What does luck have to do with it?

Many people in the past few days have said to me how lucky I am that what happened with Cason happened the way it did. Meaning it happened at the doctors and that I saw the hives when I did, because without a doubt if I hadn't and had instead, just put him in the car and drove home, he would have died in the car. He would be dead now. I physically shrivel at the thought.

But for these past days I have been thinking, I'm not lucky at all. I had to stand in a room and watch, I thought, my baby die. Even though I know now he didn't die, I can't change the feelings I had at that moment and I can't change the memory of it either. The searing moment when I implored my ped to save my baby, when he looked into my eyes and forcefully said, "He isn't going to die, Mrs. K., I won't let him." And I looked right back and told him, "You can't know that, you can't promise me that." Because I know too much. I know there are no promises or guarantees and I knew, even though he was calm and direct in his actions, that he too, even if he will never admit it to me, was scared shitless that my baby boy was going to die in his office right in front of us that day. And to me, that didn't feel lucky. And even after, when Cason was ok and we were home, I still didn't feel lucky. I felt angry and pissy that I had to be that scared again. That my family had to go through it, that I watched my mom age a couple decades overnight, That I saw my dad cry, again, over me and my child. That my older son once more asked if his brother was going to die and that I could see in his eyes the lost confidence in the world doing right by us.
It just didn't feel lucky. Not one bit. To me lucky would have meant not having had to live through any of it. Lucky would be getting vaccines and going home without a life threatening and life altering medical crisis happening before I got there. Or at least that's what I thought until this morning.
When I read this over at Aunt Becky's place.
And now I have been humbled back into my place and reminded just how absolutely fucking lucky I am, we were.
Cason is home, healthy. Severely allergic, but healthy. And as my husband says, we can deal with this. And he is right. I don't know how I would ever have dealt with the other outcome. The final, rip your heart out and stomp it into bits, your child is dead, outcome. The outcome that the Spohr family is living with at this very moment.
And I curse luck, fate, charma, God, whatever or whoever it is that controls the world, that manipulates our lives like puppets on strings. I don't want to know about these things. I don't want to know that not everyone gets what they deserve. I want to pull the covers up and hide away from all things dark and frightening. I want to shield my children from fear, from knowing hurt, from tears. And then, when I stop to breathe I tell myself, that is what life is. It is uncertain and scary and unfair and messy. It is joy, it is elation and it is euphoric. It is what it is.
And it makes me wonder, what does luck have to do with it?