Bobbing just under the surface of the water.
I still don’t know how he had the strength, but he was able to get his face just enough above water for me to see clearly that he was in distress. I could see his blue lips all the way from my pool chair.
Not too far from the edge of the pool…the edge of the pool where his floaties were lying…without him.
Ash white skin, lips blue. So blue.
His lips are so blue.
Oh my gosh his face has no color.
This can’t be good.
After I made sure he was ok, breathing, and would respond when I talked to him, we walk around the pool deck, making casual chit-chat with the moms.
I start asking him questions to see how well he would respond.
“Buddy, did you take your floaties off?”
“Baby, you can’t get in without mommy. That’s a no no, that’s a big no no.”
Scary? No kidding, bud. I hope that scared the pants off of you so you never take your floaties off again.
He’s so exhausted.
Is he going to barf? I really don’t want him to barf in his bed.
“Hello this is nurse so-and-so”. Tell her my story.
Um, no. Thanks, but no thanks.
Cha-ching, cha-ching! No thanks, not another ER bill, that’s REALLY the last thing I need.
He’s totally fine, just super tired is all.
The flood gates finally opened.
Once the words “near drowning” buzzed around the ER, everyone sprang into action. We became the most popular people in the place. Five people immediately burst into the room. Blood pressure checks. Listening to lungs. Listening again. Heart. Ears. Eyes. Question after question. Orange stuffed animal for you. Do you like to color? Here are some crayons. Blood pressure cuff. Finger light thingie that looks like ET’s finger.
Hustle, bustle, lots of concerns, lots of questions…all directed at me.
“How did this happen?”
“Where were you?”
“How did this happen?”
The same questions over and over, all with the same answer.
I wasn’t paying attention and he jumped into the pool without his floaties on and almost drown.
Naturally, I left out the “I wasn’t paying attention because I was on my phone” part.
The xray was horrific.
It took 4 of us to force him into this tiny machine that I can’t even explain, with a huge plastic cuff that goes all the way around his tiny body and squeezes him so tightly that his arms are pinned above his head and he can’t move, so they can xray his chest. He screamed with every fiber in his soul. They made us leave the room and stand in the hall, his screams and cries echoing off the stark walls. I was sobbing and couldn’t talk.
I posted my story on Facebook first thing when I got home and keep having to stop myself from checking my phone to see who all has commented on it.
I couldn’t sleep tonight until I wrote this post. I can’t deny the feeling that this experience did not happen on accident. I sobbed the entire way through writing this. It physically hurts to write down the details, and to admit that I was wrong and caused fear and harm into my little angel. Seeing it in a cold, hard font makes it real. No sugar-coating, no dancing around details, it is what it is.
I dread going to sleep tonight. Closing my eyes is the hardest thing, because behind my eyelids I get an instant flash of his body in the pool, his lips blue. So blue.
But writing helps. I’m facing the reality of the day, and – hopefully – doing some good in the meantime.
do we really need to take our phones to the bathroom with us? Check it first thing in the morning? The last thing at night? Have it with us while we’re outside playing with our kids? In church? At dinner? On a date?
I’m setting a goal to only check my social media only 2x per day, and the rest of the time it can wait.
Presence is a gift. I plan to give mine to others, and to enjoy every moment of my children’s gift to me.