Defying Dizziness, or Living Fearlessly in a Culture of Fear

The swirling spokes of the kaleidoscope-colored carnival ride created a flickering pattern of shadow and light as the kiddie motorcycles whirred around carrying the tiny passengers. A brilliant sun and a bluebird sky were the backdrop for a miraculously cool July day in Texas. A soundtrack of plinking music-box sounds from the midway and infectious laughs from the riders completed a picture postcard perfect day.

Fumbling in my bag, I was desperate to find my camera before the ride ended so I could freeze that memory in a picture. Quickly, I rose from my stooped position, spotted my broad-smiling little rider and snapped a picture. I checked the view finder to see if I was happy with the result, but the screen looked blurry, as if the sun had caught my eye sideways and left a blindspot.  I quickly blinked and waved at my four year old as he whizzed around again, but the single blind spot was growing into an overall feeling of enclosing darkness.

Instant sweat beads sprung to my head, as nausea grew in my stomach. The colors and lights around me blurred and swirled into a pressing feeling of wooziness that quickly spread to my knees. Hunched over and clinging frantically to the rail, I willed myself to the ride operator and breathlessly asked if there was water nearby. I must have looked on the outside how I felt on the inside because the ride operator quickly thrust his own half-used water bottle into my hand. Without thought, I downed the lukewarm water and white knuckled my way a few steps back to the exit to the ride, so I would be there to do my parental duty. The water, I had hoped, would be a magic elixir, but the darkness and shaking only intensified. Without permission, my body was sinking to the ground. Just as I was hitting my hands and knees, I desperately locked eyes with the ride operator and pointed to my four year old who was climbing gleefully off the motorcycle.

Then, everything went black.

As the world began to come back into focus, I found myself seated on a picnic bench under an awning. I had traveled there, I remembered, under my own power. I never really, fully lost consciousness, but just danced on the edge of passing out where everything was dark and woozy. I had many questions, but first I had to find my kids. Scanning the area slowly, I found them clustered together a few feet away under the watchful eye of the ride operator. He had dutifully left his post at the motorcycles and was watching over my oldest son, who was watching the others.

“Is okay?” he asked in broken English as he looked at me and nodded towards my son. I assured him that the boys could watch over themselves for the time being, and he slowly walked back to his ride while keeping an eye on us. I was assured that medical personnel were on the way, and that’s when I noticed another stranger lingering nearby. I acknowledged the mom with the double stroller with my gaze, and she offered me a knowing smile. “I’m just going to stay here for a while, in case you need help,” she offered. I countered with a polite refusal, but her mind was made up. She thrust a wad of cotton candy into each of her small children’s hands, and sat down on a bench. She didn’t speak another word after that, but offered her show of solidarity in motherhood with her presence.

In the end, the paramedics determined that my blood pressure was low and the act of bending down threw my body into a tailspin. They advised water, which I drank heartily, and fairly quickly, I began to feel better. Throughout the ordeal, the boys sensed the need to step up their game, and took care of themselves and their little brother without a fuss. My fear of the kids going all Lord of the Flies in my absence had been unfounded. They proved themselves capable and I was proud.

Back at home, I had time to process the event, and consider the fear of being out of commission as the only adult in the scenario. As I was preparing for my first solo trip with the boys later in the year, the irony of the timing was not lost on me. Perhaps this was a wake-up call that it was a huge mistake to travel alone with my kids.

Or maybe it was the opposite.

This freak incident happened 20 miles from my home on a typical outing to a local park. That kind of mundane day out is considered absolutely safe, but truthfully, it is no safer just because it is closer to home. In fact, if statistics are true, it is actually more risky to do the typical things like driving a car or climbing the stairs in your house. Safety and risk are no respecter of geography. “Bad” things happen both near to home and far away, mostly because risk is an inherent part of living.

So, back to the solo trip that might not happen because of a little dizziness in the park. I realized that even though I was temporarily unable to care for my children, they were not ever in any danger, thanks to the nameless strangers who stood in the gap. The man, whose language and culture was completely different from my own, who left his job to watch my children. And, the woman, who certainly had her hands full caring for her own two children, who stopped her day to be sure a stranger and her children were safe. Their presence was the lesson I needed to learn and the reminder that there are good people, who can become guardian angels, everywhere in the world. 

The pieces slowly began to fall into place in my head. I realized that if there were people willing to help here at this local park, there would be other people willing to help in any other place. Logically, I accepted that I was no safer traveling with my kids than I am close to home. And that is okay. I am willing to accept some risk for the reward of living fully, but it is nice to know that there is a safety net, even if that net is a couple of people whose names I’ll never know.