Just a few days ago, while cradling my 19-month-old son in my arms, I was convinced I was witnessing a tragedy unfold. It all began at a friend’s lakeside gathering. As my husband held our little one, I mentioned, “He feels warm.” “It’s a warm evening,” he replied. True enough. But within 20 minutes, that warmth had escalated into a concerning fever. We decided to leave early, returning home to administer some ibuprofen before settling him into bed. He felt warm, but not dangerously so; after raising six children, I could gauge a fever as well as any thermometer could.
He slept soundly through the night, even while I sent my husband and two older kids off to high school orientation. “I’ll grab some Tylenol on my way back,” my husband assured me. Our morning routine was typical: the baby stirred, I picked him up for some nursing in the rocking chair.
But instinct kicked in—something was off. I unsnapped his light summer pajamas and paused nursing to rummage through a basket near the changing table for the thermometer. The underarm reading was 101.8°F, which I knew was lower than his actual temperature. 102, 103, 104… none of those numbers were good.
“Let’s get you some medicine,” I murmured. He nursed, sipped cool water, and took the ibuprofen, but he rejected all other attempts to continue our usual morning routine. By 7:45, I found myself heading back upstairs for more nursing and sleep; that’s what he needed. I momentarily dismissed my urge to check his actual temperature and settled back into the rocking chair.
He didn’t want to nurse anymore, so I shifted him to my shoulder to rock him. Suddenly, he began to gag—sounds typically accompanied by regurgitated milk and frothy liquid. I quickly pulled him back, calling for the only other person awake at that hour, his 7-year-old sister. His pajamas felt dry yet hot.
Something wasn’t right. He was staring blankly at the ceiling, his arms curled in an unnatural position, trembling. At that moment, my daughter flicked on the overhead light.
It’s strange how the mind works during a crisis. My brain told me, “This isn’t an emergency. Your husband won’t even take you seriously.” But deep down, I knew this was serious, and regardless of my nightgown, he needed help.
I sent my daughter to wake her older brother and attempted to call my husband. No answer. For what felt like an eternity, I watched my son, and gradually, my sluggish mind grasped that I was in an emergency situation.
As my son’s lips turned blue, then purple, I screamed at Siri to dial 911, but she didn’t respond (I hadn’t programmed my “Hey Siri” to react in panic). With a rush of adrenaline, I fumbled to make the call, even forgetting to hold the phone to my ear until I realized I couldn’t hear if the call had gone through.
“My son,” I heard a voice say, one that wasn’t mine. “He’s having… just had a seizure.” In my arms, my son gasped, his breath rattling. He gasped again, his body trembling. The deep purple of his lips began to lighten to pink.
“Every time he inhales, say ‘now’,” instructed the dispatcher, speaking slowly, as if to a child.
I struggled to process his words. My son’s breaths were so crackly that the inhales and exhales sounded identical. Finally, I focused on his chest, watching it rise and fall. “Now… now.”
My mind urged his next breath. Now. It reminded me that crying wouldn’t help. Now. It reassured me that an ambulance would soon arrive. Now. And yes, I was still in my nightgown. But he was alive; his breaths were becoming quieter and steadier. Now.
“Good, you can stop. It sounds like his breathing is okay.” They assured me help was on the way and instructed me to unlock the door and turn on the lights. My oldest son entered just as his dad called me back. I got dressed, packed the diaper bag, and waited with my child, who seemed either unconscious or in a deep sleep—I still can’t tell.
In the end, we didn’t need the ambulance. Febrile seizures are typically not serious. We managed to drive him to the hospital ourselves, making the trip twice that day.
I could elaborate on the intricacies of hospitals, or the flaws within a profit-driven medical system. I could discuss how young residents might struggle to respond appropriately when a distressed mother yells and cries while her baby screams. But those details are distractions, and ultimately, they don’t matter.
Schedules, schoolwork, and robotic email replies? They don’t matter.
Because now, I can’t stop looking at him, tracing my fingers over his cheek, admiring the softness of his lashes and the wisps of hair that never seem to lay flat. Now, I’m acutely aware of the terror that loomed around me—an emotion I didn’t fully feel at the time. I examined that fear from a distance, as if it belonged to someone else.
Now, I can’t shake thoughts of what could have been: long hospital stays, endless tests, dim prognoses, an empty crib—realities that so many families face but thankfully, are not mine.
Now, gratitude fills me. The raisins scattered on the floor, the chubby hand tugging at my hair, those sharp little teeth while he nurses, and all the books pulled off the shelf—again. And again. And—wonderfully, joyfully—again.
Now he’s stirring from a nap, his small form wriggling on the video monitor. I rise, leaving behind my to-do list and worries to be with him. Because the moment to experience life is… now.
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Summary
A mother’s experience during a medical crisis with her son leads to profound insights about parenting and gratitude. This event reshapes her perspective on daily life, emphasizing the importance of cherishing each moment with her child, as well as the value of support systems in emergencies.
Keyphrase
911 dispatcher parenting transformation
Tags
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