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So, the story goes like this:  20+ years ago my five year old son fell and hit his head on the toilet or on the bathroom sink. We never quite knew which. After being in the bathroom for far longer than he should have, we finally checked on him. He was unconscious, actually turned a little blueish. Eyes rolled back. Not a great sight and I was 32 at the time, a young mother.

Chicken Running Around

My husband, (my THEN husband) ran around the house wondering what we should do. He even went outside going door to door to find someone who could help. Anyone in their right mind thinks to call 9-1-1. But in that brief moment or two you aren’t thinking about calling 9-1-1, you’re thinking about how helpless you are as a parent. You can’t even grip the thought that you may actually lose your child.

As I was standing halfway up the stairs a low, but very clear male voice whispered in my ear, “Call 9-1-1.” I can’t make this crap up.

I called 9-1-1. The operator told me what to do, to keep talking to my son because he could hear me. He had hit his head and had a seizure, and another in the ambulance. The EMT’s kept yelling his name but he never responded.

I remember the ambulance driver telling me that they were taking my son to the best pediatric neuro hospital in the area, and not to worry. I spoke only once and said, “I know you are trying to help me feel better, but honestly, God will take care of him.”

And now he’s in law school.

(For the record, my son never heard a word I was saying when the 9-1-1 operator told me to keep talking to him because he could hear me.)

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