WARNING: This might be a painful read for some of you. I decided to post my “happy” post first today, as I am really doing okay. Today, however, is a difficult anniversary, even though it has been several years since the death. A mother never forgets. Pain is part of life, and we can grow in spite of it. This is the yet-to-be-completed (part 1) story of my son’s sudden death. While it is a sad story, it will end with hope and inspiration. Promise.

An Anniversary Never to be Forgotten

Today is the anniversary of my three-year-old son Jeffrey’s death. So unexpected. So harsh. Gut-wrenching. Nobody ever dares think too much about the “death-thief” coming to rob you of such a precious and perfect gift. Jeffrey was a precocious child with a keen sense of humor. And he was a good little boy. Precocious but so well-behaved.

It was a quick decision when he chose his favorite Christmas book, “Christmas in Many Lands,” as his bedtime story.  He liked to pretend he could read every word of that book, but it was all from memory of having it read to him countless times. Every night, he had gotten stuck on one word – pinata, and would look to me somewhat reluctantly to offer a hint for the word. This last night, the last time we would ever share this book, was different. When he turned to the page showing Mexican children trying to hit a pinata tied from a tree branch, Jeffrey said, “Shhh, don’t tell me.  Don’t tell me, Mommy.  Ummmm. Pinata! Mommy! Pinata!”  We laughed, clapped, and hooted.  Jeffrey squealed, “Mommy, I got that word, Mommy, I got that word!” I responded to him, saying, “Yes, Sweet Little Boy, you got that word. I am so proud of you.” We then said his nightly prayers, the same prayers we said every night……”Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” A musical bluebird hung in his crib, I pulled the string, and it played the music for that prayer. I always liked that prayer. I always liked the music. Until remembering it the next day.

Mothers learn the meanings behind the cries of a child. Instinct. Intuition. Whatever, they just know. I was watching an Agatha Christy movie when I heard a cry coming from Jeffrey. I had never heard this cry before, not from him, not from any child. It was a moaning, aching kind of cry. I was upstairs to his bedside within five seconds of his first moan, now forever etched in my memory like a pitchfork to my gut. I watched for only a few moments as he held his head and rolled back and forth in his crib.

Carefully, I picked him up, speaking calmly to him. I walked down the stairs with this sweetest toddler wrapped in his favorite blanket and sat on my sofa, softly whispering to him and kissing his forehead. Suddenly, he began to violently vomit the pumpkin ice cream he’d had at Dairy Dan’s a few hours before. As a nursing student, I tried to tell myself he was sick from the ice cream; it just didn’t agree with him. He’d be fine now that the ice cream was out of his belly.  When the vomiting subsided, he was lifeless in my arms. Putting him under the bright light of a nearby lamp, I pulled up first his left eyelid and then the right. His pupils were dilated and sluggish. A horrible sign. A very horrible sign.

Placing Jeffrey on the sofa, I dialed 911.  I then called the number for his pediatrician, with whom I had a great relationship.  The answering service picked up, saying Dr. Jones was not on call, but Dr. Hill would return my call. I was frantic, impatient, and emphatic, “No, I will wait on the line while you patch me through to the home of Dr. Jones. He will accept my call; I know he will.”  And he did. Dr. Jones knew me very well. He said he was getting dressed and would soon meet me in the ER of the community hospital.

Three paramedics arrived at my home. One acted like a complete asshole when I asked what Jeffrey’s heart rate and blood pressure were. He scoffed and snidely asked me what those numbers would mean to me anyway. I looked at him sternly and through clenched teeth said,  “I will tell you two things. One, this is not the time nor the place for debating my son’s status or my understanding of vital signs. Number two, I will deal with you and your superiors later. Just tend to my son, please!”

The two “silent” medics loaded Jeffrey into the rescue squad, and I jumped in right behind. We pulled away from the house with lights and sirens going. I looked at my nearly lifeless child lying on the stretcher. He was still wearing his Christmas jammies and wrapped in his favorite blue blanket, a blanket made by his great-aunt, who could have never imagined it would be the last blanket to cover him.

I was numb with disbelief during the fifteen-minute trip to the hospital. An ER doc and a nurse were waiting for Jeffrey; he was rushed down the hall for a CT scan. I waited frantically in an exam room, feeling nauseous and sweaty. Dr. Jones arrived within ten minutes. I had never seen his distorted facial expression before. He nervously greeted me then quickly left to find Jeffrey. It was not going to be a good night. And it indeed was not.

To be continued.

IdgjyAnne Rickard ***  December 2020