Q's first seizure

WARNING: Scary words. You may want to reconsider reading this.

By far the scariest moment of my life was the day of Q's first seizure. I thought he was dying. Having a child choke has always been one of my worst fear. For a few moments I actually thought Q was choking to death. I'm normally the type of person who can find the entertaining lining to any dark cloud. It's rare that you'll see me without a smile on my face and laughter ready to burble forth, but this was so intense that I found myself telling the story to everyone, as if I were trying to diffuse the emotions by theraputic repetition.

Q and I had been home alone for the weekend and we'd reached Sunday afternoon. My wife and the other two kids were on the road back from out of town. Q and I had gone swimming in the afternoon and he had jumped off the high platform dive for most of our visit. On our way home we were discussing dinner and the fun we'd had at the pool when we almost crashed into another car. The other driver had drifted into the center turn lane as if he were unsure of where he wanted to go, then suddenly swerved into a right turn across two lanes of road empty of cars except mine. Q and I had both been thrown forward against our seatbelts, but I had managed to stop without smashing into the passenger side of his car. I guess you never know when something unexpected is going to swerve into your path.

Home, we'd eaten pizza for dinner and then started playing Uno. Q was chewing gum… a special treat. He says that he threw away the gum during our Uno game, but I don't remember that.

As we played, I called out the cards I'd play (as always when playing with kids) and chattered to Q. In a moment of nice rhythm -- Q's card, my card, Q's card, my card -- there was a pause. Q's card was taking a long time, so I looked over at him. Q's eyes were closed and his head was falling backwards against the chair. For a moment I thought he was thinking or playing, but his head kept going backwards… painfully backwards. Then I thought of the gum.

My aunt once had a child get his airway blocked by a small piece of plastic. She had jammed her fingers nearly down his throat, and was able to slide the plastic out of the way. This was my first thought as I pictured Q's gum. I swept my fingers through his mouth twice, not finding anything. So I reached as far back in Q's mouth as I dared… still nothing. I was alone with Q and he was choking. Someone had to call 911, someone had to try to get the gum out of Q's throat, and someone had to panic. These were the necessary roles, and I was the only one there to handle them. I combined all three as best I could, flipping Q over (holding the 60+ pound boy in one arm, semi-upside-down) so I could pound on his back and try to knock the gum loose while running to the nearest phone and shouting and then shrieking Q's name and semi-coherent interjectionary prayers.

In the family room, I put him down. His face was blue. He was so very blue and he wasn't breathing. My mind was counting seconds, trying to decide when brain damage started. The gum had to come out! Help had to be called! I pulled Q's limp body to a sitting position and tried to force the steps for the Heimlich Manuever past the panic. I tried once lightly, then a second time with some force. At some point Q threw up a little… maybe it was then. I laid him back down. More blue! Not breathing! I scrabbled for the phone, thinking Q was dying. "How can this be happening when I'm right here?!?" I looked at Q so still and blue and for a moment I thought it was too late. I thought he was dead. I saw myself having to tell people what happened. I saw things Q would never experience. I hurt.

I think the death of your own child has got to be like a black hole, swallowing huge chunks of yourself: your image of your life and your future. I looked into that hole for a few seconds -- no more -- and that feeling of helplessness and despair still resurfaces at times.

911 answered. Panic erased the first things we said. I remember screaming at the operator "My son is dying!" and hearing "Sir, you have to calm down if I'm going to help you. What is your address?" I spat it out unintelligibly fast. Another plea for calm thought. "I'm not helping!" I remember thinking, "Q is dying and I'm making it worse." I shut down my emotions and answered everything briskly. "Help is on the way," the operator said, "Now I need you to…" I tilted Q's head back to open the airway. I tried to check his mouth for obstructions, but Q bit my finger. HARD. I tried a second time. He was going to bit my finger off if I let him. "I can't!" I said. Then I realized Q was moaning. He was dying and moaning. Then I realized that if he was moaning, air was coming out. "He's moaning! He's breathing!!" I shouted. I started stroking Q's forehead to let him know I was right next to him. And I heard that the paramedics were getting close.

Suddenly I realized I was home alone with the front door bolted shut. "I have to unlock the door," I told the 911 operator. "I want you to stay your son," the operator said, "Can't someone else unlock the door." "I'm home alone." "Go quickly, but safely." I unlocked and opened the front door, then came right back. Q was still breathing.

Boe, our dog, usually barks when anyone comes near our house, but he was silent when the paramedics and police knocked on the door. He let them come in without a sound. I started telling my story and Q's eyes opened. He was alert for a second, then gone again. The paramedics said it didn't seem like choking. They said we needed to go to the emergency room. One of them carried Q out. Boe tried to follow. I locked him in his crate, grabbed my wallet, and left. From the ambulance I saw a police officer talking to neighbors, then I concentrated on Q.

Q had moments of being alert. He'd say he was okay (Q's the boy who'll tell us he's okay while he's still falling), but then his eyes would roll back and he'd be gone again. The paramedic gave Q an IV connection and Q cried, but silently, as if it hurt but he was too exhausted to care how much. I babbled to Q, to the paramedic, maybe even to myself. Q surprised the paramedic by throwing up what looked like everything he'd eaten all day and then we were at the hospital.

Q was wheeled into the ER. I answered questions and signed papers. Q was subdued but fully alert. A doctor said "probably a seizure." I thought of calling my wife, but she was still a two-hour drive away. I decided to wait. I sat and held Q's warm, living foot… his whole warm leg. He was alive again and I hated every moment that I wasn't touching him. Q said he was tired. I moved to a different chair and stroked his cheek, held his hand. He fell asleep. More hospital people asked questions, saw my shining eyes. "Is he okay?" "I thought he was dying." They didn't stay long.

I waited until I thought my wife was about 30 minutes out of town, in case she was driving fast. I didn't want her to get home and worry, but I didn't want her to have to drive worried either. "Where are you?" I asked. About where I expected. "First, Q is fine... We're in the emergency room..."

There were things I would have done different if I'd had a rehearsal for Q's seizure, but I never saw it coming. I would have checked his breathing more thoroughly. Maybe he was breathing shallowly the whole time and I missed it. I think I would have been more calm if someone else had been there to panic, but I'm glad that no one else has to have memories of when they thought Q was dead. I am so thankful that the other two kids weren't there to hear my shrieks and pleas so that they can still believe, for a while yet, that there are no situations I can't handle.

Some people seemed concerned about the epilepsy diagnosis, but I told them that didn't bother me at all. "I thought my son was dead. I don't care what he has. Q is alive."

I tried to keep Q from knowing the worst details of his first seizure. He remembers playing cards and then being in the ambulance, nothing in between. Even the ambulance trip is fuzzy for him. But he must have heard me saying that I thought he had died because the next day when I got home from work he came into the garage, smiled at me, and asked, "Daddy, are you happy I'm not dead?" "More than you can imagine," I said, holding myself together until he went back into the house