Michael D. Davis.

Well, I have had a week. And in this week I have learned that I stay calm and in charge during an emergency — as long as I am the one having said emergency.

Let’s go back to last Wednesday, 9 p.m. I start to itch. My eyes start to itch, my forehead, my arms, my neck, my back, everything. I am having an allergy attack.

I have had my fair share of them throughout the years. The last time I had my allergies tested, they handed me a sheet with all the allergies I had marked off. Well, the entire sheet was marked off including a box that marked ‘other.’

Anyway, back to last Wednesday, I don’t know what set off my allergies, maybe there was some ‘other’ in the air. Either way, I took some Benadryl. The itching started to go away, except for my eyes.

An hour or so later, I take some more Benadryl. Then I lay back with a wet rag on my face like an old lady who fainted in a Cary Grant movie. About an hour after that, I take the rag off, and my left eye is fine, but my right eye is swollen shut. It was decided I should probably head to the emergency room.

The moon was high in the sky. It was almost midnight, and me and Ma were heading to the ER. I was nervous, worried, and anxious, but otherwise fine. There was just about no traffic, and when we got there, there was only one guy in the waiting room.

I get taken back nearly immediately. I meet some nice nurses who ask me a bunch of questions, then the doctor comes in. He was great. He looked me over, and put some stuff in my eye, from how it felt, I think it was lemon juice.

Then he gave me some meds and eye drops and sent me on my way. It was a 10 out of 10 ER experience, and I’ve had a couple.

What made it truly good for me was the Doc, who happened to be a writer himself. We had a wonderful conversation, and when I got home, I bought his book.

Then Sunday came along. I’m back to “normal,” no more Cyclops impressions. Ma had taken off work, and we decided to do some work around the house. Mainly moving some old stuff to the storage unit across town.

We start up after lunch, piling boxes of odds and ends into the truck. Finally, we are done, we are heading to the storage unit. Me and Ma get in the truck to take it ourselves. There was no room for anyone else in the truck, not that anyone else volunteered to help.

We get down to the unit. I pop the lock and open the door. I turn back towards the truck for a second and I hear a scream. I whip back around and Ma is lying face down on the concrete floor.

I start to freak out. I try to get her up. She says she can’t get up. I say I’m gonna call 911. She calls me an idiot. I say she needs an ambulance. She says she needs a minute. She screams. I scream.

I call my sister. My sister answers, but my phone sometimes does this thing where the person on the other end of the line can’t hear you. So, I say something like, “Ma, fell on her face in the storage unit! Right on the concrete, with a hell of a smack! Ya need to get down here quick! She won’t let me call 911!”

I take a breath, and realize my sister is saying on the other end of the line, “Hello? Are you there? HHEEELLLLOOOOO? EH?” I hung up, the second phone call went a little better.

So, I pace back and forth, as Ma manages to get into a seated position. Eventually, my sister shows up. We get Ma to her feet, Me and my sister unload the truck, then we convince Ma to go to the ER.

By the time we get to the emergency room, I am a little bit calmer, but my sister tells me I’m still talking too loud and fast. Ma goes into the triage room with this guy, she’s in there for a while and eventually comes back out to the waiting room.

As she does, Ma makes a joke to the guy saying thankfully she didn’t crack the concrete when she hit it. Either the guy wasn’t listening or I don’t know, but his reply was, “Yeah, that’s good.”

After that, we wait, and we wait, and we wait in the lobby of the ER as people all around us have their numbers picked to go to the back rooms. When Ma is finally called, we are the last people in the waiting room at that moment.

Now, before I go on, some pertinent info here is that a couple of months ago I bought a coffin. It’s a handmade wooden six-foot toe pincher coffin, and it is in my storage unit.

And somehow, even though Ma went down face first she somehow at the same time managed to hit her back on the side of the coffin. This is something that I believe only my Ma had the ability to do.

Anyway, Ma goes back and gets put on a cot in the hallway. Between periods of more waiting, she talks to her Doctor about her fall. And the phrase, “I fell on my son’s coffin,” raised more questions than answers.

Then at one point, she just walked back into the waiting room, having wandered off like a loose mental patient, just to tell us she didn’t think it would be much longer. In case you haven’t figured it out, she’s fine. Bruised, sore, and still has no balance, but she’ll live.

So, with these two points of information, I have concluded that if I am going to be calm, cool, and collected during an emergency, it better be me who can’t breathe, has a swollen eye, or falls on a coffin. Otherwise, I just go to pieces.