“Looking at you is like indulging in a piece of candy.”
My three-year-old daughter, Emma, sported vibrant red and black sunglasses, a colorful butterfly tattoo on her hand, and a knee-length red dress covered in white hearts for Valentine’s Day. I thought my one-liner was a stroke of genius. As I readied for work in the bathroom, I couldn’t help but admire the sheer joy radiating from her. Earlier that day, we had already made a mess with chocolate on our sheets as we exchanged gifts, and her infectious laughter filled the room. When I saw her walk into her preschool, the delight she brought to her teachers and friends was evident; their warm smiles and admiring glances told me everything. Before saying goodbye, we placed handmade valentines in her classmates’ cubbies, followed by a long hug and a sweet kiss.
However, the idyllic day took a drastic turn that afternoon while I was out downtown. I received a call that shattered my world—Emma had collapsed on the playground, experiencing a seizure that lasted an agonizing minute. As I rushed to her side, I felt my heart plummet when the school director calmly informed me of the situation. “She is conscious and breathing,” she said, a mixed message of reassurance and dread. Was that the best news I could hope for? It was.
As the medics loaded her into the ambulance, I frantically tried to gather my thoughts while racing to Boston Children’s Hospital. My colleague struggled with the GPS, and I wept in the passenger seat, torn between fear and the urgency to be with my daughter. I was convinced I heard the sirens approaching behind us, “That’s her,” I remarked, and I was right. I bolted through traffic, my eyes locking onto her teacher’s familiar red hair as the ambulance doors swung open.
There she was, my little girl, looking both tiny and immense in the hospital’s equipment. But she wasn’t entirely herself; she trembled, and her wide, shocked eyes seemed distant. I leaned in close, whispering her name gently, “It’s Mama.” In that moment, she focused on me, reached out to touch my face, and gifted me a faint smile that conveyed a depth of love I can hardly articulate. Everyone witnessed it, and her teacher later remarked that was the moment she knew Emma would be all right.
For hours that followed, my vibrant daughter appeared like a muted version of herself in the hospital bed. She let out soft giggles I hadn’t heard before, engaging in whimsical conversations about toys that weren’t there. She savored a grape popsicle and suggested we “go upstairs and pet our cat,” to which I gently reminded her we weren’t at home. Despite the medical observations and equipment surrounding her, she seemed like a delicate flower—feverish yet endearing.
When her father, Chris, arrived, I realized how little I knew about his whereabouts on campus. I tried to explain to the Harvard police that he would be in a visitor database, but they informed me that professors operate independently. Eventually, he responded to my text, “We are at Children’s Hospital. She is OK. Please come ASAP.”
Emma had experienced a febrile seizure, a common reaction in young children to a rapid spike in temperature. I intentionally limited my research on the topic, focusing instead on the assurance that she was fine. By 9 p.m., she was attempting handstands in the hospital lobby, and I began to feel a glimmer of hope. We shared our first cab ride home, with her gazing out the window, singing a playful version of the ABCs. She mixed up the letters and laughed at her own antics. As she lay across the seats, I felt a profound sense of relief and gratitude wash over me.
That evening, the buildings reflected in the river felt like galaxies, and our journey home felt like the flight to a destination we desperately needed. Despite my sleepless night replaying the day’s events, the knowledge that she was back in our home, in our bed, safe, felt like the most precious gift.
In the days leading up to this traumatic event, our family had already drawn significant attention. Chris received positive news about his career, and I was thrilled to have a letter published in a prominent newspaper. Meanwhile, Emma continued to flourish, creating valentines and sharing her thoughts during dinner. In those moments of uncertainty, she became the center of our universe, embodying both fragility and strength.
While we waited for our cab that night, playing on the musical stairs of Children’s Hospital, I noticed a family nearby engaging with their own young patient battling cancer. The overwhelming weight of motherhood struck me; to nurture, to lose, and to gain all at once is an experience like no other. The simple touch of her hand on my cheek during those chaotic moments was everything.
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Summary
The experience of my daughter’s febrile seizure opened my eyes to the fragility of life and the immense love I have for her. Our joyful moments together became overshadowed by fear, but ultimately, they reinforced the importance of cherishing every second.