When my darling boy was a little over 2 years old, I drove the wrong way down one way streets and sped through red lights after looking both ways. Or maybe my husband did that. Can’t remember exactly who was behind the wheel because I may have been freaking out. We got there and parked in under 8 minutes.
My husband and I escorted our young son into Children’s Mercy Hospital way after midnight all those years ago on feet that never touched the floor. A mere few minutes before that, we had been sleeping in our bed when the sound of troubled breathing from the baby’s room woke us both with a start. We knew something was wrong, and it really sounded like he had swallowed something and it was stuck. Stuck right beyond where we could dig it out with cupped fingers. We know, because we tried.
We had been out earlier that night. The sweet boy had been with his favorite sitter in our home. We had houseguests – my very pregnant best friend and her husband were sleeping over while their floors were being refinished a few blocks away. They were asleep as well.
But not for long. When a wheezing sound from another human hits you that hard, you have trouble breathing yourself. I caught my breath enough to wake our guests, call the babysitter, ask a few questions, and dress us all for quality time in the emergency room.
I can still see my friend Cathy – out to there with baby #1 – in silhouette at the top of my stairs telling me to call her. She had the same look of fear in her eyes that I did.
We flew into the hospital, and everyone could hear that something was wrong. Those geniuses knew what it was from his first exhalation in their presence. They are that good. I believe we heard the word “spasmodic croup” before the next inhalation. We answered 900 questions, filed a gazillion forms, and paid a co-pay with a credit card in the exam room. And then our friend Scott walked in the room.
How he knew we were there I will never know. He is a respiratory therapist at Children’s Mercy, and he walked into the room in the heat of it all. He was as cool, calm and collected as the other staff. They all seem to know each other at that particular hospital, and they all seem to love their jobs. It is palpable when you meet any of them – in or out of the hospital.
When it was ascertained that there already was a respiratory therapist in the room for our son and Scott was asked why was he there, he simply stated, in true Scott fashion, “I’m not here for him. I’m here for her,” and he swiftly pointed to me.
He made the whole room smile with that line. He made me laugh hard enough to have oxygen reach the bottom of my lungs – at the exact moment our son ceased to struggle due to the vapors coming at him from a crazy machine. He made the whole room relax.
And then he was gone. Back to the children that needed him. He hugged my husband and me, patted our son on the back, and left.
We spent a few more hours at the hospital, and we never laid eyes on Scott again that night. We went home and slept well. Our son never had another episode in infanthood. Or ever.
Lucky us. For having friends who know exactly when they are needed, and for having a son who knows to just have his croup “spasmodically” and not every day.
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