“Did you see a woman in this car, with two kids?” I point at our SUV.
There are three of them sitting on the benches, three kids. The one on the right answers.
“No, this was here when we got here.”
“Did you see a fire truck?”
“Oh. Yeah, we did.”
***
Fifteen minutes earlier, I’m on the phone in my office. One of our technicians is giving his update for the end of the day. My cell phone is buzzing.
It’s my wife.
I swipe to dismiss it, but immediately text her back. “I’m on the phone. Everything okay?”
She calls again.
“All right, man, I’ll catch you on Monday. Thank you.” I hang up the office line and pick up Meagan on my cell.
“Hello?”
Meagan’s crying on the other line, and speaking faster than I can understand.
“Marshall… Marshall, he’s seizing again. It’s been over three minutes. I didn’t call the ambulance. I’m up at the school. I don’t know what to do.”
“How long’s it been?”
“Three minutes, Marshall.”
“And you did or you did not call 911?”
“Did not. Should I call them?”
“Yes. Call 911. I’ll call you back.”
I know as soon as I say it that it’s a bad idea. How will I know when she’s off the phone? Shouldn’t she be the one to call me back? I’m not going to waste six seconds figuring it out. I hang up and stand up from my desk.
“How’s your son?” One of my technicians has been hovering around my office the whole time, even before Meagan called. I asked him to come back to the office to get with him before he went home. He made a special trip to the office instead of just heading home. He must have heard about earlier from one of the other techs.
“Not good.” I’m walking out of my office. “Can I… can I get you in the conference room?”
“Yes, no problem.”
“Thanks.”
I walk into Shaun’s office. There are three other people in the room, one taking care of taxes with him, the others asking questions.
“Shaun…”
“Is it time?”
“He’s in the conference room, but I have to go.”
He pauses for a beat, searching my eyes. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll get him in the morning.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
I’m back in the conference room doorway.
“I’m sorry. I have to go. Can I get with you in the morning?”
“Yes, of course.”
And with that, I’m out the door.
I’m parked at the end of the row of suites, like usual. It’s a good 15 seconds to my car at this pace. I pull out my phone.
“Powering down…” it says.
I want to throw it across the parking lot.
***
It was just before 10:00am when Meagan called me the first time today. I was sitting at my desk then too. I’d say she has less than a 50% chance that I’ll answer the phone for her. I’m usually either on the phone with someone else or in a meeting. I was free this time and answered after just two buzzes.
“Marshall, I’m scared.”
Of all the times I do actually answer, this isn’t her typical sentence.
“Lachlan is just staring. He’s not responding. I think he’s about to have a seizure.”
“What’s he doing?”
“I mean, his eyes are open. He’s just looking at me. Can you come home?”
It’s just Eric at the office with me.
“Hang on. Do not hang up.”
I put her on hold and walked over to Eric’s office, poking my head in the door. “I’m going to step out for a bit. You okay here?”
“Yeah, go head.”
I pulled Meagan off mute as I walked out the front door.
“How’s he doing? Is he breathing? What’s going on with him now?”
***
Back in September when I wasn’t writing here, Lachlan had a seizure at his cousin’s birthday party. The night was winding down, and he was getting tired. He hadn’t had a good nap all day. I was holding him.
All of a sudden, he bucked out of my arms, like a scuba diver flipping backward out of a boat or like my brother used to do skydiving off my shoulders. I managed to keep a grip on him and pulled him back upright.
“Lachlan, what are you doing?” He wasn’t quite a year old then. He hadn’t started throwing temper tantrums yet.
I looked in his eyes but didn’t recognize them. They’d rolled back in his head, his bottom lip shaking, quivering. He was almost sucking on it. His arms felt unnatural.
“Guys… guys, something’s wrong with Lachlan.”
Everyone crowded around.
“Oh… he’s, he’s having a seizure,” someone said.
“What do I do?”
“Just hold him.”
Poppy walked over and put his pinky in his mouth, trying to make sure he wasn’t gnawing on his tongue, trying to make sure he was breathing.
Lachlan’s color went white pretty fast.
“I’m calling 911,” Momma said. “We’re not messing around.”
His color moved past white into that faint blue that’ll make any dad sick. I pulled Lachlan close to my chest and closed my eyes.
Please, God, keep him. There’s nothing else I know to do.
***
The fire department showed up first. By then, Lachlan had stopped shaking. He had wanted to nod off to sleep. I didn’t know what that meant. I wanted him to stay awake. Don’t you feel sleepy when you’re suffocating?
By the time the fire department came in the door, Lachlan was crying because I didn’t want him to sleep.
“Ah, that’s music to my ears,” the first one said.
Around the couch, they asked a bunch of questions. The ambulance showed up next, and they asked a bunch of the same questions, the firemen answering some of them for us.
They said we ought to take him to the hospital to check him out. They said we ought to let the ambulance take him.
So, that’s how I got my first ride in an ambulance. We brought the car seat for Lachlan. The sirens stayed off. They asked us which hospital we wanted to go to. “Brownsboro, if possible,” we said.
At the hospital, we learned about febrile seizures. “About 5% of kids have them,” the doctor said, “So about one in every class. Usually, it occurs when they’re a little older than he is. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll have more. Many children have them once, and that’s it.”
They sent us home that night and told us to bring him back if he had another one within 24 hours or if it lasted a long time.
“How long is long?”
“Anything longer than three minutes, you’ll want to bring him back,” they said. “Otherwise, he’ll be okay. And I know it’s hard. When it’s happening, those three minutes can feel like an eternity.”
***
“How’s he doing? Is he breathing? What’s going on with him now?”
I’d all but forgotten about Lachlan’s seizure four months ago. This morning, I’d even helped Meagan give him some Tylenol for his temperature. I hadn’t even thought about him having another seizure because of his fever.
“I don’t know, Marshall. He’s shaking.”
I started the car and noted the position of the second hand on my watch.
“I’m on my way. Keep me on the phone.”
She gave me moment by moment updates on him as I sped home. I had her on the phone, so I knew he was still breathing. About halfway home, I heard short cries for help.
“Is that him, crying?”
“Yes.”
Music to my ears.
By the time I made it home, he was alert. He was still shaking, still grabbing for Meagan’s lips, still cradled in her arms the way he’d never normally let us hold him. But he was responding.
Ten more minutes, and our heart beats started to calm down. Meagan called our pediatrician to see if we could bring him in for a check up. I changed his diaper.
The pediatrician brought him in, after confirming that he was currently breathing, that he wasn’t still having a seizure.
“It was probably a perfect storm of him being a little sick plus the shots he got yesterday,” she said. He’d been in for his 15-month checkup yesterday. “His fever probably spiked, and that’s what caused the seizure. Keep alternating between Tylenol and Motrin.”
“What if he has another seizure?”
“If he has another one within 24 hours, you need to bring him to the ER. Or if it lasts longer than three minutes.” She listened to his little heart. “I think he’s going to be just fine.”
***
It’s been less than 24 hours. This seizure – his third one now – has lasted longer than three minutes. Call 911.
I’m glad I made that call. I hadn’t even thought about the 24-hour period. I just heard three minutes and knew I was at least seven minutes away, too far away to help. I’m so glad I had her call 911.
No second chances now that my phone is dead.
Earlier today, I had her on the phone while I made this drive. This time, it’s just me, both hands on the wheel, and 4 o’clock traffic.
I run every red light I can. I pull through the gas station parking lot to avoid the line for the right turn onto Shelbyville Road. I drive down the center lane, the one you’re supposed to use to make a left-hand turn across traffic. All this, and I’m still stuck in traffic.
I see lights flashing in front of me. Faintly, I can hear the siren. The fire department is just up ahead on my left. The fire truck and corresponding lights and sirens are causing traffic that’s slowing me down. But they’re ahead of me. And they’ll know what to do.
As I finally, finally make it up to the left turn that takes me down the road for the school, I realize I made a mistake. This is Gage’s elementary school. He’s not in elementary school anymore. When Meagan said she was at the school, I immediately pictured her in the car-rider line. And she was only in the car-rider line at Gage’s elementary school.
But Meagan wasn’t at school to pick him up that way. Not today. Gage had an after-school program. That’s why she was picking him up.
I yank a frustrated U-turn that thankfully doesn’t get anyone killed.
***
I pull into the parking lot.
I see our SUV.
I don’t see Meagan.
I don’t see our babies.
I don’t see any fire trucks or ambulances or anyone scurrying around the way I thought I would.
There’s a police car parked in the parking lot, no one in the driver seat.
I get out and confirm no one is in our vehicle.
Three kids are sitting on benches looking on.
“Did you see a woman in this car, with two kids?”
“No, this was here when we got here.”
“Did you see a fire truck?”
“Oh. Yeah, we did.”
I turn back toward my car, and then.
“Do any of you have a phone I could borrow?”
One does, eagerly handing me his.
And two things hit me, back to back, hard enough that I almost drop his phone.
- The last blog post I wrote was about remembering phone numbers by the shapes they make. Problem is, I never dial Meagan’s. I just touch her picture on my cell, and it calls her. I never dial Meagan, so I don’t know the shape. I just wrote about this, and I don’t know the shape. The one number I need, and I don’t know the shape.
- The blog post right before that, the one from two days ago, was about the three saddest words ever said: my son died.
