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I still remember the end-of-season tournament for 12-year-old Mackenzie and her advanced-level soccer team. It consisted of two games on Saturday -- 9 and 5 -- and at least one game on Sunday -- two if they won the first three games. I love the team she plays on: the girls are friendly and warm and the parents kind and inviting. Her coaches have taught her a LOT, and this team has really been a great fit for her.
I wasn't able to get to the Saturday morning game, and she caught a ride with one of the other players -- I completely owe this parent a coffee and a big drink, as the family has brought her home from almost every practice -- and as she left, I reminded my daughter, "Take your medicine on the way." She has to take two puffs of albuterol and six puffs of Intal 30 minutes before her practices and games. (This is the medication that her asthma specialist has prescribed. Pretreating with only albuterol doesn't keep the asthma at bay. Intal, although an older medication, has been a godsend to her sports activity. And it's being discontinued, so we are going to have to start over again, trying to find a magic combination -- which tires me.)
I was unhappy to have to miss her game, but Mackenzie is such a self-sufficient child that it never phases her. (And how I feel about her incredible self sufficiency is a whole 'nother post.) She was completely comfortable with being at the game without me. While she was at her game, I took two kids to Muay Thai and then Emma and Riley had their last soccer game. Then I went to my Muay Thai class. Right before my class started, Mackenzie called me from the house. "I scored, Mom! I scored THREE goals!" This was great news, for she hadn't scored all season. I was delighted for her and promised to be at the next game. Which I was.
The game was tight and the girls were really playing well. I was watching my daughter and noticed that she seemed to be breathing heavy. She WAS running a lot, but it seemed to be something more, something out of the ordinary. I watched her a little more intently and after a few minutes noticed that she was lifting her shoulders when she breathed. Placing one hand on her chest, she raised her other hand -- the signal we've arranged to let the coach know that she needs to come out of the game. She was playing on the opposite side of the field from her coach -- the parent side. I called to her, "Are you ok?" She shook her head no.
At this point,the first squiggle of fear coiled through me. Mackenzie rarely, if ever, asks to come out of the game. I think she'd done it once prior in the entire season. She typically begs to be allowed to stay in. She stopped running -- standing still is also foreign to this kid -- and raised her hand again. A funny look came over her face, and she folded forward and started coughing. I stood up as the game continued around her, calling to the referee, "My daughter needs to come out!"
And my daughter collapsed.
Ignoring the strict rules that no parent is to EVER cross onto the field, I ran towards her. I reached her and she gasped, "I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" I helped her to lay back on the field and saw, out of the corner of my eye, one of her coaches running towards me with her soccer bag. "You are breathing, Mackenzie. If you weren't, you wouldn't be able to talk. Just relax," I said to her, for her eyes were wide, her face was white and she was deathly afraid. I grabbed the bag from the coach, rifling though it in search of the inhaler, and found the spacer, which had the Intal loaded -- the wrong medicine. (Intal's not a rescue medication, but a preventative.) I ripped it off and pawed through the bag for the albuterol. One part of my mind noticed that her nostrils were flaring and I could hear the wheezing -- never good signs. I found the albuterol and primed it into the air.
It was empty.
Shit. I threw the empty inhaler to the side and
