Just a few days ago, I found myself cradling my 19-month-old son, and for a terrifying moment, I believed I was witnessing something dreadful unfold before my eyes.
It all began one evening at a friend’s gathering by the lake. While my husband juggled hot dogs and potato salad for our other children, he handed our baby to me. “He feels warm,” I mentioned. “It’s a warm evening,” he replied. True, but within twenty minutes, I could tell that warmth was turning into a fever. We cut our visit short and returned home to give him ibuprofen and settle him into bed. He was warm, but after six children, I’ve learned to gauge fevers without relying solely on a thermometer.
He slept soundly through the night, and as dawn approached, I sent my husband and two older kids off to high school orientation. “I’ll grab some Tylenol on my way back,” he said, and our morning unfolded as usual. I picked up the baby for a nursing session in the rocking chair.
My maternal instincts kicked in; he felt hot. I unsnapped his light summer pajamas and paused nursing to fetch the thermometer from a basket by the changing table. The underarm reading showed 101.8, significantly lower than his actual temperature. 102, 103, 104—none of these numbers were comforting.
“Let’s get you some medicine,” I told him, but he refused to nurse or follow his typical morning routine. By 7:45, I headed upstairs for more nursing and sleep—what the baby truly needed. I momentarily forgot about checking his “real” temperature and settled back into the rocking chair.
He didn’t want to nurse; instead, I held him against my shoulder to rock him gently. Suddenly, he began to gag, a sound I recognized all too well. I quickly pulled him back, calling out to his 7-year-old sister, who was the only other person awake. His pajamas were warm and dry, but something felt dreadfully off. He was staring blankly, his arms curled unnaturally, trembling slightly. At that moment, my daughter flicked on the overhead light, illuminating the gravity of the situation.
In the midst of trauma, the mind can play tricks. I thought, “This isn’t an emergency,” convincing myself that my husband wouldn’t believe what I was trying to describe. But as panic set in, I realized this was indeed a crisis; I needed help—he needed help.
As my son’s lips turned from blue to purple, I yelled at Siri to call 911, but in my panic, I had neglected to set her up for situations like this. I struggled to collect my thoughts and dialed the number, barely remembering to hold the phone to my ear until I registered that I couldn’t hear anything.
“My son,” I heard my voice say, though it felt like someone else was speaking. “My son is having… just had a seizure.” In my arms, he gasped, his breaths becoming erratic. But with the dispatcher’s guidance—“Every time he inhales, say the word ‘now’”—I focused on his chest, and through my rising panic, I managed to keep the count. “Now… now.”
I reminded myself that my tears wouldn’t change anything. An ambulance was on the way, and despite my nightgown, my son was alive. He continued to breathe, his inhales becoming steadier. “Good, you can stop. Sounds like his breathing is okay,” reassured the dispatcher.
They instructed me to unlock the door and turn on the lights. My oldest son arrived, and my husband was on the phone, trying to make sense of the chaos. I dressed quickly, packed a diaper bag, and waited with my child, who seemed either unconscious or simply exhausted—I still can’t say which.
We ended up not needing the ambulance; febrile seizures are usually not serious. We took him to the hospital ourselves, making the trip twice in a single day.
I could share lengthy tales about my experiences with hospitals, the flaws of a profit-driven medical system, or the bewilderment of young residents unsure how to respond to a distressed mother. But those details are merely distractions; they pale in comparison to the larger realization that emerged from that day.
Now, I can’t stop gazing at him, tracing his soft cheeks and marveling at the way his hair tussles about. I feel a lingering terror that surrounded me during that moment, a fear I didn’t fully process at the time. What if the outcome had been different? What if the hospital had been filled with worries that belonged to others, not to me?
Now, I find gratitude in the little things: the raisins scattered across the floor, the chubby hand tugging at my hair, the sharp little teeth grazing my skin while he nurses. Each moment is a reminder of life—wonderfully, joyfully, and repeatedly.
And now he’s waking up from a nap, his small form wriggling in the monitor. I rise, leaving behind my to-do list and lingering fears, ready to embrace him. Because the only time we truly have is… now.
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Summary
In a harrowing experience, a mother recounts how a 911 dispatcher guided her through a medical emergency involving her young son, who had a seizure. The incident profoundly changed her perspective on parenting and life’s small moments, prompting a deep sense of gratitude and the realization that each moment counts.
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