“When Fear Fills in the Blanks”

Hello

Darla called me a few nights ago. I hadn’t heard from her in a while, so when I picked up the phone, I was smiling. “Hello!”

Her voice hit me like a slap. “Are you busy, Mom?”

“Just cooking dinner. Why?”

“Craig’s on his way to the hospital. He’s not breathing.”

Not breathing. Those two words nearly stopped my own heart. My son. My boy. I wanted details—had he collapsed? Was an ambulance coming? Was someone helping him?—but I didn’t ask. My mind was already racing ahead, painting the worst pictures a mother can imagine.

“Do you need a ride?” was all I managed.

“Yes. I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.”

“I’m on my way.”

I shut off the stove, turned to Rick with shaking hands, and blurted out the words no parent ever wants to say: “Craig’s not breathing.” He didn’t hesitate. “Of course I’m coming.”

I bolted for the car, heart pounding, lungs tight like I was the one struggling for air. I slammed the door, gripped the wheel, and waited. Seconds crawled by. Where was Rick? Every moment felt like it might be my son’s last.

Finally, Rick appeared. Calm. Too calm. “Did you turn off the oven?” he asked.

“No!” I barked.

“I did,” he said. Then, with that maddening pause, “…but I didn’t take the biscuits out.”

I could’ve screamed. Biscuits? My child might be dying and we were talking about biscuits?

I tore down the driveway, heart in my throat, hands trembling on the wheel. The problem was, I didn’t even know exactly where Darla’s new house was. Panic and poor directions don’t mix. I pulled into Les Schwab, called her, and within minutes she was running toward the car.

“Mea’s at the church across from the school. Can we pick her up?” she asked, breathless.

“Of course,” I said, turning the car toward the school. At that point, I would’ve moved mountains if she’d asked.

With Darla and Mea beside me, I finally started asking the questions I should’ve asked at the start. Piece by piece, the story came out. David had called Darla and said Craig was on his way to the ER—but hadn’t explained why. Then Craig himself had called to say he was almost there.

That stopped me cold. If he was driving and calling, then my son was breathing. He was alive.

For the first time since Darla’s call, I let out the air I’d been holding like it was the only thing keeping me upright. Relief washed over me, softening the iron grip on my chest. My imagination had been racing ahead of reality.

By the time we sat in the waiting room, the truth was clear: what looked like a crisis was a panic attack brought on by high blood pressure. Scary, yes—but not the nightmare I’d pictured.

Later, Rick and I came home to biscuits that were nothing but char and gravy that had turned to paste. The house smelled like smoke and wasted dinner. And it hit me: if I’d only asked a few more questions, I would’ve saved myself an hour of terror. If I’d called Cam, I could’ve saved the biscuits too.

That night, I learned a hard truth—sometimes the silence between words is more dangerous than the words themselves.

💬 “When it’s your child, fear rushes in to fill every missing detail. Sometimes, all it takes is one question to bring you back to breathing again.”