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CRUZ |
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In such a crisis, everything
seems to move so slowly
of TheColumnists.com
Anyone who has witnessed a person in the grip of a febrile seizure knows that it looks much worse than it is.
But I didn’t know that when my three-year old son’s temperature spiked to over 105 degrees during his morning nap and he suddenly began to convulse and seize. What had always been a perfectly healthy boy suddenly looked possessed, eyes rolling to the back of his head, body stiffening and shaking in sporadic intervals.
Because it’s late November the air is loaded with flu bugs and viruses, I was not at all alarmed when Sebastian came down with a stomach virus the previous night, had vomited and developed a fever.
At one point that night I woke to find him halfway out of bed, upside down, seemingly stuck between the wall and the bed. I pulled him out and held him upright. His eyes were open but he didn’t seem to recognize me and seemed to be looking through me.
I shook him up a little calling his name, asking him to wake up, but all he did was moan. I immediately called my brother-in-law--“Dr. Mike,” the pediatrician--and he explained it might be a harmless febrile seizure that some children are prone to when they've had high fevers. But by then Sebastian had come to and was talking, and so we thought he had probably just been groggy from fever and sleep.
He has never had a seizure before, and I’ve never seen anyone else having one either, so I didn’t know what to expect.
The shock and horror of what happened the next day caused me to blow a fuse of my own. My memory of those few minutes is filled with holes, it all happened so fast and yet went by so slowly.
Sebastian had awakenened from a nap after having had the flu. He woke me as he always does--by joking around and saying “Boo!” until I opened my eyes. I asked him how he was feeling. He said, “Much better, mommy!” and I was relieved. His eyes then rolled into the back of his head, his body stiffened, and he began to convulse and shake.
I don’t think three seconds passed before I threw him over my shoulder and dialed 911 screaming, “My son is having a seizure! Please hurry up and get here!”
When I looked at Sebastian again, he had turned completely blue from head to toe. His lips were a gruesome shade of gray. Foam was bubbling steadily from the side of his mouth. I thought I was losing him. I'd totally forgotten that Dr. Mike had reassured me, ahead of time, about what this could be.
I grabbed Sebastian, who was dressed only in a diaper, wrapped him in his blanket and ran out the door screaming, “HELP! HELP!” But it was to no avail. No one was around to hear me. I felt desperate and helpless, frantically running around.
I ran back up and dialed 911 again. “My son is blue! Please hurry up!” I pleaded.
“The police are outside your driveway,” they assured me, not knowing my driveway is a quarter of a mile long--and there was no explanation of where the ambulance was. I threw the phone down and ran out again in bare feet and pajamas, my blue, foaming baby over my shoulder, screaming hysterically until the ambulance came putt-putting up the driveway. They seemed to be driving incredibly slowly. I thought my child was dying, and yet the police and fire department had completely surrounded my house and blocked the street to make room for us to come out.
Five paramedics poured out of the little red Lincoln Fire & Rescue truck, four men and one woman. I tried to explain what had happened through sobs and pleadings. Then, as if she were some sort of general, the lady med stood too close to my face and yelled at me to calm down.
I thought I might strike her as I looked her square in the eyes and angrily repeated that my child had almost died in my arms.
She pointed at me and said, “You sit in the front seat,” and so I climbed in the front seat of the ambulance as they strapped my son to a gurney and wheeled him into the back. I thought the driver might turn on the siren and speed out, but instead he made what seemed like a deliberately slow three-point turn and putted out to the highway.
He sat stone faced and silent as I sobbed, thinking “Hurry up you *%$#ing turtle!” but he followed the slow-moving, rainy day traffic at the same pace as everyone else, only turning on the siren to run red lights.
Finally, the lady med opened the window separating the front from the back and assured me that my son was okay. I tried to believe in her words but couldn’t help but hate her.
At the hospital I was immediately reassured that febrile seizures are relatively common and harmless–though otherwise completely mysterious--even if the victim does turn blue for five minutes. To me it had seemed impossible that anyone could live through something like that without coming out severely damaged. Everyone agreed that it is horrific to witness.
So, I was pleased, relieved, thanking every god I have ever thought might exist.
Sebastian was asleep peacefully, which they said was normal post-seizure behavior. His fever was reduced with Motrin popsicles, and I sat staring at his rosy, cherubic toddler cheeks. The nurses were all moms themselves, and had seen enough seizures to know what I had been though myself.
“You look worse than he does,” one of them said.
I realized I was still in my pajamas, hair messed up, red eyed from crying and wild eyed from fear and shock. I hadn’t eaten anything yet that day and felt weak, drained, but mostly thankful that I was still looking at my living, breathing son.
A few days later when I told a friend (who had also experienced these seizures) what happened, she said, “And how are you doing?”
As mysterious as these seizures are, there is one thing for sure. The memory will be worse for me than it'll be for Sebastian.
©2006 by Raphaëlla Cruz. The illustration is from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. East, San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column first posted Dec. 4, 2006.
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