Walmart Trauma

I had to focus hard on my mom’s feet on the floor and her back in front of me to avoid thinking about the germs on the blue shopping cart handle or the pack of fuzzy socks in the produce section or the old man hacking without covering his mouth just four feet away. Walmart had always triggered something in my head that I couldn’t place: too unorganized too many people coming too closely, reaching around me to grab what they need impatiently. The antibacterial smells in the cleaning aisle were too much. My stomach felt oily and uneasy. I kept reaching up to scratch my neck. It felt like fire ants were spreading down to my chest. My little brother and mom were oblivious to my discomfort and carried on putting food in the cart and checking off the list. 

“Pick out a cereal you want real quick,” Mom suggested. 

Looking  up from the metallic purple nailpolish I was chipping off my thumb, I threw a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch in the piled up cart. 

“Are we almost done?” I asked. More fire ants.

“Yeah, but it’ll take a while to get through the checkout line,” my mom sighed. “Who let everybody in here today anyway?”

Shrugging, I kept picking at my nails. 

Suddenly, someone started shouting, “Oh my god! Help, somebody! Help!” 

My mom said, “Stay here!” and ran towards the frantic voice.

Grabbing my little brother by the shoulder, I pulled him around the corner with my heart bursting. In the next aisle we saw our mom crouching on the floor, holding a head with jet black hair in her lap, while the body attached to it convulsed violently. A younger woman stood over them, sobbing into her phone, trying to tell 911 what had happened. Suddenly, I understood that the lady my mom held was having a seizure. I squeezed Landon’s bony shoulder tighter. More fire ants. Neither of us could take our eyes off of the scene on the floor. I couldn’t focus on what anyone was saying. There was blood, splattered deep crimson on my mom’s hands and the floor. My mom had caught the woman’s  head before it hit the hard, cold, concrete floor, but she couldn’t stop the teeth from repeatedly chomping down on the tongue that hung out limply. Pinkish foam collected at the corners of the woman’s mouth-- more blood, biting and bawling. ‘I’m gonna puke,’ I thought as the fire ants kept spreading. Somehow I didn’t. A crowd gathered around, trying to see what was going on. One man took the phone away from the sobbing girl and calmly told the operator what was happening, while his wife tried to help her relax. Another man sat on the thrashing legs and held down the flailing arms. The woman seemed too frail and paper white. 

“Is this under control?”questioned a couple walking by. 

“Yeah. My mom didn’t let her hit her head,” I explained numbly.

They walked away like it didn’t matter at all. They probably wouldn’t think about it after that day.

Paramedics were arriving. More fire ants.

“She bit her tongue.” my mom said, calmly, when they questioned the blood. “I should probably wash my hands.” 

Making our way to the bathrooms, Mom explained what had happened to my little brother, and he didn’t seem scared at all. He was just fascinated. I had to wash my hands, too, because the scene hadn’t distracted me from that germy shopping cart, and now I was thinking about the blood, too. While the cool water washed away just a tiny bit of my anxiety, I wondered ‘Did my mom just help save a life?’