Everybody Has a Story: Back from emergency room, they discovered angels

At this time of year, I am reminded of an experience that I feel is a perfect example of the meaning of the season.

My husband had just been transferred to San Francisco to live and had moved into a house without the opportunity to acquaint ourselves with our neighborhood or the surrounding area. I was still unpacking and my husband left for his work each day, and I learned later that our new neighbors were giving us time to settle in before coming to welcome us and introduce themselves.

One evening while I was preparing dinner, my husband put our 3-year-old daughter into her pajamas and they spent some valuable time together reading in her bedroom and playing until time to eat. As she was bouncing around the room, she stumbled against a bedside table with a glass of water sitting on it.

At that point, the inevitable and all-too-familiar “Murphy’s Law” arrived on the scene, and before my husband could catch her, our daughter fell into the table and against the glass, splitting her mouth open as it shattered. She was bleeding profusely and gagging. My husband hollered to me to bring towels and, without really being sure where a hospital was (and there wasn’t 911 then), we wrapped her up, ran to the garage and into the car, and sped off for help. Every parent knows that terrifying and helpless feeling when your child is in danger and you’re unable to fix it.

In our panic we left the house wide open, door unlocked, with everything in shambles. In the kitchen, food was left on the stove and the table was set for dinner. (I did remember to turn off the stove.) We followed signs and found a hospital. We were there a number of hours while the doctors pumped our daughter’s stomach in case she had swallowed any glass, since she was choking (apparently in panic), and they stitched up the gash in her mouth.

After more time for observation, we were sent home, assured all was well. As we approached the house, we looked at each other in yet another moment of fright, as all the lights were on. We realized that we had not secured anything when leaving. We pulled into the garage, and my husband opened the kitchen door ahead of me and the baby, expecting to see a ransacked house or perhaps nothing left there.

Instead, the kitchen was sparkling! Food was put away in the fridge; dishes, pots and pans were washed and in the cupboard; table and stove were cleaned up, and the delicious aroma of a fresh pot of coffee was brewing on the stove! At the kitchen table sat two strangers — young women my age, drinking coffee, with welcoming smiles on their faces.

They introduced themselves and explained they were our neighbors. They saw us leave with the bloody and crying baby in our arms, knew we needed some Samaritans, and waited for our return. It turned out they each had children the age of our daughter, who ended up becoming playmates, and I ended up with two close and dear friends, spending every day together, having our cuppa and sharing laughs.

More than 60 years later, with many miles between, two of us have maintained a friendship through letters, phone calls, and visits to each other’s homes. I cherish that memory and the caring and thoughtfulness of those two “angels,” who unexpectedly came into my life when they were so desperately needed, and remain there still.

Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.