“Looking at you is like unwrapping a piece of candy.”
My spirited three-year-old, with her golden curls, donned bright red and black oversized sunglasses, a butterfly tattoo adorning her hand, and a knee-length red and white heart-patterned dress for Valentine’s Day. Her infectious laughter made me feel like I had just delivered the best one-liner of my life. As I stood in the bathroom readying myself for work, I couldn’t help but admire this delightful little person I loved so completely.
Earlier that morning, we had shared chocolate in bed, gifting each other with cards and treats, the sweetness of those moments still lingering in her mind. Her laughter erupted once more, wild and uninhibited. Walking into school, the reactions from her teachers and friends mirrored mine: long, warm gazes filled with joy. She radiated a vibrant energy that seemed to make her shine. We placed handmade valentines into each cubby before sharing a heartfelt hug and kiss goodbye.
But later that day, while I was downtown, everything changed. My daughter collapsed on the playground, her body succumbing to a seizure that felt like an eternity. Time stretched as her teacher rolled her onto her side, an ambulance was summoned, and frightened preschoolers looked on. My thoughts were a jumble as I frantically gathered my things from an architecture meeting, interrupted by a phone call that would change everything.
“Excuse me, I need to take this,” I said, my heart racing. The voice on the other end was calm yet urgent— it was the school director. My heart sank as she relayed the news. “She is conscious and breathing.” Those words were both a comfort and a source of panic. Was this really the best we could hope for?
By the time she was being loaded into the ambulance, I was on the phone with the medics, pleading for them to wait for me, but they couldn’t. I felt utterly lost, torn apart by the distance between us. We navigated through Boston’s streets, racing toward Children’s Hospital. As we approached, I heard sirens behind us.
“That’s her!” I exclaimed, and I was right. I dashed through traffic until I spotted her teacher’s familiar red hair as they opened the ambulance doors. There lay my little girl, in her heart-dress, perched on a bed far too large for her small frame, eyes wide and bewildered as they disconnected her from the machines.
“Oh, Mom! She’s alright! I always feel for the mom,” reassured a medic as I took her tiny hand in mine. “She’s fine, she’s just fine,” another voice said as I leaned into her, overwhelmed with emotion.
Yet, she wasn’t quite herself. She trembled, her eyes darting around as if she were in a dream. They looked through me, vacant yet searching. I leaned closer, whispering her name softly, “It’s Mama.”
In that moment, her gaze sharpened. She gently pressed her palm against my cheek, offering a faint smile filled with love that words could scarcely capture. It was a moment of clarity for her teacher, who later remarked that this was when she knew my daughter would be okay.
For hours in the hospital, my daughter seemed like a muted version of herself, giggling softly at things only she could see. She nibbled on a grape popsicle and suggested we “go upstairs and pet our cat,” despite being far from home. I explained we weren’t at home, but she remained a sweet, feverish little flower.
The doctors examined her, cords attached to her tiny body as I squeezed into the hospital bed beside her. My husband was on campus at Harvard, and I felt a pang of guilt for not knowing where he was. Frantically, I explained to hospital staff that he should be in a visitor database. “We don’t keep track of professors,” they replied. Eventually, he saw my text: “We are at Children’s Hospital. She is OK. Please come ASAP.”
The diagnosis turned out to be a febrile seizure, a relatively common reaction in children to a rapid rise in temperature. I chose not to delve too deeply into the information available online, reassured by the medical staff that she would be okay.
By 9 p.m., my daughter was attempting handstands in the hospital lobby. I began to feel a glimmer of hope. We held hands during her first cab ride, speeding along the river under the night sky. She looked out the window, singing a silly version of the ABCs, laughing at her own mix-ups. She sprawled across the seats, claiming she was fast asleep. All I could do was touch her and absorb the relief and gratitude flooding my heart.
That moment reminded me of her birth, when she first lay on my chest, looking deep into my eyes. I could see a universe in her gaze, a connection that felt ancient and profound. In that cab ride home, the city was a tapestry of light reflected in the river, and I felt as if we were flying through galaxies together.
The night was filled with replayed terrors of the day’s events, but the essence of my daughter’s presence in our home was a treasure beyond measure. In the days leading up to this event, our family had experienced a whirlwind of personal achievements. My husband received significant career news, while I published a letter in a notable magazine, all while managing my professional obligations. Yet, in the wake of this crisis, those accomplishments faded against the backdrop of my daughter’s resilience.
As we waited for our cab, I couldn’t help but notice a nearby family engaging in a game with their young cancer patient, which tugged at my heartstrings. The complexities of motherhood often overwhelm; we feel joy, loss, and everything in between. A simple hand on your cheek means everything when it comes, and equally when it goes.
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In summary, the experience of my daughter’s febrile seizure opened my eyes to the delicate balance of joy and fear in parenting. It reminded me of the strength and fragility of life, emphasizing the importance of cherishing every moment with our loved ones.