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There are two words that can push you into self-doubt and loneliness; two words that can goose spasms of bitterness and regret; two words that force you to look at relationships, life decisions and choices in stark relief. Sometimes, the two words remind us how lucky we are:
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Emergency contact.
It’s the standard line on every human resources or medical form.
And now, during back-to-school season, it’s a question that sears parents facing the blank box over and over again. Registration, aftercare, sports, clubs.
Who can be there for your child if you’re not available? If you don’t have relatives in town (or you do but, well, it’s complicated.)
It’s the godparent question every time the kid changes gymnastics classes. Only, it’s not about who will raise your kid if you die in a plane crash. The ask is less dramatic. And usually a little gross. Who’s your backup because your kid puked in gym class, and you’re on a conference call or in the air, and the school nurse is asking: “Can some come pick them up right away?”
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It’s a lot to ask of a friend who’s fun at brunch (See Reddit’s r/childfree subreddit for these horror stories) to be the first one at the school when your child suffers a possible playground concussion.
And it’s a familiar problem in Washington — where only about 20 percent of the people who live here were born here. That means that for about 80 percent of Washington, the family may be back in Florida or even far out in Virginia or Iowa or — in our case — California.
It’s equally complicated for the child-free.
When you’re new in town, this question sucks. You don’t want to be weird and ask your brand new co-worker to be your emergency contact. Or your boss. Your neighbor? Awkward.
And once you have a network of friends established, who is the one you rely on the most? Who would really be there to drive your loved one to the hospital? Do you want the others to know which one you picked?
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Emergency contact horror stories — and bosses who abuse them — abound.
There was the manager who called a worker’s emergency contact at 3 a.m. to ask if that worker could cover a morning shift when someone called in sick.
Or the manager who saw the poignancy in middle-aged men’s loneliness:
“Just had two separate guys in their fifties tell me today that it was not possible for them to provide me with two emergency contacts because they didn’t know anyone well enough,” the person said in a social media post.
Or the lacrosse coach whose hiring at a Catholic school in Chicago was deferred after she identified her sexual orientation by listing her wife as her emergency contact. (Protests pushed the school to do the right thing and hire her.)
“When choosing your emergency contact, consider family members or friends who live locally and who you trust to make hard decisions on your behalf,” advises health-care firm GoodRx.
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“Yeah, whatever,” I thought when I saw that, remembering the years of begging our parents to consider moving closer to us, the promises we made to build in-law suites or guesthouses so we can be there for them as they age, and so that they can be integral to the lives of the only grandkids they all have.
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When you’re far from your family — because of work, opportunities, relationships, differences — the question of who would be there for you or your loved ones in an emergency is often a jab.
It brings up all of it — such as the asides at Thanksgiving: “Your brother visits us”; “Dr. Smith’s son took over his dad’s practice”; “Their grandkids come for Sunday dinners every week.”
So that’s when you go to your village and do the mental math on who can take the call.
You evaluate not only who is in your parent friend group but also who has the bandwidth and patience to drop everything and step in if you can’t be reached?
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For us, the answer was obvious for the first few years of parenthood. A fellow Californian and journalist who lived five blocks away became my “framily.” We shared child care, support and foot-and-mouth infections.
“Of course [you can] use me as the contact,” my friend said when I asked. I knew her number by heart.
Then they moved across the country after an election year — a very Washington thing to happen — and I was stuck again, going from friend to friend in my mind, wondering: “Are you my emergency contact?”
I think of the family that lives closest to us on Capitol Hill, then guilt clouds me because I haven’t been to any of her son’s baseball games, but she went to my son’s plays. Can I ask her for another favor? (And I check the baseball schedule. Dang. It’s fall.)
What about the family with three kids, the most digitally connected people I know? They’re too busy and don’t need another call to answer, right?
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Then, I got a text.
“I need a second emergency contact for [my daughter]” my friend wrote. “And she asked me to put you. Are you ok with that.”
Me? She wants me?
I glowed. A 16-year-old girl — a being I still don’t understand and feel terribly awkward around — picked me to be there for her.
“Of course!” I wrote back. “I’m so chuffed.”
And then I knew what my answer would be next time I have to fill out that dang box.
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