A few months ago, I fell into a marathon depression. It happened shortly after the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting when I vehemently wrote an article that attacked the existence of a God. I had lost my faith in any kind of moral order, kindness, or balance in the world.
After the article was published, I received a plethora of angry letters about my proclaiming that "there is no God" and that "religion is complete nonsense" (only, instead of 'nonsense', I think I used a different word starting with the letter 'B').
I stopped calling people. I quit exercising. I slept and withdrew even further from many of the things I enjoyed doing, like writing for this site. This went on for weeks or months…I don't remember as I had lost track of time.
That was before February 22.
On that evening, I almost lost my son.
Today, I'm still reeling from it, but in a positive, constructive way. What was certain to have turned tragic, actually ended up as nothing short of a full-blown miracle.
I spent the past few weeks going over my notes from that evening. I compiled them into the account you read below---with nothing changed and altered---everything happened exactly as I experienced it that night.
Somebody or something ended up watching and taking care of my son that night. It was all around us, no matter how absurd the situation (read below) or terrifying. Call it good luck. Call it timing. Call it science and medicine. Or, call it God.
I am different now.
PART I
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 22, 2013 – 8:15 p.m.
Events, much like life, always seem to start inside a calm evening. And so it was: just an awesome Friday night. When I tucked my 3-year old son into bed, he asked me for exactly three kisses and three hugs, followed by a big kiss and big hug. In that order. No deviations.
Cameron looked up at me, paused for a second, and said "I love you daddy." As always when he does this, my heart vibrated warm waves up and down my body. I told him that I loved him too---and that it was time to say good night. I gave him another kiss for good measure and turned off the light. He was gently playing with his blanket as I closed the door.
1:20 a.m.
My shadowy bedroom screeched into focus with a the sounds of crying and coughing. His cries pierced through my sleep like a scalpel. My brain bounced awake and I went from zero dark slumber to TOTALLY WIDE AWAKE in a millisecond. I jumped out of bed and shuffled toward his room to see what was going on. Was it a bad dream? Monsters coming to get him? OK, fine, then I wanted to be there----to be the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.
So I opened the door to his room. As I walked in, I heard him cry out: "I have frog in my froat. I have frog in my froat! I have frog in my froat!" He was moving his tiny hand over his throat side to side, and shaking his head up and down like a nervous businessman trying to loosen a tie.
Something was very wrong with his breathing. He was taking rapid and shallow breaths.
We tried to give him a glass of water, thinking maybe he was catching a bad flu or that his throat was just really, really dry. Because we live at 5,200 feet above sea level, perhaps the dry mountain air was irritating it? I was leaning down next to him and stroking his hair, thinking that mayb ---
He started coughing again. It was louder and more forced---and I didn't like how it sounded. I looked at him more clearly in the light and noticed that his face was starting to turn a reddish/blue color.
Call 911. Right now. Just like that.
1:25 a.m.
"911 emergency."
It was just like you hear the operator sound in the movies or on the nightly news with the tape machine picture on the screen. Or whispered inside a nasty dream. In fact, that must still be it, I am dreaming this. I'm dreaming and will snap into something else. I'm ---
"---Hello yes my 3 year-old son is having trouble breathing! He's making gasping noises! His face looks blue! He's having trouble breathing he's having trouble breathing he's sick we need someone to help us he's coughing making raspy noises having trouble someone we need help now PLEASE!"
Questions were fired back at me but I don't remember them now. My name? My address? Was there a locked gate or difficulty getting into the house? Did they call me 'sir' a bunch of times? Am I dreaming? Yes, I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming. They are---
"---sending someone there right now. Sir, please go to where he is and remain on the line."
Do not give him anything to drink or eat…
Please turn your house lights on…
"…and if possible, have someone available to meet the paramedics at the front door."
"My hands were shaking so badly. I was squeezing the sides of my phone so hard I could hear the phone protector case cracking.
My hands were shaking so badly. I was squeezing the sides of my phone so hard I could hear the phone protector case cracking. The operator droned on…sounding calm and official, and moving things forward like an usher directing a late-arriving theatergoer to their seat. But my throat was tightening up and my mouth was as dry as Southern Morocco in summer. I watched all of this happen but just didn't believe it.
I ran back into the bedroom where my wife was firmly holding on to him. In just the few moments I had been on the phone, his breathing sounded a lot worse. He wasn't crying anymore. His chest was caving in with rapid movements. His throat was uttering a little squeaking/pitched sound every time he'd breathe in, like someone was pressing their foot down on an air hose.
I ran back upstairs and peered out the window. Nothing. Pitch dark, snow, and some ice on the ground.
I ran downstairs again. Squeaking/hissing.
I ran back upstairs to the window. Darkness outside.
We wait.
1:32 a.m.
Three large men carrying heavy medical equipment and wearing blue/yellow reflective jumper suits entered the bedroom. They kneeled by the side of our bed and leaned over to examine him, their large duffel bags of medical equipment thrown onto the bed and floor.
Stars and patches of black were appearing in front of my eyes and my hands were shaking. I found it difficult to talk and answer questions because my throat was so dry.
The three strangers hovered over my son and began reaching for all kinds of silver shiny equipment. There was something in their expressions I didn't like. They looked tired, but worried.
The room was quiet except for his breathing. They listened intently to his heartbeat, each one of their eyes shifting over from my son, to each other, and back again to my son. Silence. Eyes shifting.
I noticed he doesn't even look up or appear nervous. That's terrifying me. A 3 year-old toddler lying there calmly, while three giants pull out tubes and hoses and fiddle them around his body. He does nothing but stare off at the wall with no reaction at all. He was sick. Oh God. He was very, very sick.
1:47 a.m.
Paramedic #2 told me that we needed to get him to the hospital right now. They asked if I could wrap him in a blanket and quickly carry him out to the ambulance. Paramedic #3 was already on the phone, calling the hospital emergency room and telling them that we were on the way and for them to 'be ready'. Paramedic #1 was on his radio telling his dispatcher some basic stats: "3-year old male…difficulty breathing…on the way to hospital…"
1:48 a.m.
There were no street lights. It was midnight dark except for big flashing red clusters of two large fire engines filled with men inside, and ambulance parked askew on my snow-covered driveway. The red lights flickered around branches and outlined the tall cedar trees. I wrapped my son in his green Buzz Lightyear blanket and trotted through the snow to the waiting men at the back of the ambulance. I balanced him with one arm, while using the other hand to grasp on to an icy cold doorway handle. I pulled the two of us up and into the back of the ambulance and gently placed him on top of the stretcher inside. Paramedic #2 assisted me with securing him down in the stretcher as the freezing wind whipped and tossed at the back of the vehicle.
He looked tiny lying there---just a miniature bump strapped into a huge, long dark stretcher with shiny chrome legs/wheels. I glanced behind at my wife who was standing outside. She was going to remain behind to take care of our 5 year-old daughter. The doors in the back of the ambulance slammed shut and the men jumped in. We moved quickly backwards, the tires crunching over the remainder of the ice on the driveway, and headed out along dark Highway 173. I'm trying not to cry, but at that moment I felt very, very sad.
PART II
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 2013 – 1:54 a.m.
Ok. I'm also trying not to get carsick (or should I say ambulance-sick). Highway 173 is a dark place, with narrow windy mountain curves, and not much else. There's not even cell coverage in many stretches.
Paramedic #2 is in the back sitting across from me, taking notes and trying to call the hospital. I'm holding a plastic breathing tube near my son's face so I could get him to breathe in a special medicated mist. I force a big wide happy fake smile, and tell him that he's a real special boy to get to ride in an ambulance---and that it's just like, um, er, a spaceship. Yes! A spaceship that Buzz would ride! What a lucky boy. What a lucky boy! What a special lucky boy!
1:55 a.m.
We stop.
But…there are no hospital lights. No red lighted signs that say 'EMERGENCY'. No cars. Just pitch darkness outside our beeping, flashing, air hissing ambulance.
"What's going on?" I ask Paramedic #2 (who is still controlling the flow of oxygen, taking notes, and fumbling with his cell phone at the same time in a multitasking circus).
He looks confused and worried. He leans over toward the front of the cab and mumbles something to the driver through the sliding window. The driver mumbles something back.
After a moment, he turns around toward me and says, "We are on the wrong road."
There's silence for a second.
"What?"
I look around inside the back of the ambulance. It's so quiet you could hear mist air coming out of the small breathing tube. And the occasional beeps and clicks of blue/green/red flashing lights on the medical equipment.
Paramedic #3 says in a very soft voice---almost a whisper: "I'm sorry, we are not familiar with the area. Do you know where the hospital is?"
The ambulance jerks backward slightly. I hear beeping backup sounds and see the glow of red brake lights and tree branches come into view outside the frosted window in the back. We are backing out of some dead-end road in some cul-de-sac somewhere. Our vehicle is starting to slowly turn around. My son starts to cough again, but with a lot more wheezing. My shaking, jittering hand is doing a crappy job of holding the air hose.
"Um I…what?" I am trying to think of a response. Something sane, intelligent, and logical to say. But basically, I'm now pretty much fucking speechless. My brain has started to shut down.
"Is this really happening? Am I actually giving directions to an ambulance driver on how to get to the hospital? This must be a joke."
"Yeah, we are on rotation up here," says Paramedic #1, the driver. "I think we got off of the highway somehow."
He turns the ambulance around in a comic U-turn. The view outside the back of the ambulance window is spinning. My vision is rotating. My brain is spinning. I feel my son grip on my arm and that brings me back to the reality of this absurd situation. I take a deep breath.
"Ok, you see that fork up there? Turn left. Yes, that's it. Now go one mile or so and turn right by where the large white three-story house is. Yes, good. Keep going straight. It's about another mile or so and the turnoff to the hospital will be on your left."
Is this really happening? Am I actually giving directions to an ambulance driver on how to get to the hospital? This must be a joke. There's got to be a hidden camera in here somewhere. Allen Funt and John Quiñones are going to jump out and tell me to smile because I am on Candid Camera, and---
Daddy?
He's looking up at me, but his voice sounds even worse. It is barely a croak. I bend over and gently rest my head near his. I kiss him on the cheek and feel the cool mist of the medicated oxygen. We are moving faster now, slogging over cracks and bumps in the highway. Our cheeks are touching together as I lean my head over him. I whisper in his ear that he is going to be ok. You are going to be ok son. You are going to be just fine.
2:05 a.m.
We pull up to the SPECIAL AMBULANCE ENTRANCE of Mountains Community Hospital. The parking lot near us is deserted. Paramedics #1, #2, and #3 jump out and open the two back doors. They yank his stretcher from the back with lightning-precision. It thumps to the ground with a clanging noise on its chrome legs, and we all make a beeline toward the back entrance of the hospital, running alongside the little blanket-lump that is my son riding on top. I look up to see thousands of stars in the sky.
The hospital is located at the top of the mountain overlooking a lake. It's very windy and cold, and the flickering sodium lamps of the parking lot make him look even more pale and sick.
The double doors to SPECIAL AMBULANCE ENTRANCE are locked. We need a code for the keypad at the door. Paramedic #1 consults a piece of paper in his pocket, and then types one in. Nothing happens. Just a beeping sound while we all stand there shivering. He enters the code again, and this time the doors swing open.
The five of us rush in from out of the night---pushing the stretcher as fast as we can into a brightly lit and welcoming ER.
PART III
2:10 a.m.
They look very worried. Did I just think that? Oh God.
We had about 5-6 people around us. Two doctors. A few nurses. And a large lady with a small clipboard who was asking me all kinds of suspicious questions. I get it though. He's a tiny 3-year-old boy that's having serious trouble breathing. They have every right to be suspicious.
One of the doctors was arranging for a helicopter medevac to Loma Linda University Hospital. Another doctor, a respiration specialist, was hooking up a special breathing machine nearby.
Doctor #1 says, "His chest and breathing look very bad. We need to get this mask on him now. It would be better if you helped to hold his arms. He has to breathe in this special steroid."
I was handed a tiny mask. I lean over and gently pick up Cameron. He's crying and coughing now and trying to push me away as I try to get it affixed to his face.
I look up at the doctor. Protective Father says, "He doesn't like it. Maybe we can…"
He cuts me off angrily, "We need to get that mask on him now! This is very, very serious."
He wasn't being rude. He was being afraid. And this causes me to start to swallow rapidly---trying not to panic while my hands are shaking.
And so I do what every parent has had to do since the Dawn of Time: Hold their child down firmly and force them to do something they REALLY don't want to do. He's screaming and crying, huge tear-filled eyes looking up at me in fright---his little arms trying to push the mask away as I pin them down to his sides. He's almost…mad, actually. For some reason, the thought of him being mad as hell comforts me just a tiny bit.
They take his blood. More crying. I feel his little fingers grip tighter against mine. The little red vial is handed over to a nurse that runs it over to a small lab 15 feet away in the corner of the ER where they will have the results in 15 minutes.
The doctor, with the help of three nurses, runs an IV line into his vein and starts him on another drug.
A large X-ray machine that looks like a nasty Transformer out of a Michael Bay movie is wheeled over. A tired looking x-ray technician yanks down on one it its giant arms to position it over Cameron's throat.
He looks up at me in fear while they try and get the machine positioned just right. They hand me a heavy lead protective apron and tell me to put it on. I do and it stupidly falls off and crumples onto the ground. I don't give a shit and lean down next to my frightened son. Click, click, click. X-rays are taken.
All the nurses, the x-ray tech, and the doctors leave to go process the results. Swish. They pull an ugly pink curtain around us as they depart. It's just me and my son. He's lying there and I'm holding a breathing mask over his face. I don't hear any sounds other than some faint machine beeping. We are the only patients in the entire ER room at the moment.
[[.......]]
I've lost track of time. I have no idea what day or month it is.
Cameron has peacefully fallen asleep.
I sit back and look around the small curtained area.
Time passes.
More time passes.
I start to think.
I'm no longer paralyzed with fear.
I notice my own breathing.
I hear my blood pulsing in my ears. My hands have stopped shaking and---
I'm not alone.
I feel something.
And it's very real. And it's with me for the next few moments.
Son, one day you will read this story. One day, you may even share it with your kids after I'm long gone. All I can tell you here is that I was both terrified and happy at the same instant. I knew. I just knew from that moment onward that everything was going to be ok. I was no longer alone with you. Someone or something was in the room with me and they we were going to be ok. We were being watched over. We were being protected. All was good and right and peaceful in our world in that little room that night, at that moment.
3:22 a.m.
He gently woke up and was starting to breathe much easier. The steroid drug was working. His chest was no longer taking sharp breaths or caving in. He looked peaceful.
The doctor came back, pull open the curtain, and listed to his breathing. He peered over at me like he'd just won the lottery. Large worry lines on his forehead relaxed as he put the stethoscope back into his large white pocket.
"You were very, very, very lucky." He says. "That was the single worst case of Croup we've seen in our careers."
Croup (or laryngotracheobronchitis) is a respiratory condition that is usually triggered by an acute viral infection of the upper airway. Although not a common occurrence, it can result in death from respiratory failure and/or cardiac arrest. But then again, this had not been a common evening.
He says, "I need to get your son's basic information again, because when I asked before, I was so afraid we'd lose him, that I don't remember anything you said. I wasn't listening to you at all."
And so, I give the man who saved my son's life the information he needed again.
The doctor wrote down some notes and told me that Cameron will be admitted to the hospital for several days under observation in an oxygen tent. He left the room and I never saw him again.
EPILOGUE
8:15 a.m.
It's light outside but the room is dark. Cameron's lying inside an oxygen tent on a bed with metal bars around so he won't roll off. You could see the red pulse/light from his finger oxygen monitor on his hand leaning against the plastic. I poke my head under the plastic and ask how he's doing.
He doesn't say anything at first.
Eventually, he nods his head yes, then says very seriously, "Dad?"
My foot kicks forward with such force in hearing how much better his voice sounds, I almost knock over the oxygen monitor machine next to the bed.
"Yes, son?"
"I want a Captain America figure and two Stormtroopers"
He's a major Star Wars fan. Just like his dad.
"Done. Absolutely. As soon as we get out of here, I'll take you to Toys-R-Us and get you the whole set. So you got to get better so we can go to the toy store."
"But two Stormtroopers. And a Yoda figure."
"But you just said 'Captain America.'
"No. I want Yoda."
Who am I to argue?
Christopher Lee
Los Angeles
February 22, 2013 – February 23, 2013
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