For better or worse, Andrew is a ‘breastsleeping’ baby. On easier nights, I can sneak out of the bedroom to do something else before he awakens and looks for me again. On difficult nights, I find myself lying with him for hours on end.
Tonight is one of the difficult ones. He’s been ill and a little warmer than normal. My instinct tells me I must stay with him throughout the evening. On and off, he latches onto the breast, moving about his crib, which we have configured to attach to my side of the bed. Tonight, he is visibly uneasy, but instead of wasting the little energy he can collect with fussing, he tries different positions to sleep again.
Andrew finds my leg for a pillow and sleeps in his characteristic butt-up frog pose. Matthew comes back into the bedroom, and we talk for a little bit before the lights are off for the night.
In the darkness, Andrew pops his head up and, with me guiding him, settles on the head side of his crib on his back. He latches and feeds.
About ten minutes later, I hear him choke or let out a cough. Shortly, I feel his body stiffen up, and he briefly sounds his “fear cry.” Every attuned mother knows the variety of their baby’s cries. Andrew, being a generally happy baby, very rarely unloads a fear cry. Something is off. In a matter of seconds, I turn on the bedside light and lift Andrew onto my forearm, his torso like a log and his limbs convulsing. His eyes roll backward. I charge Matthew, who has jumped off the bed panting in fear, to call 911. I stay with Andrew, holding his hand and repeating firm maternal summons, “Andrew, stay with Momma. Stay with Momma.” I reckon I’ve never grasped the true meaning of powerlessness until this moment. Staying with my son and asking him to stay with us is the only thing I can do. As my voice fills the room, my soul pleads, “Jesus, Mary, help us.”
Andrew’s state looks grim, but what happens next is worse. His eyes close. I scream. Matthew screams with me and leaps back to the bed to attempt a mild chest compression, if you can call it that. I hold Andrew’s hands, “Lord, please!” I pray under my breath.
Peeking under Matthew, who bestrides our baby’s tiny body, I see Andrew’s eyes open. Shortly after, he lets out a cry. A confused cry. Matthew turns back to his phone, the dispatcher still on the line, and I return to Andrew’s side. Andrew’s body is still stiff, but now I am hopeful. “Momma’s here. Momma’s next to you,” I assure him over and over. At this point, I hear the dispatcher saying what probably are coherent sentences yet make no sense to a distressed mother. I lose my patience and yell from across the room, “Don’t delay! Please!!! Just send someone!” I hear the dispatcher respond, “I’m not delaying. Someone’s already on their way. Please calm down, I have instructions.”
I follow her instructions to move Andrew gently to his side. I support Andrew’s back with my arm while Matthew clears the bed. Andrew continues to cry. “Momma’s here. Momma’s next to you. You’re with Momma,” I repeat like a broken record. After what seems like forever, Matthew tells me that the ambulance has arrived. Two EMS responders walk into our house and set up a stretcher and some equipment in the living room. They are trying their best of course, but to me it seems like eternity. I lose my patience once more and yell, “Faster, please!”
At my appeal, they appear in the room and take control of Andrew, checking his vitals and giving him a chockful of Tylenol. One of them looks at me in the eyes and says, “I know it sounds crazy right now, but your son is going to be fine. He is crying vigorously, which is a good sign. His fever is very high, but he will be fine.” I appreciate her reassurance. But no consolation can assuage maternal duress at peak levels.
A policeman comes in and checks the situation. The EMS confirms everything is under control. They tell us that they will take Andrew to Dell Children’s Hospital and that we can get dressed while they are setting him up on the stretcher. The last thing I care about is looks, especially not in this situation. “I don’t need to get dressed. Let’s go,” I declare.
Locking my stare with his, I stay with Andrew as they wheel him through our narrow hallway and out of our house. With an ambulance and police car lights on, our house dazzles in the darkness of our peaceful neighborhood. The very observant Andrew briefly stops crying as he sees the stars in the sky above him and feels the cool evening breeze. For the first time in what has seemed like hours, I allow a smile. All these have happened within less than fifteen minutes.
I hop in the ambulance with Andrew, and after the first responders get everything set, we drive off. Matthew has driven ahead of us separately to the hospital.
Inside the ambulance, Andrew does not stop crying. The ride to the emergency room has been the longest he has cried non-stop in his 13 months of existence. Hugs, interesting objects, or his own “home videos” on the phone have been potent calming tools, but none work this time. The EMS lady administers an anti-seizure medicine and an IV drip. Mother and baby hold hands the entire time.
—
Andrew has experienced an episode of febrile seizure. The medical community has not found a definitive root cause for this phenomenon, but the working theory is that it happens in children when their temperature abruptly rises. This bodily reaction typically goes away at the age of 5. We have learned that it is most common in babies between 12-24 months old and that it usually does not leave lingering effects in children’s brain.
Good.
But it sure does hit parents hard.
I lay with Andrew on the bed in the emergency room. He feeds himself to sleep. I text my family, “Andrew had a febrile seizure. We’re in the emergency room. Please pray for us…”
“It’s the scariest moment of my life.”
