First Responders

Continued from Previous Post… What Are The Odds?

 

September 8, 2017

“Nana, Nana!”  shouted three-year-old Dominic as he ran out the front door to greet me. I heard his shouts before I even got out of the car. While sitting in Alyssa’s driveway, I quickly texted my husband, Richard, to let him know I had arrived safely. He texted back, “How is Alyssa feeling?”

I had already planned to be in Oklahoma for the weekend to celebrate Christian’s one-year-old birthday. Because Alyssa had been sick for most of the week, the party had been canceled. She felt terrible, plus, they assumed from the ER doctor’s assessment, that she was contagious. Richard and I were both concerned, so we decided it would be good for me to go help Andre with Alyssa and the boys. As I exited the car, I knelt down and Dominic jumped into my embrace monkey-style, little boy arms clutching tightly around my neck, legs encircling my waist. Andre, with Christian balanced on his hip, stood framed in the doorway, his usual happy countenance appearing weary and preoccupied. I rose, grasping Dominic’s hand, while taking in Andre’s strained expression. After a brief, “Hi, Nana,” he handed me Christian and headed toward the bedroom to be with Alyssa.

My heart immediately went out to Andre and the boys as I viewed the chaos of the living room and kitchen. Trains, various sizes of brightly colored balls and stuffed animals were scattered across the floor. Sofa cushions, wet and drying, were leaning like miniature, A-framed tents against the back of the brown sofa. Alyssa had tried to spend some time in the living room with the boys, but had gotten sick- again. Dishes were stacked near the sink, crumbs lay across the counter. None of this is unusual when you are caring for preschoolers, but there was just something about that abandoned sofa and Andre’s weary countenance that filled my heart with dread.

The boys were so excited to see me, and I them. But I was also very anxious to check on Alyssa. After engaging with them for a few minutes, I entered the master bedroom. The room was quiet, the blinds were closed and the curtains were drawn. Alyssa, dressed in her rust colored camisole, lay on her side facing the doorway, with her eyes closed, long hair lying forgotten on her pillow. Her right arm was exposed, an ivory line across the patterned covers, the other arm tucked away. I leaned across the bed, “Hi Babe, it’s Momma,” I said gently. She opened her hazel eyes and looked directly into my blue ones. “I’m so sorry you’re sick.” She smiled weakly in reply and stroked my outstretched arm. Then she closed her eyes, still smiling, but without saying a word. “I love you sweetheart, I’ll be right here if you need me.” Still she did not speak. Inside my spirit I felt her saying, “I love you, Momma. I’m relieved you’re here.”

Perhaps strange to some, this greeting would not be completely inconsistent with Alyssa’s personality. I watched her go through labor and natural childbirth with her firstborn. She kept the birthing room lights as low as possible and she and Andre spoke in feathered whispers throughout the long day. But even as quiet as Alyssa is, and even as much as she needed to rest, something just seemed off.

As Andre reentered the bedroom, I double-checked with him concerning the medications she had been given. It had been an incredibly stressful time and I knew they were all exhausted. Was there any possibility she had accidentally taken too much of the anti-nausea medicine the ER doctor had prescribed? No, he knew the exact dose he had given her and at what time. She was not overmedicated.

I stepped back into the small kitchen. Even the boys sat subdued, eating a snack at the kitchen table. I quickly called her dad, an ophthalmologist, to give him an update. “No,” he insisted, “She should not be that lethargic on an anti-nausea medication.” I could tell from the tone of his voice he was very worried. I asked him if I should call Papa Fred, his father, a retired general practitioner. “Yes, call Dad. I’m on my way.” 

The master bedroom is right off the living room and kitchen. While I spoke on the phone, I kept one eye on the boys and frequently peeked around the corner into Alyssa’s bedroom. She had changed position in the bed and was facing the window. Andre was by her side, continuing to whisper, urging Alyssa to take small sips of water and bites of banana.

I made a quick phone call to Papa Fred. He sounded grave and agreed with Richard’s assessment. Two very calm physicians were very worried. Her dad was making a six hour trip to be here. The sense of dread I felt earlier was justified. Andre and I would have to make a decision. Who was taking her back to the emergency room?

As I headed toward their bedroom, Andre was coming out to get me. He motioned for me to follow him. Alyssa was now turned back toward the door. Her head was at an odd angle and her mouth was partially open. Her eyes were closed. I said her name. No response. I leaned in close to her face and said her name loudly. No response. She was unconscious. I immediately called 911 on my cell phone and asked Andre to take her pulse. In my mind I kept thinking, 2 + 2 = 4, 2 + 2 = 4. That’s how I remember their house number. 224 ——– Drive. 

Andre said her heart rate was 45. “Oh God, help us,” I prayed silently.

The 911 dispatcher said to keep Alyssa still, unless she vomited and then to turn her on her side. They instructed me to unlock the front door and to call back if her condition worsened. Worsened??? They assured me help was on the way.

I immediately unlocked the door and in seconds had cleared a path the short distance from the front door to the master bedroom. Then I remembered Ramsey, their cat. That’s all we needed was a cat underfoot or lost. Fortunately he was close by, but tried to skitter away from me as I approached. I unceremoniously grabbed him and tossed him in the laundry room and closed the door while I nervously and enthusiastically said, “Dominic, go stand in front of the window and watch for an ambulance and fire truck. They are coming to help Mommy.”

He replied, “They’re already here.”

I was shocked to look up and see an ambulance parked in front of the house. The relief I felt was physical. I pulled the front door completely open and walked out onto the porch. Yes, they were coming to the right house. While picking up Christian from his high chair, a dozen thoughts played kickball in my mind.  How did they get here so fast? Thank God they are here. Should I call Richard back right now or later? No, I’ll wait, the boys are my first priority.  So with Christian in my arms, and Dominic safely by my side, we stepped into the hall, moving out of the way as the medics entered. My heart was racing, but no matter what Andre and I were feeling internally, we remained calm outwardly. In the middle of a crisis and especially when you have small boys present, it is what you do.

I tried to keep the boys occupied while the medics were with Alyssa, but my anxious emotions and desire to be with her made it difficult. I peeked into her room once, but stayed outside the door. Even though I desperately wanted to know what was going on with Alyssa, I knew that was not the best place for the boys, so I herded them back toward their room. In the small space, I heard them firmly calling her name and her moaning in response. Understandably the boys were disconcerted and Dominic wanted his Mommy. It was a warm, sunny September afternoon and a good time to take the boys outside to see the ambulance and firetruck. Thank goodness all little boys seem to be fascinated with rescue vehicles. As we squinted in the sunshine, I began to feel a little calmer, realizing they were not rushing Alyssa to the ambulance. The boys perked up and enjoyed looking at the firetruck and ambulance. Dominic wanted to know if we could sit in the ambulance. Christian was just happy to be outside. After a few minutes we went back into Dominic’s room so they could play with their toys. I hoped I could hear what was happening in Alyssa’s room. 

After 30 minutes or so, they wheeled in a stretcher. The medics gave Alyssa firm instructions as they moved her from the bed to the gurney. I heard only soft moans and unintelligible sounds from Alyssa. I explained to Dominic they were taking Mommy to the hospital to help her feel better. He seemed satisfied with this explanation, knowing she had been to the hospital before, but now wanted his Daddy. I made the decision not to force the boys to stay in the bedroom, I felt that would do more harm than good, but we stayed out of the way. We watched as the stretcher moved slowly and deliberately around the tight corners. Andre lifted Dominic, comforting him quietly. I was again struck by how calmly the medics were doing their job. It was reassuring to all of us. There was no shouting, no running, no anxious faces. They carefully and methodically wheeled Alyssa through the living room and out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She immediately threw her arm over her face to cover her eyes. I was glad to see she responded to that stimulus.

I had no way of knowing that action was an indication of a neurological problem. I listened as the vehicles pulled away. There were no sirens. I assumed things would be OK. I did not realize I was basing my assessment of the situation on TV medical dramas, where everyone is running and shouting instructions back and forth and sirens are blaring. I had no way of knowing that earlier Alyssa’s heart rate had dropped into the 30s and that she had been within minutes of dying. I had no way of knowing the medics had saved her life. I had no way of knowing the dangers she was still facing.

Now I do know, and I am thankful there was an ambulance driving past the neighborhood that immediately responded to the dispatchers call and that the fire station was only a half-mile away. I’m thankful that even though the medics and firemen did not know exactly what was wrong with Alyssa, they followed their training protocol and did exactly what needed to be done.  We are one family that has been greatly impacted by their service. I will be forever grateful.

 

This post is Part 2 of the story of how our journey with cancer began.  Read the rest of the story here:

PART 1: WHAT ARE THE ODDS?
PART 2: FIRST RESPONDERS
PART 3: #GODLOVESHERBEST
PART 4: THE SOUND OF SILENCE
PART 5: KEEPING WATCH BY NIGHT
PART 6: WHEN WORDS MATTER MOST
Part 7: Don’t Worry, Daddy
Part 8: A Mother’s Prayer