It was 12:32 AM. I was over at Mike and Meryn’s house having fun late into the night, talking about cosmetic surgeries, overly disturbing movies that never should have been made, and the oddities that sometimes are our kids.
It’s an almost weekly ritual.
What’s not a weekly ritual is my phone ringing at such a late hour. When that happens, you can almost bank on something being wrong, somewhere. This night was no different. My pocket started buzzing and before I even pulled it out, I somehow knew that it was Noah’s mom and that something was wrong with our little guy.
Sure enough, Andrea’s name blared across the caller ID, and I immediately bolted from the room to see what was wrong.
Noah had been suffering from a nasty chest cold, and had been fighting off the virus for nearly two weeks. Things seemed to be getting better. At least until I got the phone call. The first words out of Andrea’s mouth were “we’re taking Noah to the emergency room.”
In my head I started thinking about my little boy on the brink of death. My adrenaline started racing. I started strapping on my shoes before she could even tell me what was wrong.
He had been coughing and couldn’t stop and then his nose started bleeding. Unable to contain it, they had already left their house and were headed to the hospital.
I left Mike and Meryn in a cloud of dust, and went triple the speed limit to the hospital which was only 18 minutes away though it seemed more like an hour.
I burst through the doors like a soccer mom on steroids, and I said “my little boy is already here! Where is he?!”
The front desk lady pointed me into a check-in room just around the corner, and when I walked in, this is what I saw.
That’s Chappy. Noah’s step-dad. Holding my kid.