I used to think that family members were allowed to ride in the back of the ambulance alongside their loved ones. That’s what the movies suggest, right? However, the day my 14-month-old son was put in that ambulance, I was told to sit in the front. I have no recollection of how long that ride was; all I remember is staring at the ground whizzing past, anxiously waiting for any sign that my son was getting worse. In that moment, I thought, “If he dies, I could just jump out of this moving vehicle. It would be quick.”
The following week dragged on, filled with some of the slowest hours of my life. My son was transferred from the ER to the pediatric unit and then to the pediatric intensive care unit, where his airways became so constricted that he struggled to breathe. Holding him down while they inserted an IV was horrendous, but seeing him connected to oxygen, helium (to help force oxygen through his nearly closed airways), a heart rate monitor, an oxygen monitor, and the tiniest blood pressure cuff imaginable pushed me into a dark abyss of despair.
All of this was caused by a common virus known as parainfluenza, which I had unknowingly passed to him after suffering from it myself. I had felt miserable for a week with a sore throat and a pounding headache, but as a teacher in the last week of school, taking a day off was not an option. I plowed through, even as I felt terrible, attributing my condition to allergies and hoping I wasn’t contagious. I managed, but my son, unfortunately, could not.
When I first heard about the coronavirus spreading globally, memories of that harrowing time resurfaced. Initially, I felt reassured by reports that the virus was less severe for children. I, along with countless other parents, let out a sigh of relief. If I had to get sick, I thought, at least it wouldn’t impact my kids. However, as cases began to rise in the U.S., I still didn’t believe it would hit as hard as it did in Italy. Even when schools closed, I considered organizing playdates, convinced that children were somehow immune.
Then, I learned that children were falling ill—and some were even dying.
My family is now on lockdown. We avoid all social interactions. I venture out to the grocery store once every two weeks, which is quite the challenge with two toddlers who devour fresh fruit and chicken nuggets. Upon returning home, I frantically wipe down everything with bleach wipes, change out of my “outside clothes,” and scrub down every surface I may have touched along the way. I’ve never been a germaphobe; in fact, with two thumb-sucking toddlers, I’ve had to adopt a relaxed approach to hygiene. My child often had his thumb in his mouth while swinging at the park, so the idea of “washing hands when we get home” seemed impractical. But now, everything has changed. We sing “Happy Birthday” or a slow rendition of the ABCs as we scrub our hands up to our elbows.
As I’ve come to terms with the gravity of the situation, it seems that others around me are taking a different approach. With boredom settling in, I see friends resuming playdates and visiting family. My heart raced in horror when I spotted a friend’s Instagram post showing her daughter playing with a neighbor. I cringed at Mother’s Day photos featuring small children hugging their grandmothers. Call me Scrooge, but I’ve been through it.
I used to be lax about germs and illnesses, even shrugging them off as a way to “build immunity” when my child shared a popsicle or picked up food from the floor. I’ve even been guilty of this behavior after our PICU experience. I don’t advocate staying indoors to hide from danger, nor do I let fear dictate our lives.
However, I do believe in acknowledging genuine fears. When those fears keep us safe, they are valid. We all crave a return to normalcy, a sense of security, and we’re tired of being cooped up. Yet, staying home is the safest option right now. We can’t let our yearning for normal life blind us to the reality of the situation. We must ignore the political noise and focus on the fact that we want our children safe in their beds, not in the hospital.
The worst-case scenario is that I’m overreacting and my kids miss out on a summer filled with fun. They miss hugs from Grandma, pool days with Auntie, festivals, and trips to the park. I grieve the loss of those moments. But we all know that’s not the real worst-case scenario.
The true worst-case scenario is what could happen if we disregard caution. I have personally witnessed what a respiratory illness can do to a young, seemingly healthy child. I’ve held my baby while he struggled to breathe, and I’ve sobbed in the hallway as doctors delivered heartbreaking reports that shook me to my core. I’ve seen a robust, lively toddler transform into a lethargic, glassy-eyed shell in mere hours. Those terrifying moments replay in my mind whenever I find a moment of silence.
There will be other summers, other playdates, and more trips to the zoo, park, and pool. But there is only one of him.
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Summary:
In a personal account, Emma Lee reflects on her experience with her son’s severe respiratory illness and urges readers to take reopening guidelines seriously. She shares her journey through fear, caution, and the importance of keeping children safe during the pandemic. Despite the longing for normalcy, she emphasizes the need for vigilance, as the stakes are too high for complacency.
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