The first time it happened, my son had just turned one.
I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night, my heart racing
and with an awful feeling of dread.
Somehow I just knew that my son's life was in danger.
As I flung open the door to his room, I found him sitting up,
blue in the face and chipping for air.
He obviously couldn't breathe properly and I could see that his
condition was serious. I scooped him up, threw on some clothes,
ran down to the car, fastened him in his car seat, and then took off
for the nearest hospital.
When we arrived at the emergency, my son's face was purple,
he was barely breathing and with his limp body in my arms
I just began yelling Help! at the top of my lungs.
Someone came (I can't remember who), my son was laid down on
gurney, an oxygen mask was placed over his face, and he was
whisked away behind flapping doors.
My arms were shaking, my heart furiously beating, and suddenly
I had a flashback of the time when my brother had been rushed to the
emergency, blue in the face and unable to breathe.
I sat down on one of the very uncomfortable plastic chairs in the
emergency room and began waiting.
Something very strange happens to time when one is anxiously
waiting in an emergency room. Somehow time seems to manage
to stand still, slow down and speed up simultaneously.
So.....all I can say is that time passed and that eventually a nurse
appeared and asked me to follow her.
I was taken to an operating room and on the table was
my little boy. Helplessly I watched as the doctor tried to
find a vein to insert a cannula in my son's tiny arm.
After a very long two hours, he was finally successful.
I was told to go and wait in the emergency room again,
still clueless as to what was wrong with my boy.
Eventually the doctor told me that my son had had a
severe asthma attack but that he was responding well to the
medication. When I was allowed to bring my boy home a week later,
I was given a bunch of pamphlets on what medication he was going
to need from then on, where to buy a ventilation machine, and how
to be able to read signs of an oncoming attack.
Suddenly, and without any warning, everything had changed.
From then on, once a month, in spite of all the medication,
my son would have to be rushed to the hospital.
What made it worse was that I was never allowed to stay
with him, hold him while they inserted needles and cannulas,
or when he was coughing and vomiting hours on end.
For a child just a bit over one years old, that must have been
absolutely terrifying.
I certainly was for me.
Fast forward six months.
We have moved to the UK in order for my spouse's elderly parents
to be able to spend some time with their grandson, but also
because we have been advised that the climate here could
potentially improve my son's condition.
But alas, only two weeks upon arriving in the UK, another
severe attack. Driving like a maniac, I drive to the nearest
hospital.
Entering the emergency a soft-spoken, gentle nurse, greets me.
She leads me to a a cosy chair, tells me that everything will
be taken care of and that the doctor will be with me pronto.
''You just keep holding on to your son and try to stay calm,
that's the ticket'', she tells me and then walks away.
Barely a minute later the doctor arrives, sits down on his
haunches next to my boy, gently strokes his hair and says:
''Let's make it easier for you to breathe son, shall we?''
In a few minutes the doctor has listened to my son's chest,
given him an injection of Prednisone, strapped a mask
with Ventolin vapor to his mouth, and then put
him in a bed in a softly lit room.
''Let's have a chat and a cup of tea, shall we'', he says
and with my son safely tucked up in bed, I follow him
as he gently ushers me out of the room.
For half an hour he talks to me about Asthma,
about a new kind of medication that may make
a big difference, about what to do and what not to,
about what foods may trigger an attack,
and also that as an asthma sufferer himself, he is
very familiar with the disease and anxieties that
full blown attacks can cause. In both the sufferer and
the loved ones.
For the first time since my son's diagnosis,
I can breathe a little.
''Can I sleep in the bed with my son, please doctor?''
''Of course you can, and don't worry, I will look in on you and
your son all through the night'', he says and then walks away.
I climb in next to my boy and gently hug him.
But I can't sleep. I am still too anxious.
In the corner of my eye I suddenly notice a woman with a child
in her arms sitting in the room across the hallway.
I get out of the bed carefully and walk across to the room.
''Hello.''
''Hello.''
''Do you mind if I sit down?''
''Please do.''
''I see that you child is hooked up on drips as well.
Is your child an asthmatic too?''
The woman remains silent for a minute, then
looks me straight in the eyes and says: ''No, my
son has leukemia. This is his forth time on a chemo drip.''
Once again, everything changed.
Well, at least my perspective.
Compared to leukemia, asthma(although a very serious illness)
seemed like a breeze.
We spent about two years in the UK but we only went back to
the hospital once, because with the help of new medication and
armed with a new understanding on how to best deal with asthma,
my son started to get better.
''I cried because I had no shoes,
then I met a man who had no feet.''
(Mahatma Gandhi)
about the image: acrylic on canvas
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