I hold my son a little tighter than my other children. His affectionate nature draws me in, but the truth is, I cling to him more fiercely because I almost lost him once. Not due to an accident or a simple mishap, but to an unexpected illness. My eldest child nearly succumbed to croup when he was just four years old.
It was an average Friday night in October, three years ago. He had caught a cold, and we braced ourselves for the onset of croup, a common affliction. After putting our two boys to bed, I dashed out to buy a humidifier. A mere thirty minutes later, I returned, set it up in their room, and heard the unmistakable sound of labored breathing that signaled the prelude to croup. I prepared myself for what might come next – likely a visit to the doctor in the morning following a restless night. We had navigated this situation before.
About 15 minutes later, an unusual sound from their room prompted me to investigate. To my horror, I found my son thrashing in his bed, gasping for air. I quickly snatched him up and rushed him into the living room. Within moments, he was flailing in my arms, his skin turning blue, and I was dialing 911. As I spoke to the operator, he stopped breathing, and the call transformed into a desperate lesson in CPR. Those moments remain etched in my mind. We laid him on the floor by the front door, where just seconds ago, we had been planning to rush him to the ER, while my husband performed CPR on our young son. I stood frozen, paralyzed by fear, as his life flashed before my eyes. Could this truly be the end? Just like this? So quickly?
My terrifying thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of ten firefighters. I hadn’t even heard the sirens of the two firetrucks and ambulance that had pulled up outside. They swiftly took charge, bringing him into the living room, cutting off his beloved green pajamas, and beginning their life-saving work. I felt utterly powerless, my child’s survival completely beyond my control. My mind bizarrely focused on how they needed his car seat to strap him to the gurney – I never knew they transported kids this way. Before I knew it, they were wheeling him out the front door and into the ambulance.
He was in critical condition. His oxygen levels were dangerously low, and right there, in front of our building, they intubated him while he was strapped into his Cowmooflage car seat. My husband and I sat on the curb, surrounded by bystanders, crying. Once the procedure was complete, I climbed into the front of the ambulance, and we sped off to Children’s Hospital. Those fifteen minutes felt like an eternity. I remember asking the ambulance driver if my son was going to survive. (I can only imagine the things those firefighters witness!) He reassured me that my son would be okay. And indeed he was.
After a couple of days in the ICU and a hefty dose of steroids, he pulled through with no lasting effects.
Describing the emotions of watching your child flirt with death is nearly impossible. There’s a profound sense of helplessness, akin to grasping for a rope just out of reach while you plummet from a great height. In that instant, you realize the depth of your love for your child and how profoundly they have impacted your life. You recognize that living without them is not an option. The relief when they do survive is deeper than merely breathing a sigh of relief; it is akin to gasping for air after being pulled from drowning. Three years have gone by, yet every October, I find myself reliving that night. I still have the green pajama top, sliced in half down the middle. I can’t bear to look at it, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It serves as a tangible reminder of the miracle that is his survival.
Even though I didn’t hear sirens that night, I now flinch when I hear them. I feel an overwhelming urge to thank every firefighter I see. The thought that if I hadn’t checked on him, I might have found him lifeless the next morning still haunts me. Recently, my son came home with a school assignment to create a timeline of his life. We pulled out the photo books I compile for each of my children every year (my solitary hobby these days). As he read through them out loud, laughter filled the room, echoing his baby and toddler years. Then he reached the entry about the night he nearly died – a night he has no recollection of. When he read the story aloud, there was a pause, and tears streamed down his face. He stopped to hug and kiss me.
Then, without hesitation, he turned the page and continued. That simple act of turning the page held profound meaning for me. He is still here. His life goes on.
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In summary, the experience of nearly losing a child is one that reshapes a parent’s understanding of love and life. It’s a reminder of the fragility of existence and the strength of familial bonds. The journey of healing, both physically and emotionally, is a testament to resilience and the power of hope.
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