The Burden of Family Crisis

I’m not sure words can even begin to explain it. What words could possibly describe the sure panic and fear that comes with watching your son die in front of you? Then the relief, and again more fear when he is revived?

I carry that night with me still, almost a full year later. As the anniversary approaches my anxiety builds. I am so thankful that God saw mercy on me that night, or maybe it wasn’t mercy, maybe God just wasn’t ready for my sweet boy to go home yet; so He gave him back to me, if just for a little while longer.

Either way, I am grateful beyond measure.

So, here is the all to true to my memory story of the night that changed me as a mother forever…

My youngest son Wyatt was diagnosed with adolescent obstructive sleep apnea. Which is just a more eloquent way of saying his tonsils were too big and he couldn’t breathe properly when he slept. Later that month, October of 2019 we made the decision to have them removed along with his adenoids.

It was the fourth of November when my world crashed down around me. It crashed so hard that I am still picking up the pieces. It feels as if I will never climb out of this mess.

*I am not sure why I am writing this; my thinking is maybe getting it out physically, will help me cope? I am not sure, but this nagging just won’t stop. The flashbacks won’t go away. So, here’s to praying this works, and I am not just sharing something this incredibly personal with the world for nothing. *

Wyatt was struggling after his surgery. My oldest son had his removed two years before and it wasn’t that bad. He hurt for a couple of days, then did what most kids that age do, he shook it off. Wyatt was different. We, (my husband and I), knew that it was important to watch for blood carefully and not to let him have anything red to eat, just in case. We knew that day four and five could be the hardest and most dangerous because that’s when the scabs fall off. We knew what to look for, but we were so unprepared.

That night, he wanted to sleep with my eldest, Ava. He had been sleeping with me, but I was exhausted, so I didn’t fight him. I am so thankful that he was with her that night, it may have saved his life.

I was still awake, it was maybe 10 pm. I was upset because he threw up that morning and it looked like it had a tinge of red in it. But, an hour or so before I had just given him Motrin, which is orange. My husband convinced me not to worry too much, just call the doctor. The doctor never called me back.

I heard Wyatt start to cough, which is normal after this procedure. But then he really coughed, hard. It sounded different and my mom instincts kicked in. He coughed a second time but before I could get to him, he started crying and Ava called for me.

At first, I just saw a couple of drops of blood on his shirt and lip. I picked him up and started toward the living room when he vomited up pure blood. Over and over. We live 30 minuets from the nearest hospital, so I told my husband to call 911. I explained everything and how he was starting to look pale. At this point, we have soaked through 3 towels, I think, maybe 4. Finally, he stopped bleeding for a bit. I took the opportunity to run and change clothes quickly since I was drenched in my 3-year old’s blood.

I kept waiting and waiting for the ambulance. Fifteen minutes had gone by and my nerves, or my gut instinct, or maybe God, was pushing me to the front porch. I had him wrapped in a blanket. He was pale as snow and I was petrified. Then I saw it, the flashing red lights of the ambulance.

I waited for him on my front porch, just a few feet from the driveway. The EMT hurried to the porch where we were, steps one foot on my porch, and Wyatt nearly slips out of my hands. He starts vomiting again, but this time, he’s choking. I start to scream at the EMT to help him. He tries to help me hold him with his face down, but before I could do anything, Wyatt starts seizing. Then his precious little body instantly turned blue, then black.

All of this happened in mere seconds. The ventilator the EMT had on him wouldn’t work so he was messing with it. When he finally looked at Wyatt, which to me felt like an eternity, but it was probably milliseconds, the EMT grabbed Wyatt and ran full speed to the ambulance.

I always thought I would be the level-headed one in a crisis. When Ava was three, our family dog attacked her. I threw the dog off her as soon as he bit her face, I picked her up, and although I was panicking, I knew what had to be done. I handled that all by myself and I never freaked out. At least, not outside of my head and heart. But not even that incident, the incident that left my daughter with a permanent scar on her cheek could have prepared me for that night in November.

I lost it. I completely lost all sense of anything. I could feel it in the air. It was almost like a heaviness; the paramedics didn’t think he was going to live. It was like death was among us, standing over my son, and everyone knew it.

Because of the seizure, his jaw locked. They couldn’t clear his airway because they couldn’t open his mouth. They did rescue breaths on him for right at six minutes. He didn’t breathe on his own for six minutes. We knew it had been too long, too long for him not to be breathing. Keith hit his knees facing me and we prayed. I prayed harder than I have ever prayed in my life. I was screaming at God to please save my son. I wasn’t ready, I couldn’t lose my baby. Then, only seconds after Keith said “Amen” I heard a cry. That cry was the most joyous sound I have ever heard in my life. I climbed in the ambulance and held my son.

Because of everything that had happened, they weren’t comfortable driving all the way to CHOA which is around two and a half hours away. They scheduled a life-flight for him. Only, the weather in Atlanta wasn’t permissible for flight. So we booked it. I bet we never went slower than 90MPH from Helen to CHOA. Wyatt wasn’t doing great, but he was alive and breathing.

Later I found out, the lead paramedic, the guy that reacted so quickly from my porch to the ambulance, was about to call it. He told me in a phone call a couple of weeks after this happened that something told him to check Wyatt’s mouth just one more time. When he did, his jaw was loosened. They immediately started using some machine to suck the blood out of his airway. It was a miracle and it was perfect timing. He had several huge clots jammed into his airway. God was with those men that night. They saved my son right there in my driveway.By all accounts, he shouldn’t have survived. I could never thank those men enough. They saved not only my sons life, but mine as well.

Once we reached CHOA, they decided to do emergency surgery on him. The clots had all come from one tonsil area and the other had visible clots ready to break free at any moment. Wyatt was almost completely unresponsive. He was breathing, but we couldn’t get him to wake up. But, the risk of another surgery was necessary.

He was in surgery about an hour. Though he was in an incredible amount of pain, he was going to be fine. By the next evening he was sitting in the floor with the nurses playing with dinosaurs. My little boy was going to be okay.

Logically, I knew this. But my mind didn’t want to listen to logic. Nope. I didn’t sleep either of the two nights we were in the hospital. I didn’t sleep much for the next four weeks either.

Keith, who has suffered from chronic severe PTSD since his last stent in Iraq in 2010, told me he was sure that I was suffering from PTSD. Maybe that is what is wrong with me. I don’t know. For those first few months, my flashbacks consisted of seeing blood everywhere, and watching Wyatt turn from blue to black, over and over, every time I closed my eyes. Every time he cried, or every time he coughed.

After about six months, I started to feel better. I stopped having the flashbacks, I thought I was better. More grateful for my children than I have ever been before. He was okay, so I was going to be okay.

Then out of no where a week ago, the sirens of a passing ambulance sent me back; not to the blood or his body losing oxygen, but the feelings of fear and panic in my chest. Driving down the road, and out of nowhere I have a panic attack. Completely caught me off guard. I suffer from GPD, or Generalized Panic Disorder, so usually I know when I am about to have a panic attack.

Not this time.

I was crying so hard I nearly had to pull over. Then, I was left with this empty feeling in my chest. Like a hole in my heart. Since then, every time I see an ambulance, or pass a fire station, the panic starts to rise. I can’t shake it. Tonight, it hit me again, for no reason at all.

That is why I decided to share my damage, to hopefully be able to heal. But every time after the panic fades, I’m left with this emptiness. No, not emptiness. It feels like there is a scar on my heart; a painful one. Like a piece of it was dug out by force, and the tissue attempted to repair itself, leaving behind a grotesque mark.

I hope this helps me deal with this unnatural fear. Writing things down, then sharing these words and these feelings, will hopefully help me let it go.

It is only my burden alone until the story is told.