When Emergency Calm Hides a Different Kind of Crisis
25 November 202
Content note: This post discusses domestic abuse, child trauma, safeguarding concerns, and emergency medical situations.
Two Years On — And Still Learning
Two years after leaving domestic abuse, people tell me how strong I am. They see how I keep going, how I deal with whatever comes next. They are beginning to understand that control does not end when you leave.
What many people still do not realise is how much children continue to carry their experiences with them.
It is not just in their memories. It shows in their bodies, their behaviour, and the way they move through the world.
This weekend in A&E brought that into sharp focus.
It reminded me why I respond the way I do in a crisis, and it highlighted the weight of what my children have already lived through.
It also explains why I created the accompanying resource for this blog.
A practical tool available on NAAVoices.com to help parents and professionals recognise signs of child abuse and domestic abuse in real children, not textbook examples.
The Calm That Comes With Crisis
It is strange how my brain works in an emergency.
On Friday, I ran out of work because there was an emergency with my eldest. Colleagues worried I would be too upset to drive, too panicked, too emotional.
But that is never the problem for me.
It is not “Can I drive?”
It is “Can I get there fast enough?”
Once I am on my way, the calm comes. It always has — professionally and personally. Whether that is ADHD, trauma, or the result of starting my nursing career on the frontline during the COVID‑19 pandemic, I do not know. But in an emergency, my anxiety switches off, and my focus switches on.
I thought it would be different when it was my own child.
It wasn’t.
Above all, it is my children whom I protect beyond all measure.
Hours in the Emergency Department at the Princess Royal Hospital in Telford: assessments, bloods, observations, treatment plan, follow‑up arranged. The A&E team were excellent. We were in and out in around six hours.
Most A&Es get a bad press. People see the waits and the crowded corridors. They rarely see the pressures underneath — the conveyor belt of acuity, the constant risk‑balancing, the impossible demand.
I thought that was our crisis for the weekend.
It wasn’t.
When the “Never Ill” Child Goes Down
The next day, we had a PJ day. We relaxed and got ready for Christmas.
The calm did not last long.
In the middle of the night, my second child went down.
This is the child who never gets ill. The one who wants to be out with his mates from dawn till dusk. The one who shakes things off, never complains, and hates being stuck at home.
The nurse in me always waits. Kids bounce back. Headaches, sore throats, coughs, colds — you learn not to overreact. Being the child of a nurse or doctor must be challenging. You get Paracetamol and sleep, and then they see if you’ve bounced back.
If it is not hanging off, crack on.
But this time, it wasn’t right.
He couldn’t look at the light.
He couldn’t bend his neck.
He couldn’t stay awake.
And I couldn’t keep his temperature down.
The calm was still there, but it sharpened.
Bag packed.
111 called.
Triage: he needed to be seen within the hour.
The nearest A&E? No. Because I knew that would likely mean a transfer. That is the bit call handlers cannot always see; the system logic you learn from working inside it. So I drove the extra ten minutes to Telford, because they can admit children.
Eleven Ambulances and a Burning Forehead
We pulled up to a wall of blue lights.
More than eleven ambulances were queued outside. Inside, the waiting room was overflowing. Parents compared waiting times. Frustration simmered. One said, “We’ve been here six hours and still haven’t seen a doctor.”
It was the familiar chaos of a Sunday night in A&E. Beds full. Demand high. Staff stretched across multiple areas. People do not see the ambulance offloads or the crash bell that pulls staff away without warning.
My son — now taller than me — was burning beside me. I hovered my hand over his back and felt the heat through his clothes. He had a scarf over his head to block the light. I kept fetching cold flannels; they warmed within a minute.
I know what that means.
The calm stayed, but the edges hardened.
I did not storm the desk. I did not make a scene. I know what it is like on the other side of that glass. Those nurses and doctors were managing what we could see — and what we could not.
So I asked politely for a thermometer.
Within minutes, a nurse checked him.
Despite regular pain relief, his temperature was unbearable.
Within 30 minutes, he had a cannula in.
He had been fully reviewed.
Bloods, observations, and a clear plan were in place.
Being “Just Mum” on the Other Side of the Curtain
I have spent more time in Telford Hospital this weekend than I have since my daughter was born five years ago. It is a strange feeling, being on the other side.
On Friday, the staff knew I worked in healthcare. I had run out of work in uniform. There is always a slight shift when staff realise you are “one of them.”
On Sunday, they knew none of that.
I arrived in pyjamas. No uniform. No badge. No mention of my job. Just a mum with a very unwell child.
The care did not change.
They were unaware of my clinical background. They simply saw a child who needed prompt assessment and a parent who needed reassurance.
This blog is, in part, a tribute to that team:
- Triage nurses juggling a full waiting room
- Junior doctors making complex decisions in ten‑minute windows
- HCAs quietly fetch blankets and water
From my side of the curtain, I was “just mum”. And I saw what I already knew: the staff are exhausted, under relentless pressure, and still turning up to care.
But that is only half the story.
What My Son’s Behaviour Really Told Me
The clinical side was one thing. What struck me most was my son’s behaviour around different professionals.
My 13‑year‑old was clearly unwell. Yet he refused to show pain in front of male doctors.
He minimised everything.
Brushed off symptoms.
Tried to appear fine.
Thankfully, the doctor noticed the flinches he could not hide.
Then the female nurses and the female doctor stepped in, and everything changed. His posture softened. His answers became honest. He reached for my hand during his blood test — the first time in years.
To an outsider, it might appear to be teenage stoicism.
To me, it was a trauma response:
Do not show weakness in front of men.
This is not the first time I have seen it.
A few months ago, he thought he saw my ex while out walking. He insisted he “wasn’t bothered”.
Then he didn’t sleep for a week.
He phoned me every time he had to walk alone.
On the surface: “I’m fine, Mum.”
Underneath: hyper‑vigilance, exhaustion, a nervous system braced for threat.
What My Children Lived Through
There were signs at school, too. A compassionate teacher emailed me about both boys. Coincidentally — or not — both emails came within a month of an “event” with my ex.
Friends noticed changes in the boys and in me as I prepared to leave. Like most victims of covert abuse, the scars are not easy to see.
Minimising is a survival strategy — for adults and children.
This Christmas marks the first time all three of my children are heading into the holidays with a mum who is far stronger than she believed she could be two years ago.
I no longer fear his retaliation.
I no longer lie awake rehearsing what he might do next.
He has already done more to me — and to these children — than most people could imagine. The trauma almost cost them everything. But it also gave them something he will never have: depth, empathy, and courage forged in reality.
When I left, both boys were shorter than me. Within six months, they towered over me. Whether it was nutrition, safety, or simply being allowed to grow, the difference was stark.
He once said:
“Ask me anything, I’ll tell you how I can do it better.”
Growing wasn’t part of his plan.
Now they are 5ft 11 in and 5ft 8 in.
Little boys turn into men.
The difference is this: these two will never inflict the harm they lived through.
Last summer, they watched their sister be retraumatised through contact. They were the ones there during night terrors. They were the ones helping her find her words again when she developed a stutter.
She told them “Daddy hadn’t done” the things he did to them — things she had never known about until she went back.
That is manipulation.
That is grooming.
And they do not hold it against her.
Children are not “witnesses” to domestic abuse. They are victims in their own right.
Why I Built This Resource
This weekend in A&E brought two parts of my life together:
- The clinician who stays calm in an emergency
- The mum whose children have lived through domestic abuse
That combination is why I created the resource that sits alongside this blog.
It exists because children like mine should not have to reach breaking point before someone joins the dots.
The Resource: Recognising the Signs in Real Children
It is designed for:
- Parents who feel something is wrong
- Teachers who see changes but cannot name them
- Health professionals who sense risk but fear “overreacting”
- Anyone who suspects abuse but lacks a clear framework
It brings together what I have seen as:
- A nurse inside the system
- A mother in A&E in her pyjamas
- A survivor watching her children navigate trauma
It focuses on:
- Behavioural signs
- Physical and health clues
- School and social changes
- Interaction with professionals
- The impact of contact with an abusive parent
It is not about turning every bad day into a safeguarding alert. It is about recognising child victims of domestic abuse earlier — and responding in a way that protects, believes, and supports them.
My children deserve to be seen, believed, and protected the first time.
