Again.

Olivia had a little cough on the 23rd. Nothing much, really. She ate and drank and played like normal while we celebrated Christmas with the Murrays that evening. During the night, the cough picked up and you could tell it was turning into a bark. Brian couldn't sleep after checking on her a few times, so he got up around 3:00 and got ready for work.

At around 5:00, she had a big coughing spell, so I ran into her room and got her out of her bed. You could tell she was distraught and struggling to get a good breath in. It was obvious that she had croup. I called Brian, who had just crossed the bridge into Hickory, and told him I thought we might should take her to the ER. She seemed to have gotten worse so suddenly.  He told me he would meet me at the ER, but I told him I didn't want to put her down (and she didn't want me to put her down), and I would need to get dressed, so he should just come to the house.

She was running a fever, so when Brian got home, he gave her a Tylenol suppository. You could tell she was miserable, but usually if we can get her fever down, she's much more comfortable. We decided to wait a while before determining if we should go to the ER, as she was starting to calm down and rest. We set up the humidifier next to the couch, and Brian held her in his lap while she slept. She coughed some, but she looked so peaceful. I remember thinking about getting out my camera and taking a picture of her because she was resting so well melted into her daddy's chest.

After a while, I took over and held her in my lap. She rested some more, but we also managed to get her to drink some tea. She usually won't drink anything when she's sick, but instead will just hold the sippy cup and won't let you take it away. So, we saw it as a good sign that she was drinking so well. She drained a sippy cup and part of another while I was holding her.

By around 7:00, her temperature had still not changed much, so Brian wanted to try and get some Motrin in her. But, it is such a struggle to get her to swallow oral meds, so he decided to go to the store and get some applesauce to mix with the Motrin. While he was gone, Olivia coughed some, but she didn't seem in distress. Suddenly, she vomited. Everywhere. We were both covered. I turned her over and let her finish on the blanket we had been covered with. I called Brian to tell him and he rushed back home. He was back within a couple of minutes and I told him I needed to jump in the shower to clean off the vomit, as my chest, arms, and legs were covered in it. He took over cleaning up Olivia and I went upstairs. Thinking back, I guess it took a minute or two to get the water warm, get undressed, and put my hair up. Right when I was completely lathered in soap, Brian came in the bathroom carrying Olivia. I couldn't see her face, but I could see the fear in his. He said, "We have to go the ER right now. Something's wrong."

I cursed the fact that I was completely covered in soap. I rinsed, rubbing the soap on my skin, begging it to wash off, and quit after three seconds. I turned off the water, jumped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, ran out of the bathroom, and just as I made it to the top of the stairs, I heard a horrific sound that is seared into my memory forever.

Brian screamed, "Donna!"  I can't explain the fear and agony I heard in that one word. I knew, even before I moved another muscle, took another breath, screamed back to him. I knew she wasn't breathing. His voice told me, in the way he screamed my name. She wasn't breathing.

I ran. There seemed to be a million steps between me and the living room. I was soaking wet. I have no idea at this point if I had the towel wrapped around me or not. What I remember is scrambling to get to the bottom of the steps, grabbing the stair rail post to help me turn left into the living room, my mind pleading my eyes to see what wrong while cursing my feet for not moving faster.

Then I saw them. She was lying on the floor, on her back. He was on his knees, sitting back on his heels, leaning over her.

She was blue.

She was so blue.

Her lips. Her face. They were so blue.

I screamed. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" I remember hearing Brian's voice, drenched in fear, say we need an ambulance while I was sprinting into the kitchen to find the phone. His voice was consumed with fear, but he was still so calm.  I remember running back into the living room, back into the kitchen, and back into the living room,  desperately trying to find the phone and screaming and sobbing the whole time. I finally realized that Brian had the phone in his hand and he was talking to the 911 operator. 

I watched him breath for her. She was lying there, blue. Completely still. Eyes glassy. And he was breathing for her. I remember bits and pieces of those moments, and many of them are tangled together. Me screaming, crying, listening to Brian tell the operator that he was giving her breaths. Me grabbing the phone so he could focus on breathing for her. Me listening to the 911 operator tell me that the ambulance was on the way. Olivia, lifeless. The moments are tangled together, but there is a picture-perfect image in my mind, completely in focus, saturated in color, of my child and her father, there on the floor. Her pajama pants down at her ankles, her wispy hair gathered on the floor, her eyes, open, but not focused. Her lips and face, blue. His body leaning over her face, his mouth on hers. The Christmas tree lights just two feet away, illuminating this nightmare.

I heard him say, "Come back." His voice was so calm. So strong. So fatherly. While I was standing there, wrapped in a towel, sobbing and screaming, thinking I was watching my daughter die before my eyes, he was perfect. He was begging her, with a quiet passion, pleading with her to come back. He said it a few times. "Come back, Olivia."

Was it a minute? Or a day? Time didn't make sense. The seconds were flying by, and each second that passed was death, screaming louder in my ear. Yet, time was agonizingly slow. Where was the ambulance? Oh, God. I ran out the front door a few steps. I was begging the ambulance to arrive. Oh, God. I ran back to the living room, shaking. Sobbing. Wondering where my God was and why He wasn't saving her.

Then, a miracle. I saw her tongue move just the tiniest bit. Brian, begging her to come back. Her eyes changed, ever so slightly. She moved. Was it just her mouth? It was barely a movement at all, but it was enough to tell us she was not gone. I remember her on her side, but thinking back, I know there is no way she was able to move on her own. So, Brian must have turned her. I was sobbing, hysterically. Still standing, pacing a step or two in every direction, doubling over in agony. I remember telling the operator, "He saved her, again. He saved our baby again."

I couldn't tell if she was breathing well. She was alive, but still so lifeless. I heard a vehicle outside, but I didn't see an ambulance or a fire truck. I don't know why, but I ran to the playroom and looked out the window. I saw a truck parked at the mailbox and a guy walking quickly to the house. I opened the door and pointed him in the direction of the living room. I found out later that he was an off-duty firefighter who heard the call while he was sitting in a drive-thru.  I don't remember what he said, or what Brian said, or what I said. I was still sobbing, the phone to my ear, watching Brian with Olivia.

Did the ambulance come next? I don't even remember seeing a fire truck at all. But, suddenly, there were people in the living room. Firefighters, paramedics. Brian kept telling me that I needed to go get dressed. I know I needed to, but I didn't care. It seemed so insignificant, so vain, to be thinking about getting dressed at that moment. I didn't give a damn who saw me in a towel, or naked, for that matter. I didn't want to leave the room. But, I did. I ran back upstairs, praying that there was something I could throw on quickly nearby. I was so thankful that a pair of jogging pants and a long-sleeve t-shirt that I had worn for a while the day before were folded neatly on the settee beside the bed.  Thank you, God. I dressed in seconds and scrambled to find some socks and shoes.

As I ran back down the steps, I saw the door wide open.  I watched as Brian carried our girl out to the ambulance. Another image forever imprinted in my mind. She was cradled in his arms, only wearing a diaper, her bare feet and legs draped on one side and her wispy hair blowing in the cold air.

The rest of the firefighters and paramedics followed Brian out, and I was left in a daze, running around, not able to make the simple decision to put socks and tennis shoes on or look for my slip-on shoes. It seemed so absurd that I would need to even think about things like shoes, but I knew I couldn't go to the hospital barefoot. I found the phone and called momma. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop myself from sobbing while I told her what happened. I asked her to come to the house to be here with Jacob, who was still sleeping upstairs, but some of the guys were telling me they would stay with him, so I told her to meet us at the ER.

They walked me out to the ambulance and I climbed inside to see my girl. I was thinking, why haven't they left yet? Oh, God, did something happen? Everyone assured me that she was breathing, but I could see that she still was not moving. Brian was with her. He was so steady, despite how terrified I know he was inside.  He asked if I could drive and I told him no. I could barely put one foot in front of the other. So, one of the guys helped me into the front seat of the ambulance and buckled me in.

It's odd now, a week later, to think back to the details of that morning. I don't remember where we turned around to head out of the neighborhood. I don't remember if I was cold in the winter air. I don't ever remember a fire truck being at the house at all, just that the ambulance had to park in front of the neighbor's house.  I don't remember who or how many people came to the house or if I had ever met any of them before that day.

I do remember the abject fear. The helplessness. The gut-wrenching agony. And I remember thinking that my faith was not strong enough to lose her.

(to be continued)