Letting Go

My son's frightening seizures taught me that he belongs to God

Around 9:00 that evening in January, I heard a noise I had never heard before. I looked up from the book I was reading, and I listened again.

What in the world is that?

The muted, gurgling sound came from my baby's room. I hurried to the other end of our apartment and rushed across the room to Ryan's crib. Ryan did not respond to my voice as his body jerked uncontrollably against his mattress. His face was a sickly white. His eyes rolled backward into his head, which cocked unnaturally to one side. I had no idea what was happening to my baby.

Crying out for Help

My husband was at work and would not be home until after 1:00 a.m. I had no car. I didn't know what to do.

"God, help me!" I cried out as I scooped up Ryan.

After an instant, which seemed an eternity, I knew what I needed to do. I ran to the apartment next door. I kicked at their door with all my might.

Gary opened the door and looked first at me, then down at Ryan's writhing body. A look of shock crossed Gary's face, and he took a step backward. "Is that your boy?"

Shel pushed past Gary, snatched Ryan from my arms, and ran down the hall. As she headed to the bathroom, with Ryan clutched to her chest, Shel hollered back to Gary, "Call an ambulance! Now!"

I was numb. Gary's question hurt. It reinforced how distorted my baby really looked. He no longer looked like my son. I felt completely helpless and out of control of Ryan's fragile life. Please, God. Help. I followed Shel into the bathroom as she filled the tub with lukewarm water. "Help me get these clothes off him."

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