Crisis Analysis

I think I've just had the crappiest day of my working life.  And when you change diapers for a living, that's really saying something.  One of the one-year-olds was running around the room, and fell and busted his head open.  I hope to never, ever see anyone bleed that much again, much less a child.  My brain went on autopilot--a setting that I am still not sure comes from in my head, precisely--and calmed the kid as I compressed the wound.  He took it like a pro, quieted right down and just wanted to cuddle.  His folks were called, and took him right over to the ER to get stitched up.  (I wasn't kidding when I say he busted his head open; the gash was the width of three of my fingers, and looked very deep.)  His dad called after mom had gotten him, asking for information and telling me that he understood and it wasn't my fault.  By this point, I was losing it.  The manager on desk had to come take my remaining kids to the other classroom, and give me a few minutes to calm down. 

I still don't remember how the rest of today went.  I remember walking straight out after all the kids were gone and thinking, "Let someone else deal with everything else tonight.  I want to go home."  I vaguely remember my boss's look of annoyance that I had clocked out before she could make me do anything else.  (No one ever claimed her to be the most compassionate person.  But that's a post for another time.) 

And I can't quite understand why I started flipping out after everything went down.  I could easily understand my hysterics when I had the bleeding kid in my arms, or even panicking when his parents came back to my room to get his things.  Nope.  I didn't start sobbing--not crying, mind you, but body-wracking, choking, full-out sobbing--until the mess was cleaned and the kid was long gone. 

This, somehow, is not an unusual pattern of behavior for me.  I'm the kind who agrees to ride the world's biggest roller coaster, and is completely fine with it until the moment before the first ninety-degree drop.  (Two true stories, amalgamated for my own illustrative pleasure.)  But just because I'm used to it, doesn't mean that I still don't understand it.  Could it be that the gravity doesn't sink in with me until that long after the fact?  Is it a reaction to the subconscious suppression of my natural reaction, increased exponentially by those few, crucial moments?

Or is it just that I'm really freaking strange?