The first time it happened, I was on a run near my home. Recently, my then 5-year-old had experienced an hour-long seizure that could have ended his life if medics hadn’t brought him oxygen when they did.
When I heard the sound of a nearby siren, I dropped onto the dirt trail hyperventilating and sobbing until someone running by asked if I was OK. Their words broke me out of my panic, and I made it home.
There, I managed my son’s medical care and readied him for preschool, leashed up my dog and loaded my 3-month-old infant into a stroller. My older child’s classroom had a door on the side of the building, and one of his teachers came out to hug him when we walked up.
Then another emergency vehicle’s siren began blaring.
My body’s response was immediate — I dropped onto the sidewalk, my arms wrapped around my bent knees. “Take him inside, don’t let him see me,” I blurted out, and his teacher did.
