Just a few days ago, I found myself cradling my 19-month-old son, feeling as if I was watching him slip away.
The evening had begun innocently enough at a friend’s lakeside gathering. My husband passed the baby to me while we helped our older kids grab hot dogs and potato salad. “He feels warm,” I mentioned.
“It’s a warm night,” he replied, and he was right. But within twenty minutes, my instincts told me something was wrong — that warmth had turned into a fever. We decided to leave early, rushing home to give him ibuprofen and tuck him into bed. While he was warm, it didn’t seem alarming. After raising six kids, I’ve become quite adept at recognizing fevers without the aid of a thermometer.
He slept peacefully through the night as I prepared for the usual morning routine. My husband and two older kids left to take one of them to high school orientation, and I was left to care for the baby, who stirred in his sleep. “I’ll grab some Tylenol on the way back,” my husband said, and life continued as normal.
I lifted the baby from the crib to nurse him in the rocking chair, and my maternal instincts kicked in, sensing trouble as I felt his heat. I unbuttoned his light summer pajamas and paused nursing to grab the thermometer from the basket by the changing table. A quick check showed an underarm temperature of 101.8 — I knew that translated to a much higher “actual” temperature. I was already dreading the numbers I knew would follow: 102, 103, 104. None of it was good.
“Let’s get you some medicine,” I said, and he nursed while I offered him cool water and ibuprofen. But he flatly rejected everything else I tried to introduce into his morning routine. By 7:45, I felt it was time to head back upstairs for more nursing and rest. I put aside my urge to check his “real” temperature, cradling him again in the rocking chair.
This time, he didn’t want to nurse, so I placed him against my shoulder to rock him. Suddenly, he began to gag, sounds typically followed by the spitting up of milk. I quickly pulled him back, calling for my only other awake child, his 7-year-old sister. His pajamas were still dry, but he felt hot and something was definitely off. He was staring blankly at the ceiling, arms contorted, trembling. At that moment, my daughter flicked on the overhead light.
It’s fascinating how the mind processes trauma. My brain told me that this wasn’t an emergency; my husband wouldn’t take me seriously. “You know what this is, it will pass in seconds,” it reassured me, all while I stood there in my nightgown.
I sent my daughter to wake her older brother and tried calling my husband, but there was no answer. For what felt like an eternity, I watched my son, and slowly, my mind acknowledged that this was indeed an emergency. Nightgown or not, he needed help.
As I saw his lips turn blue, then purple, I shouted at Siri to call 911, but she didn’t respond (I hadn’t set up “Hey Siri” for panic situations). I fought through my racing thoughts to make the call, even forgetting to hold the phone to my ear until I realized I needed to hear if the call connected.
“My son,” I heard myself say, “he just had a seizure.”
In my arms, my son gasped, his breath sounding crackly. I watched in horror as he gasped again, his body trembling. The deep purple of his lips began to lighten.
“Every time he inhales, say the word ‘now’,” the dispatcher instructed me slowly, as if I were a small child.
My mind struggled to process his instructions. My son’s breaths were so irregular that they almost sounded the same. Finally, I focused on his chest, watching it rise and fall. “Now … now.”
I begged for his next breath. I told myself that crying wouldn’t help. An ambulance would soon be on its way, and here I was in my nightgown. But he was alive, his breaths becoming quieter, more steady. “Good, you can stop. It sounds like his breathing is okay.”
The dispatcher informed me that help was on the way, and told me to unlock the door and turn on the lights. My oldest son arrived just then, with his dad on the phone. I dressed, packed a diaper bag, and waited with my child, who I couldn’t tell was either unconscious or just extremely tired from the ordeal.
In the end, we didn’t need the ambulance. Febrile seizures are usually not serious. We decided to drive him to the hospital ourselves, which we did — twice in one day.
I could ramble on about the medical system’s flaws, about young residents who can be unsure when a mother is panicking, but those details are mere distractions. What truly matters is the moment.
Now, I find myself cherishing every moment with him. I can’t help but delight in the everyday chaos: raisins scattered across the floor, his chubby little hands tugging at my hair, his tiny teeth gnawing while nursing, and the countless times he pulls books from the shelf. And joyfully, I get to do it all again and again.
Now he’s waking from his nap, squirming in the video monitor’s view. I rise, leaving behind my to-do list and my worries, to be present with him. Because the only time to truly experience life is … now.
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In summary, moments of crisis can fundamentally reshape our perspectives on parenting and life itself. Through the experience of a medical emergency, I learned to appreciate the present more profoundly, recognizing the beauty in the ordinary chaos of raising children.