We are Mamas

I’m sitting having breakfast with some mommy friends this morning and there’s a table of 10 young men, early 20s, guzzling coffee and scarfing piles of eggs and toast and fried potatoes, just as we are doing. And one guy, at the farthest end of their table appears to be sleeping, sitting upright, but sort of slumped over at the neck, his head lolling forward near his plate.

More than one of us mothers at my table notice this, but we live in a resort town, where young men such as these tend to drink Tequila or Wild Turkey or Jim Beam all night, stopping only when dawn signals that it is time for some grub. It is not all that unusual to see a guy passed out at the breakfast table. And who are we to judge?

A moment later, I look up to see this guy sliding against his friend and then sliding right out of his chair onto the floor. Limp as a spaghetti noodle, but altogether more pale and pasty-looking. His forehead and lips are covered with white goo and there’s thick red fluid under his nose and dripping down his neck. Is he dead? I ask.

We’re not sure, but, certainly, he is down. On the floor. And yet his friends keep eating. They’re still chewing away on their breakfast. One of them registers a mild sort of alarm, more of a calm attention, really, as he stands up to get a closer look at the guy who had, until moments before, been seated at the table in front of him.

Meanwhile, the ladies at my table, none of whom has any medical background whatsoever, launch themselves nimbly to his side. One lady completely clears away the tables and chairs near the poor boy. Another is grilling his friends about his health history: allergies and his history of seizures and the like. Another is instructing the waitress to call 911. Another is rolling up her sweatshirt to put behind the head of this young man, who keeps looking up and then slamming his head back into the floor in confusion. My other friend is wiping his face with her napkin (and it is she who discovers that what we are looking at is not blood and foam but ketchup and white sauce from his biscuits and gravy.) My other friend is rubbing his head gently with her cool touch and speaking in her softest angelic mama voice as his eyes flutter open and closed. I think he, too, is wondering if he were dead.

His friends are still sitting in their chairs, spreading jam on toast. I get the sense that we are in a parallel universe – one in which their friend is dying but they are only watching it on television.

We get up from his side when the paramedics arrive. He is sucking on oxygen for a good 15 minutes before the greenish gray pallor cedes from his face and he can sit again.

My Texan friend says, “If this ever happens to me and you all keep eating your breakfast, then we are not friends anymore.” I believe her.

As they are leaving, the young men who are left standing stop by our table and they say, “Thank you all so much for helping us there. We didn’t know what to do. Are you all a bunch of nurses or something?”

“No,” we say, all at once. “We are Mamas.”

Photo by Vinni123, on Flickr

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