Everything Changed

He came home from school that day with a sore throat. Nothing noteworthy.

“I was yelling too loud in gym, I guess,” he gave as an explanation. His cute rosy cheeks and beaming blue eyes holding all the energy and life any small boy had in endless supply.

Together we waited for his sister to join us on the sidewalk, having a hole-war in the dirt that he always won by jumping and gouging massive craters with his heels. He celebrated his victory by dancing and cheering until she darted out of the school doors and wrapped her arms around him with a bubbly hug. The sweetness of siblings.

We headed home.

I checked his temperature, examined his throat with a flashlight. The usual Mom stuff. All clear. Nothing that warranted serious concern. He plopped on the couch, ate a snack, doodled his homework and played video games until dinner. Bed at eight.

Hours later he lay in my lap, his small body seeming so frail and breakable. He eyes scanned the room wildly. He was frantic, panicked, frightened, and dazed. His throat was closed tight restricting airflow, he was gasping and wheezing, thrashing on the couch in an effort to make it easier to get air in, nothing worked. Every muscle of his tensed and flexed in a massive struggle to breath. In. Out. In. Out.

He gripped his throat, wild eyed and looking to me for comfort and security. I’m his mother, I should have all these things but I had nothing. I had nothing but my own growing panic that I had to tamp down.

I had nothing but words of tearful encouragement, “It’s ok sweetie. They’ll be here soon. Just breath. You’re so brave. You’re doing great.”

I glanced at my phone again and again—the seconds ticked by slowly. It felt like an hour had passed but it was only 3 minute since I called the ambulance. They were on their way she assured me. Were they? I couldn't help but question everything.
Maybe they got lost. Our house is hard to find. Maybe I should call back?

In. Out. In. Out.

His violent convulsions lessened as he grew tired with the effort, the minutes passed. Six minutes. In any other situation it would be comforting to see him relax amid being ill but this was not a pleasant sight. His skin was fading from bright pink to a pale grey. His eyes were drifting closed. Seven minutes. His body was burning through the adrenalin that had woken him up and oxygen was slowly being used up.

Eight minutes.

Croup, it has to be croup. I racked my brain for any other illness that could take such a turn in a short amount of time. That was all I could come up with. What did the Dr say last time he was diagnosed with it? “Going outside if it’s cool helps sooth the throat.”

I scooped him up and darted out the door into the cold October night. It was sometime in the morning; 1-oclock, maybe. He looked around, suddenly being jarred by the chill in the air. I stood there in the driveway, the gravel biting at my bare feet, his body bowed and flexed in his continued effort to breath. In. Out. In. Out.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes, I promise. Just keep breathing, you’re doing great.” I supported him, not a cradle, but a bridge. Trying to hold him carefully as not to constrict his breathing further. In. Out. In. Out.

Where are they? What time is it? I had no sense, it felt like forever had gone by. I was amazed our son was still hanging on. The chill in the air didn't seem to lessen his struggle to breath.

More time passed, I don’t know how many because I couldn't get to my phone. I just held him and encouraged him to keep breathing and to stay awake.

The ambulance finally arrived, I handed him to the EMT and he carried him inside, placed him on a stretcher and buckled him down, talking to him. Gauging his responses, monitoring his vitals. The ambulance lurched into reverse.

Sirens blaring, everything rattled with the jarring high speed race to the ER. Somehow I managed to turn my emotions off and crush my panic. His eyes never left mine, he needed comfort and security. I smiled and stroked his hand as the EMT held an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

In. Out. In. Out.

The ambulance ride felt like it took forever, but I was sure that it was only a few minutes.

By the time we arrived his skin was an ashy white, he could barely keep his eyes open. Every bit of energy and strength went into such a basic function.

Once there, everyone was in a frantic rush to get him stabilized. An IV line was in, blood drawn, vitals monitored, a new breathing mask in place, steroid injections to increase heart-rate, chest x-rays. I held his hand or rubbed his feet, his eyes never leaving mine. He needed my smiles and my comforting touch. I don’t think he noticed all the nurses and DRs as they fluttered around to work on him.

He never cried, not once. He just breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

With the oxygen, steroids and other mediations to open his throat breathing wasn’t as much of a struggle, but it was still an intense effort. In. Out. In. Out. His color was returning slightly.

More nurses in and out, more monitoring and stats. I was questioned about what happened; when did he wake up, when did I call the ambulance, what were his other symptoms. All the while the sounds of his breathing drowned out our conversation, the unsteady beep of his pulse monitor, the hiss of the oxygen through is face mask.

They reviewed his chest x-rays. Then the doctor began to speak.