the worst 12 minutes of my life.
/
Those of you on Facebook have already gotten the CliffsNotes version of this, but here's the full story. It's graphic in some parts, but it's how our Thanksgiving began...
The day before Thanksgiving, our friend Angie got off early from work and came to hang out with us. Lee was also home early, and he offered to cook up something fancy for dinner. The rest of us went on a walk to pick up my prescription at the drugstore less than a mile from the house. There, I treated the kids to candy for the walk home, and Robbie savored his York peppermint patty while Jocelyn felt like we got a double treat with two peanut butter cups in the Reese's packaging. We sat down at the dining room table for some tasty garlic Parmesan chicken and pasta, and we all had seconds.
It was a delightfully normal day.
I had a rare evening cup of coffee while Angie and I chatted and Lee put all the kiddos to bed. After a bit, we moved to the family room and kept chatting while I sorted laundry. Eventually, Angie joined me in some of the sorting. (How blessed am I? A friend who doesn't mind helping me sort laundry and a husband who handles bedtime most nights, even on nights when he also cooks dinner. So much more than I deserve!)
As we chatted, time got away from us. I didn't look at the clock, but it was a little after 11 when Angie thought she heard one of the kids. I know the time in hindsight, because I can backtrack from the time when I pulled out my phone 25 minutes later to post this:
I hadn't heard what Angie heard, so we were quiet for a moment as we listened for other noises. None came, so we went back to our conversation. And then, five minutes after we paused our chat to listen for sounds, we heard a weird, other-worldly noise that I can only describe as part gurgling and part choking and part growling. As my eyes connected with Angie's, I know my face mirrored her expression that something was terribly wrong.
I sprang up and headed down the hall, Angie behind me. Realizing the noise came from Robbie's room, I rushed to him. His face was partially smothered against a pillow, his bed and his body covered in vomit. As he flailed his arms and legs and looked dazed, I moved that pillow and spoke comforting words to him and thought, "Poor thing! It's an awful feeling to wake up by throwing up." I quickly grabbed a clean blanket, laid it on the floor so that I wouldn't have to clean the carpet as thoroughly if he got sick again, and I scooped him up to move him to the ground.
Except he wasn't scoop-able. You can scoop something soft or relaxed or loose, like a limp child who feels miserable with a stomach bug.
You can't scoop a child whose torso is stiff and rigid and whose legs and arms are convulsing rhythmically. You can't comfort a child who is not conscious or responsive even though his eyes are wide open, staring through the world as though he is absent from it.
I knew. I'm trained as a special needs professional to know.
My boy was having a seizure.
I thought, "No, this isn't my child who should be having a seizure. Zoe's cerebral palsy makes her more likely to do this. Robbie is not my kid with special needs." As my heart crushed with the full realization of all I know about seizures (for example, they can be a one-time fluke following a head injury or during a fever or other illness and are much more likely to recur if factors like those aren't present... and? none of those factors were part of this case), my training kicked in.
Nothing in my first aid certifications ever mentioned that my tears would be falling on "the person" as my friend prays over us and admits to God that she doesn't know what to ask him for in that awful, awful moment.
No one expects "the person" to be your only son.
The training particularly stings when you know, as the minutes creep by, that your son is seizing far longer than the typical seizure. The training rips your soul when you know that your son could have been deprived of oxygen as he was unable to remove himself from the pillow when his face was pressed against it and his mouth full of the earlier meal. The training lets you know that the person won't react at all as the paramedics put his IV in, but they don't tell you that you'll hope against that knowledge, aching for it to be different this time because "the person" is your son. The training says nothing about your friend having to physically pull a sweater over your head because you're too limp and helpless to put it on yourself as you are relieved by the EMTs who carry this boy who looks like yours but isn't acting like yours out onto a stretcher.
This story is full of grace, yes, like the preciousness of having Angie there to get Lee for me when I knew Robbie was seizing and to pray over us and to get my shoes and to pack other items and then to stay with the girls as we headed to the hospital.
Like the girls only stirring slightly and not fully waking up in the midst of the chaos.
Like the protection of God having us in the family room where we would hear Robbie, when I would usually be in our bedroom at that time of night, out of earshot for anything quieter than a cry.
Like the knowledge and skills He had provided me with in advance so I knew how to identify the seizure and what to do with that information.
Like the toys we had by the door to bring to Grandma and Grandpa's house for the holiday but which Angie threw in our bag, in hopes that Robbie would be himself again to enjoy them.
Like the realization, even as I climbed in that ambulance and watched them medicate my son to stop the seizure that had lasted at least 12 minutes and as many as 17 minutes, that God's grace was all over this situation.
As Robbie's eyes closed with the peace brought on by Versed and as I knew that he wouldn't wake from it until morning and that - given the possibility of oxygen deprivation - he might never be fully himself again, I clung to that grace as we raced toward the hospital and complete uncertainty.
Part two tomorrow... but I'll give away the spoiler that Robbie is himself again now. Grace.
The day before Thanksgiving, our friend Angie got off early from work and came to hang out with us. Lee was also home early, and he offered to cook up something fancy for dinner. The rest of us went on a walk to pick up my prescription at the drugstore less than a mile from the house. There, I treated the kids to candy for the walk home, and Robbie savored his York peppermint patty while Jocelyn felt like we got a double treat with two peanut butter cups in the Reese's packaging. We sat down at the dining room table for some tasty garlic Parmesan chicken and pasta, and we all had seconds.
It was a delightfully normal day.
I had a rare evening cup of coffee while Angie and I chatted and Lee put all the kiddos to bed. After a bit, we moved to the family room and kept chatting while I sorted laundry. Eventually, Angie joined me in some of the sorting. (How blessed am I? A friend who doesn't mind helping me sort laundry and a husband who handles bedtime most nights, even on nights when he also cooks dinner. So much more than I deserve!)
As we chatted, time got away from us. I didn't look at the clock, but it was a little after 11 when Angie thought she heard one of the kids. I know the time in hindsight, because I can backtrack from the time when I pulled out my phone 25 minutes later to post this:
I hadn't heard what Angie heard, so we were quiet for a moment as we listened for other noises. None came, so we went back to our conversation. And then, five minutes after we paused our chat to listen for sounds, we heard a weird, other-worldly noise that I can only describe as part gurgling and part choking and part growling. As my eyes connected with Angie's, I know my face mirrored her expression that something was terribly wrong.
I sprang up and headed down the hall, Angie behind me. Realizing the noise came from Robbie's room, I rushed to him. His face was partially smothered against a pillow, his bed and his body covered in vomit. As he flailed his arms and legs and looked dazed, I moved that pillow and spoke comforting words to him and thought, "Poor thing! It's an awful feeling to wake up by throwing up." I quickly grabbed a clean blanket, laid it on the floor so that I wouldn't have to clean the carpet as thoroughly if he got sick again, and I scooped him up to move him to the ground.
Except he wasn't scoop-able. You can scoop something soft or relaxed or loose, like a limp child who feels miserable with a stomach bug.
You can't scoop a child whose torso is stiff and rigid and whose legs and arms are convulsing rhythmically. You can't comfort a child who is not conscious or responsive even though his eyes are wide open, staring through the world as though he is absent from it.
I knew. I'm trained as a special needs professional to know.
My boy was having a seizure.
I thought, "No, this isn't my child who should be having a seizure. Zoe's cerebral palsy makes her more likely to do this. Robbie is not my kid with special needs." As my heart crushed with the full realization of all I know about seizures (for example, they can be a one-time fluke following a head injury or during a fever or other illness and are much more likely to recur if factors like those aren't present... and? none of those factors were part of this case), my training kicked in.
Ask someone to go get help. Roll person to side. Move anything potentially dangerous so the person can't injure himself. Finger-sweep person's mouth and use a bulb syringe to suction their nose to remove the vomit and reduce respiratory distress. Observe closely because most seizures are too short for emergency personnel to see them, and you'll have to describe it to them. Have someone call 911. Wait next to the person because there's nothing else you can do until after the seizure is over.Except no training can prepare anyone for "the person" being your healthy, vibrant, cheerful, lizard-loving, cuddly boy who is unresponsive as he thrashes on the floor next to you.
Nothing in my first aid certifications ever mentioned that my tears would be falling on "the person" as my friend prays over us and admits to God that she doesn't know what to ask him for in that awful, awful moment.
No one expects "the person" to be your only son.
The training particularly stings when you know, as the minutes creep by, that your son is seizing far longer than the typical seizure. The training rips your soul when you know that your son could have been deprived of oxygen as he was unable to remove himself from the pillow when his face was pressed against it and his mouth full of the earlier meal. The training lets you know that the person won't react at all as the paramedics put his IV in, but they don't tell you that you'll hope against that knowledge, aching for it to be different this time because "the person" is your son. The training says nothing about your friend having to physically pull a sweater over your head because you're too limp and helpless to put it on yourself as you are relieved by the EMTs who carry this boy who looks like yours but isn't acting like yours out onto a stretcher.
This story is full of grace, yes, like the preciousness of having Angie there to get Lee for me when I knew Robbie was seizing and to pray over us and to get my shoes and to pack other items and then to stay with the girls as we headed to the hospital.
Like the girls only stirring slightly and not fully waking up in the midst of the chaos.
Like the protection of God having us in the family room where we would hear Robbie, when I would usually be in our bedroom at that time of night, out of earshot for anything quieter than a cry.
Like the knowledge and skills He had provided me with in advance so I knew how to identify the seizure and what to do with that information.
Like the toys we had by the door to bring to Grandma and Grandpa's house for the holiday but which Angie threw in our bag, in hopes that Robbie would be himself again to enjoy them.
Like the realization, even as I climbed in that ambulance and watched them medicate my son to stop the seizure that had lasted at least 12 minutes and as many as 17 minutes, that God's grace was all over this situation.
As Robbie's eyes closed with the peace brought on by Versed and as I knew that he wouldn't wake from it until morning and that - given the possibility of oxygen deprivation - he might never be fully himself again, I clung to that grace as we raced toward the hospital and complete uncertainty.
Part two tomorrow... but I'll give away the spoiler that Robbie is himself again now. Grace.
