figured she was probably ok, as far as her neck and limbs went.
I picked her up as she opened her mouth screaming. As she opened her little mouth, blood ran over her lips and onto her chin. She coughed and spit blood. She drooled blood. At that point, her little nose began bleeding as well. Her little hands worked tirelessly to clear the blood away from her mouth and nose and as a result, smeared blood all over her round face.By the time I was carrying her upstairs, Annie had called an ambulance (because of how she saw Etta laying on her neck at the bottom of the stairs). I held Etta close and tight, still not sure how she really was. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I cried, and cried, and cried.
In the 3-5 minutes that passed between when I came upstairs and the ambulance arrived, I uttered the phrase "shut the gate Kyle, just shut the gate" at least a hundred times.
I understand the "don't beat yourself up" logic, but I can't seem to let it apply to me here. I'm crushed.
The paramedics arrived. Assessed the situation. They were fantastic. They were quick, friendly, supportive, loving, and most importantly, concerned with Etta's well-being.
I don't recall their names, but I'm very grateful for their reassurance that Etta was just banged up, but that she would be ok.
After the paramedics left, Etta screamed hard off and on before I rocked her while she ate a bottle. The bottle calmed her down and she finished it with a smile. The left side of her face is rugburn, her eye is swollen and bruised, her face has a couple cuts and her mouth is cut. But she's ok.
Fortunately for her, she'll forget that it ever happened. Unfortunately for me, I can't. Probably why I'm writing a blogpost at 1am.
I've often talked about getting an Etta tattoo on my arm. I noticed that one of the paramedics had our address written on his forearm in pen--I'm assuming he wrote where he could when getting the call about Etta, and his forearm seemed like a logical place because it was easy to see.
While I can't say for sure if I'll get the Etta tattoo on my arm, I'm very much considering the phrase "shut the gate, Kyle" tattooed across my forearm.
If I never remember another thing in my life, I'll forever remember to shut the gate.
The paramedics and our friends and families reassured us that babies are resilient, and I'm forever grateful for that.
One thing that's not feeling resilient right now: my emotional psyche.
The staircase in my house has 12 stairs that lead from the kitchen to the basement.
All 12 of them have a new meaning to me now.
