As a parent, I find myself holding my youngest son a little tighter than the others. His naturally affectionate demeanor makes it easy, yet my instinct to keep him close stems from a harrowing experience: I nearly lost him to a sudden illness. At just four years old, my son faced a life-threatening bout with croup.
It was a seemingly typical Friday night in October, three years ago. He had developed a cold and we were bracing ourselves for the first occurrence of croup for the season. After putting both of our boys to bed, I stepped out to purchase a humidifier. Upon my return half an hour later, I set it up in their room, only to hear the unmistakable sound of labored breathing—a prelude to croup. I steeled myself for what lay ahead, likely an exhausting night and a trip to the pediatrician in the morning.
About 15 minutes later, I heard a strange noise from their room. Rushing in, I discovered my son thrashing in bed, struggling for air. Without hesitation, I scooped him up and hurried to the living room. In less than a minute, he was flailing in my arms, turning blue, and I found myself dialing 911. The call quickly transformed into the operator guiding us through CPR as my son stopped breathing. Those moments are etched in my memory. We laid him on the floor, where my husband began to perform CPR on our little boy. Paralyzed with horror, I watched, my mind racing with disbelief that this might be the end of his life—so abruptly and so tragically.
Just then, 10 firefighters burst through the door. I was oblivious to the sound of their sirens as they arrived. They swiftly took him, stripped off his favorite green pajamas, and began working on him. In that moment, I felt utterly powerless. My thoughts drifted to the curious detail of how they strapped his car seat to the gurney. I had no idea they transported children like that. Before I could process it further, they wheeled him out to the ambulance.
He was in critical condition. His oxygen levels were dangerously low, and right in front of our building, they intubated him in the back of the ambulance while my husband and I sat on the curb, surrounded by onlookers, tears streaming down our faces. Once the procedure was complete, I climbed into the front seat of the ambulance, and we rushed to the Children’s Hospital. Those 15 minutes felt interminable. I remember asking the paramedic if my son would survive. The things those first responders must witness! He assured me that my son would make it, and thankfully, he did.
After a couple of days in the ICU and a hefty dose of steroids, my son emerged without any lasting effects.
Describing the feeling of watching your child come so close to death is challenging. It’s a profound sense of helplessness, akin to grasping for a rope that’s just out of reach as you plummet from a great height. In that instant, you realize the depth of your love and how much you cannot bear to lose them. The relief that washes over you when they pull through is not merely a deep breath but rather a gasp of survival, reminiscent of emerging from the depths of water after nearly drowning.
Three years have passed, yet every October, I feel the emotions rising again. I still relive that night at times. I kept that green pajama top, cut down the middle, a painful reminder of both the trauma and the miracle of his survival. Although I didn’t hear the sirens that night, I now flinch at their sound. I feel an urge to embrace every firefighter I encounter. The haunting thought remains that had I not checked on him, I could have discovered him lifeless the next morning.
Recently, my son brought home a school project to create a timeline of his life. We flipped through the photo albums I compile each year for my children, sharing laughs as he revisited his baby and toddler years. When he reached the entry recounting the night he almost died—a night he has no memory of—he paused, tears streaming down his face. He hugged and kissed me before effortlessly turning the page and continuing on. That act held profound symbolism for me; he is still here, and his life goes on.
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Summary
This narrative reflects on a parent’s terrifying experience of nearly losing a child to croup. It captures the fear, helplessness, and ultimate relief felt during a crisis that changed the family forever. As years pass, the emotional scars remain, but the resilience of life continues to shine through.
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