It was a dreary Tuesday in late October. The sky was grey with a threat of heavy rain
that never came. But despite the
weather, I was on top of the world. I
had just started a new job in St. Louis after being unemployed for 3
months. The Cardinals were in the World
Series. And most importantly, our second
son was almost a week old. All was right
with the world.
As for our second son... he was special. You see, this was a child we weren't supposed
to have. We had already beaten the
odds. After seven years of fruitless efforts
and devastating near misses... our first miracle boy was born two years prior. Once we were blessed with one, it never
occurred to us that a second would come along so "naturally". But he did.
After the initial shock, we were overjoyed.
I was also happy that day because my mother-in-law had just
arrived in town. She had helped us when
our first son was born, and I was thrilled she would be there to help again. Even though we were now diaper veterans, it
was always better to have the grownups outnumber the little ones.
When I got home from work that night, I hugged my family and played
with the new baby. Unlike his older
brother, this new baby was a breeze. He
ate well. He wasn't a crier. And most importantly of all, he was already
sleeping through the night. He was going
to be our easy child.
As I turned on the pregame, I asked my wife how things were
going. The day had been fairly
uneventful (at least as uneventful as it can be with two little ones). She did say that she had noticed that the
baby had been a little fussy for the last hour or so. I remember thinking that he was probably due
to be fussy... since he'd been so perfect up until then. We settled in for a quick supper.
After we ate, the baby got fussy again. As she was tending to him, my wife noticed something. His breathing was different. Nothing major, but it was definitely rapid
and somewhat shallow. And then, as soon as
it started, it stopped. That was
weird, but at least it was over. Then again, maybe it wasn't. The same pattern
repeated itself just a few minutes later.
My wife asked if we should call the pediatrician. Coming from a "rub some dirt on it and
you'll be fine" upbringing, I was hesitant at first. But I could tell that she was concerned, so I
agreed it was a good idea. The call was
made.
About 20 minutes later, we arrived at St. Louis Children's
Hospital. As we waited for our name to
be called, the fussiness started again. My
wife held our son close. She tried to
feed him one more time. Anything was
worth a shot. We anticipated a
long wait.
We didn't get one.
My son's heart stopped.
Just that fast. His body, the one
that was only a few days old, went limp in my wife's arms.
The next moments, while only seconds in length, are etched
in my brain as a never ending eternity.
As my wife ran screaming "help me, he's not
breathing", the world went into slow motion. I saw her sprint down the hall and then back
toward me. She was pleading for help, but
I could no longer hear it. Monumental events
were unfolding before me, yet I was unable to move. I watched in disbelief.
Immediately, hospital personnel materialized from nowhere
(and everywhere) and snatched my lifeless son's body away. With nothing left to cling to, my wife
collapsed in tears. I watched intently as
a team of medical professionals ran down the hallway administering CPR to my
son. There were so many of them. There was so little of him. The concern on their faces hit me like a
brick. As they turned a corner and
escaped out of view, I felt my knees buckle beneath me.
The next several minutes were, well... hell. They ushered us into a small room just off
the main hallway. I got the feeling that
this was a special room set aside for "special" emergencies. Within moments a social worker appeared. She held our hands and talked to us. My stomach was twisted in knots.
I won't lie... certain thoughts passed through my mind as we
waited to hear if our child was alive... or not. I can't repeat them here. I will
tell you that most of them are unthinkable. As short
as it may seem on paper, ten minutes can be a really long time to sit and
wait... and think.
Eventually a doctor walked into our little room. The look on his face was serious and intense. The irony is, during the minutes prior to his
arrival, all I had hoped for was some news... any news. Now that he was there, I didn't want to hear
it. I realized that hoping for "any" news was too broad. "Any" news
includes the devastating kind. Fortunately,
over the next 60 seconds, the doctor explained to my wife and me that they had
been able to resuscitate our son. He was
alive. He was not out of the woods, but
he was alive.
The details of the minutes, days, weeks and years that followed that night
alternate between the excruciating and the mundane... and are probably best
left in our memories. What I will say is that our son is alive and
healthy. And considering what we've been
through... that's good enough for me. I love you son... almost as much as I love your amazing mother.
And speaking of memories...
I remember being extremely thankful that my mother-in-law
was in town that night... she stayed home with our older son. If she hadn't been there, who knows if we would have gone to the hospital.
I remember driving past the festive lights of Game 3 of the World Series and not giving a damn about it. I hear the Cards were swept that year. I couldn't care less.
I remember that I considered taking the back roads to the
hospital until I saw the "Highway Construction" sign had been turned
off. I stayed on my original course instead of guessing my way through unfamiliar streets.
I remember what radio station was on in the car... the one
we weren't listening to.
I remember the woman who checked us in at the hospital and
suggested I remove my son from his car seat.
She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't a
nurse. She simply had 50 years of
experience that made me listen to her. That
advice saved us precious moments.
I remember a young mother in the emergency room who was
waiting for her daughter's name to be
called. I remember she smiled at
me when we first arrived. It was the "I'm sorry"
smile that all parents give each other in emergency rooms when their young ones
are sick. I also remember the look of
horror on her face as my wife ran screaming past her with our infant son.
I remember it all, and I hope I always will.
Thanks for reading this one.
It's taken an awfully long time to write.
