As a parent, I find myself holding my youngest son closer than the others. He is naturally more affectionate, and my instinct to protect him runs deeper, especially because I faced the terrifying prospect of losing him. Not due to an accident or a grocery store mishap, but because of a severe illness. My eldest son nearly lost his life to croup when he was just four years old.
It was an ordinary Friday night in October, three years ago. He had come down with a cold, and we braced ourselves for the first bout of croup of the season. After putting both boys to bed, I dashed out to buy a humidifier. Upon my return, I set it up in their room, only to hear the unmistakable sound of labored breathing that signaled the onset of croup. I prepared for what I anticipated would be a restless night, likely leading to a doctor’s visit the next morning.
Approximately 15 minutes later, an unsettling noise drew me back to their room. To my horror, I found my son thrashing in bed, struggling for breath. I quickly scooped him up and hurried into the living room. Within moments, he was in my arms, turning blue, as I frantically dialed 911. As I spoke with the operator, he stopped breathing, and the call shifted to CPR instructions. Those moments are etched in my memory. We laid him on the floor by the front door, where just moments earlier we had been ready to rush him to the hospital, and my partner performed CPR on our young son while I stood frozen in fear. In that instant, my mind raced through his entire life, and I couldn’t fathom that this could be the end, and that it could happen so suddenly.
The arrival of 10 firefighters jolted me back to reality; I hadn’t even noticed the sirens of the fire trucks or ambulance. They swiftly took him, cut off his beloved green pajamas, and began their work. My heart sank as I realized I could do nothing but watch. My thoughts turned oddly to the logistics of how they strapped his car seat onto the gurney; I didn’t know they did that for children. In what felt like an instant, they wheeled him out toward the ambulance.
He was in critical condition, with dangerously low oxygen levels. Right there, in front of our building, they intubated him in the back of the ambulance, secured in his Cowmooflage car seat. My partner and I sat on the curb, surrounded by curious onlookers, tears streaming down our faces. After the procedure, I climbed into the front seat of the ambulance, and we sped to Children’s Hospital. Those 15 minutes felt interminable. I remember asking the driver if my son would survive. (I often wonder what those first responders hear during such harrowing moments.) He reassured me that my son would be okay, and indeed he was.
After a few days in the ICU and a hefty dose of steroids, he emerged from the crisis. Thankfully, there was no lasting damage.
Describing the feeling of nearly losing a child is profoundly difficult. It’s a sense of utter helplessness, akin to trying to grasp a rope just out of reach while plummeting from a great height. You realize, in an instant, the depth of your love for that child and the impact they have on your life. The thought of life without them becomes unbearable, and you’d do anything to ensure their survival. The relief I felt when he pulled through was not just a deep breath; it was akin to the gasping breath of someone who has just been rescued from drowning.
Three years later, when October rolls around, the emotions resurface. I still sometimes replay that night in my mind. I hold on to the remnants of that green pajama top, now cut in half. I can’t bear to look at it, yet I can’t part with it either; it serves as a physical reminder of the miracle of his survival.
Sirens still make me tense, and I feel an urge to thank every firefighter I see. I shudder at the thought that if I hadn’t checked on him, I might have found him unresponsive the next day. Recently, my son brought home a school project to create a timeline of his life. We pulled out the photo albums I’ve made for each child over the years, and as he read through them, laughter filled the room as he reminisced about his baby and toddler years. Then, he reached the section about that fateful night—an event he has no recollection of. As he read it aloud, there was a pause, and tears began to fall. He stopped to hug and kiss me, and then, with a remarkable ease, he turned the page and continued on. That simple act of turning the page held profound significance for me. He is still here. His life moves forward, and so does ours.
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Summary:
This narrative recounts the harrowing experience of a mother whose son nearly died from croup. The emotional toll of witnessing a child’s medical emergency is profound, leading to a realization of love and the fragility of life. Years later, the mother reflects on that traumatic night and the enduring impact it has had on her and her family.