Breathing Lessons

He's fine, he's fine, he's fine.

Deep inhale ...


and out.

Repeat. Repeat. I'm trying to breath again.

The doctors, paramedics and medical journals all agree: the type of febrile seizure Owen suffered last Friday night - brought on by the one-two punch of a fluctuating temperature and his first ever stomach virus - is relatively commonplace and should have absolutely no lasting ill effects on his health or mental capacity. In other words, a rather benign occurrence in ER land.

Not so much in this mother's heart.

It was, in fact, the single most terrifying thing I have ever experienced. Seeing my baby boy's arms and legs fling out from his body and go stiff; hearing the fear in Cearra's voice and the just-this-side-of-controlled panic in Bob's as they call 911 and our friend/neighbor/doctor. Holding him as his eyes looked at nothing and his lips and fingernails turned faintly blue. Begging God for mercy.

He's fine, he's fine, he's fine.

We got home very early Saturday morning and camped out on the big brown couch for most of the next 24 hours. Slept there, the four of us, both nights. It felt necessary to be all together.

Slowly, we all start to exhale. We still watch Owen with hawk eyes (and I know I will for a long, long time), take his temperature every hour, resist the urge to fill his sippy cup with Tylenol.

Owen is fine - and loving the attention and his new Sponge Bob balloon. I'm reminded of the parents who live with seizures and illnesses and fear all the time. My heart aches for them. I think of parents who face even worse. My heart shatters for them. I respect my brother and sister-in-law even more - if that's possible - for the strength and faith they show everyday with Hannah.

So, not a week later, Owen is happy and active and back to gymnastics and Play-doh and laughter. Bob, Cearra and I? Well, we're still healing, but we'll be OK with time. We just keep taking deep breaths.