I cling to him more tightly than I do with my other children. His affectionate nature draws me in, but the truth is, I hold him close because I nearly lost him once—not in a mundane accident, but to a sudden illness. My eldest son faced a harrowing battle with croup when he was just four years old.
A Frightening Night
It was an unremarkable Friday night in October three years ago. He developed a cold, and we readied ourselves for the first croup episode of the season. After tucking our two boys into bed, I dashed out to buy a humidifier. When I returned half an hour later and set it up, I heard the unmistakable sound of labored breathing. I braced myself for what was likely to come—a sleepless night followed by a doctor visit in the morning. We had navigated this scenario multiple times before.
About 15 minutes later, an uneasy noise from their room prompted me to investigate. I found my son thrashing in his bed, gasping for air. I swiftly scooped him up and carried him into the living room. In less than a minute, he was convulsing in my arms, turning blue, and I was frantically dialing 911. As I spoke with the operator, he stopped breathing, and suddenly the call transformed into a crash course on CPR. Those moments are etched in my memory. We laid him on the floor by the front door, where moments before we had been planning to rush him to the ER, and my husband began resuscitating our young son. I stood frozen, horror-stricken, as his life flashed before my eyes. Was this truly how it would end? So swift? So devastating?
The Arrival of Help
My grim thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of 10 firemen. I hadn’t heard the sirens or the two fire trucks and ambulance pull up. They whisked him away, cut off his favorite green pajamas, and began working on him. I felt utterly powerless, my son’s fate completely beyond my control. My mind even noted, with a strange detachment, how interesting it was that they secured his car seat to the gurney. I had no idea they transported children in that manner. Before I knew it, they were carrying him out to the ambulance.
He was in critical condition, his oxygen levels alarmingly low. Right outside our building, in the back of the ambulance, they intubated him while my husband and I sat on the curb, tears streaming down our faces, surrounded by onlookers. Once the procedure was complete, I hopped into the front seat of the ambulance, and we sped off to Children’s Hospital. Those 15 minutes felt like an eternity. I even asked the ambulance driver if my son was going to make it. (I can only imagine the kinds of conversations those first responders have to navigate.) He reassured me that my son would survive. And he did.
A Miraculous Recovery
After several days in the ICU and a hefty dose of steroids, he pulled through with no lasting damage.
Describing the feeling of watching your child come so close to death is nearly impossible. It’s a profound sense of helplessness—like trying to grab a rope that’s just out of reach as you plummet from a great height. In that instant, you fully comprehend how much you love your child and how deeply they have enriched your life. You realize you can’t fathom a life without them and would do anything to ensure their survival. The relief when he emerged from this ordeal is more akin to the breath taken when rescued from drowning. Three years later, as October approaches, emotions resurface. I can still vividly recall that night. I still have the green pajama top, severed down the middle. I can’t bear to look at it, yet can’t bring myself to dispose of it. I want him to keep it as a tangible reminder of his miraculous survival.
Reflections on Survival
Even though I didn’t hear those sirens that night, I flinch whenever I hear them now. I feel an urge to hug every firefighter I encounter. The chilling thought that if I hadn’t checked on him, I might have found him lifeless the next morning still haunts me. Recently, my son brought home a school assignment to create a timeline of his life. We pulled out the photo albums I’ve made for each of our children over the years—my solitary hobby these days. As he read the books aloud, laughter filled the room as he reminisced about his baby and toddler years. But then he reached the account of the night he nearly died—a night he doesn’t remember at all. As he read, he paused, tears streaming down his cheeks. He stopped to embrace me tightly.
And then, without missing a beat, he turned the page and continued. That simple act became a powerful symbol for me: he is still alive, and his story continues.
Conclusion
In summary, this harrowing experience serves as a poignant reminder of the fragility of life and the deep bonds between parent and child. It highlights the importance of cherishing every moment while navigating the complexities of parenthood.
Keyphrase: near-death experience of a child
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