Instant Replay
Deana Graham
You are never prepared for a heart stopping crisis. They come at the most ordinary times.
My son was 14, the age where boys seek challenges and moms fear for their safety. He had made plans to go skiing with family friends early that Saturday morning. They were headed three hours away, to
I threw on my clothes and headed towards the opposite end of the house, to make sure Scott had actually gotten up. I met him in the family room; he looked exhausted. He was dressed in layers, ready for the mountain, but appeared groggy. I handed him some O.J. and when he took a sip he noted it tasted bad. I thought that strange, it tasted fine to me. That comment would come back to me later. He stood for a moment, zombie-like, telling me how little sleep he had gotten and how tired he was before he headed back to the bedroom to get his wallet.
My mind has repeated the scene a hundred times since that dark January morning. For weeks it was as if a dvd was stuck on replay in some inner projection room of my mind.
As Scott reaches for the handle of the hall door, he pauses momentarily, as if he has just thought of something he wants to say. In that split second I notice the pause and wonder why he lingers. Now the scene slows down excruciatingly and time seems to stop. Scott begins to fall backward, not like he has tripped or fainted, but stiff, like a tree felled at its base. In that split second before he hits the floor, my mind goes from unbelieving denial to cold acknowledgment that something is dreadfully wrong. It happens so fast I donít catch him, although I am less than 10 feet away. I rush to his side and instantly realize he is having a seizure. How I know this I do not know, as I have never seen a seizure before. Somewhere, in a little used file in my brain, a first aid manualís definition is instantly recalled.
ìStay calm,î I tell myself. ìKeep him from hurting himself and speak calmly to him. It will end, Iím sure it will end.î
My mind is a buzz, my heart is racing. I tell myself, ìWeíll get through this.î And then, he stops breathing. His face is almost instantly the most terrifying shade of gray I have ever seen. All pretense of calm disappears when I realize I canít fix this. I try to give him air and realize his jaw is locked and there are strange sounds coming from his throat. I race to the bedroom and scream at my husband, telling him to call 911; that Scott is having a seizure and isnít breathing. As he awakens, he instantly leaps out of bed, looking for the phone.
I race back to Scottís side, praying and pleading with God for his life. His young body is stiff; his eyes rolled back, his arms twitching. I notice his clenched hands and hear again the awful gurgling sound in his throat. I yell to my husband to hurry as I put my hand on his chest and feel no movement. As he comes around the corner on his second circuit through the house he frantically answers that he canít find the handset. I leave him with our unconscious son and run to call from the base unit. The 911 operator answers quickly and I give the first details without pause, clear and crisp, knowing my communication has never been more vital.
ìMy son is having a seizure and is not breathing. We live at 31150 Lanes Turn Road. You need to send an ambulance NOW.î
She asks for details that mean nothing to me and I reply, ìYou need to send an ambulance now-we live 7 minutes from the nearest fire station!î
I donít recognize my own voice. I have never been so demanding, so rudely assertive.
She asks me if he is breathing yet and I frantically shout the question to my husband, three rooms away. Heís not sure but doesnít think so. How much time has elapsed? One minute? More than one minute. The first aid file in my brains opens again. How long can one survive without air? At what point is brain damage incurred?
ìYou need to send an ambulance NOW!î I repeat in a hoarse, strangely uncivilized voice.
She finally lets me know that. indeed, an ambulance has already been sent. In response to yet another query, my husband finally calls out in a strained voice that he thinks Scott is breathing. Leaving the operator stranded, I race back to see the color slowly returning to our sonís face. Minutes later his eyes open, unseeing, without the spirit of their owner behind them. But heís breathing! My husband begins asking Scott questions.
ìScott, can you squeeze my hand?î he queries anxiously, ìScott, say my name.î
Slowly, as if heís in a dream, Scott responds. But quickly he falls asleep. The first aid file reminds me this is normal behavior following a seizure, as if anything is normal now.
The first level of crisis is over, but as we anxiously wait for the paramedics, my mind, freshly released from complete terror, interrogates me with a new set of questions. Will he be o.k? Why has this happened? What caused it? Could it beÖ..the possibility of a brain tumor, so near and personal after the death of my sister to just such an intruder two months earlier, casts a shadow, large and monstrous over all other thoughts.
The paramedics arrive a few minutes later and Scott wakes up.
ìHey, Dan howís it going?î he says as a paramedic friend enters his line of vision. The next few minutes are fuzzy and filled with static and words like post- ictil, clonic, tonic and grand mal tossed carelessly past my numbed mind. But as we head out the door toward the waiting ambulance, I experience a quick flicker of humor that feels almost normal when my boy states firmly from his position on the stretcher,
ìI hope I wonít be late for my ski trip!î