My daughter—who should have been asleep in bed—was crumpled on the floor. Her tiny body convulsed violently, her face mottled purple, foam frothing at her lips. Her eyes had rolled back, and her throat produced a horrible rasping wheeze, like broken bellows struggling for air.
An asthma-induced seizure.
Talia had congenital asthma. The doctors had warned me over and over—no major stress, no intense crying.
"Talia! Don't scare Mommy! Talia!"
I lunged forward and scooped her up, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
Her body was burning hot. Her breathing had faded to almost nothing.
Raw terror shattered every rational thought.
I fumbled for my phone to call 911 while frantically tearing through the medicine cabinet for her emergency inhaler.
It wasn't there. The spot where the inhaler should have been was empty.
Then I remembered—two days ago, Victor had ransacked the first aid kit looking for bandages, scattering medications everywhere. I hadn't had time to reorganize it.
No inhaler.
The movements in my arms grew weaker by the second. I didn't stop for shoes. I grabbed my daughter and ran for the stairs, dialing Victor's number with trembling fingers.