BORNWAPS

My heart pounded like a drum echoing in the hollow of my chest. I don’t remember when I had ever been so terrified. The noise of the hotel pool area, suddenly, turned into a deafening silence, replaced by my heartbeat, and the sounds of my father, and sister, carrying on in the distance. I felt a hot wave of terror sweep over me, threatening to pull me under, just as the water had engulfed my little girl. But I couldn’t afford to be swept away. I was her lifeline. My hands remained steady, as I checked for a pulse, and began rescue breaths, my mind teetering on the edge of panic, but I managed to stay calm. Suddenly, she began vomiting, which was actually a good sign. Swiftly, I flipped her over and noticed that she was breathing now. However, as she started choking, I performed a quick finger sweep, while simultaneously, tipping her forward and upside-down. Inside, I was filled with fear and frustration.

How much water did she ingest?

How long was she submerged?

Why wasn’t she being supervised?

What the fuck happened?

As These questions raced through my mind. I couldn’t believe, my sister, who was supposed to be watching her, for just ten minutes, had failed to do so. Mere steps behind where I was performing CPR, my dad was giving her a piece of his mind, emphasizing the importance of never taking your eyes off a child, even for a minute. “You don’t have to tell me that now, Dad!” my sister shouted, remorsefully. *

in that moment, I knew I had to keep it together for her – for everyone. I was her only hope. While everyone else around me was losing their shit, I couldn’t afford to do the same. I found myself screaming at her to open her eyes, assuring her that mommy was there, and everything would be alright, willing my words into reality.  At the same time, I pleaded and prayed, as if Jesus Himself, stood before me, desperately hoping that my child was not lost to me forever. As I worked on reviving her, my niece’s wails and frantic cries reached my ears, blending with the sounds of the growing crowd that had gathered. Their fears only fueled my determination. I was not just the aunt of a terror-stricken child; I was the victim’s mother, her protector. And on top of that, I was a trained medical professional.

The ambulance ride that followed was a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. The sterile smell of medical equipment, and the scent of rubber and diesel, assaulted my senses. The blaring siren, pierced through the air, it’s reminder of the urgency of the situation. The unfamiliar streets flew by in a dizzying sequence, a blur of colors and lights, while my baby lay semi-unconscious on the stretcher. I knew she was alive, but now my terror of her being deceased, had transformed into a haunting dread of potential brain damage.

Despite my heart shattering, I made the necessary calls, my voice steady. Her father needed to know. I was the bearer of this terrifying news, but I delivered it with a calm I didn’t feel.  The journey to the hospital felt endless, each passing second, filled with a mix of anguish and hope.  

I shut out the world around me, focusing on the quiet stillness within. I closed my eyes, my hands involuntarily clenching tight,  as I began to speak to no one in particular, or to everyone, or perhaps to the universe itself. I poured out my fears, worries, hopes, and dreams into the void surrounding me, my words becoming my only lifeline in the storm of uncertainty that was my night. I didn’t know who I was talking to, or if there was anyone out there to listen. My mind was a battlefield of conflicting beliefs and skepticism. But in that moment, I chose to believe and hope. Confident that there was some divine force, some cosmic power;  bigger than my problems, bigger than my fears, and bigger than the emptiness I was feeling. I prayed. I prayed in a language, whose words were jumbled into fragmented phrases, coupled with feelings and emotions. I felt every fiber of my being reaching out, yearning for a connection, a sign, a response — anything that would tell me that my prayers weren’t in vain.

Remember, this was during a time in my life, when I categorized myself as agnostic; a skeptic, sure of the existence of a more prominent force, but not knowing who, or what. But in my darkest moment, I found myself turning to prayer, like a child reaching out to their parent. A tiny speck of faith, planted in me as a child, had somehow survived the years of abuse and found its way to the surface.

It was a peculiar feeling, praying when you’re not sure to whom you’re praying. It was like shouting into a void, hoping that someone, somewhere, would hear you. It was desperation, pure and simple. But in that desperation, I found solace. In that desperation, I found a sliver of optimism.  And so, I prayed. Not because I was sure that a God was listening, but because I needed to believe that there was. Because, in that moment, prayer was my craving, my sanctuary, my solace. It was my way of finding peace amidst the storm. And perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, that was enough.

I felt like a small boat caught in a tempest in the emergency room. Nurses, doctors, and medical staff swirled around me in a flurry of activity. I watched as they swiftly and skillfully assessed her condition, their expertise shining through their every movement. A glimmer of relief washed over me.  Machines beeped, voices barked orders, and doors opened and closed with mechanical precision. I stood in the eye of this storm, my mind racing, yet, strangely, still. I was a spectator in this drama, an unwilling actor, awaiting her cues.  Like a nightmarish movie, the chaotic scene unfolded around me in slow motion. My brain was a whirlwind of thoughts, of fears, of prayers, but my lips couldn’t form the words. I felt like a lost child in this sea of chaos, waiting for someone to take my hand and guide me. Yet, I knew, at that moment, I was my daughter’s guiding light. And so, my fear was swallowed, by a mother’s love. I held onto hope, clinging to it, as my lifeline, just as I was hers.

The attending doctor looked at me with a reassuring smile, “Hi Mom, I just want to let you know, that your daughter is going to be okay. Her body is still in shock, from the trauma she’s been through, and she might be a little disoriented right now. But once we’ve stabilized her condition, we’ll make sure you get to see her.” I was relieved, but a pressing concern still lingered in my mind. “How can you be sure she doesn’t have any brain damage?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

The doctor seemed to understand my concern. “We’ve been speaking to her throughout, and she’s been tracking our voices. She’s able to follow and look at whoever is speaking to her. This is a good sign that her cognitive function is intact,” he explained.

That night, long after the chaos in the hospital had subsided, I found myself alone with my thoughts. The fear, the worry, the relief all came crashing down on me. Alone in the silence, I allowed myself to cry, to release all the pent-up emotions I had been holding back.

I picked up my phone and dialed the only people I knew would be awake at this time. My coworkers, my friends. They answered my call, lending me their support in the darkest hour of my life. Their comforting words and shared concern provided a much-needed solace. I will forever be indebted to them for their unwavering support during that dreadful time.

The hospital had been a jumble of blinding lights, a whirlwind of tests and worried faces. 24 hours later, the stark white walls of the hospital, were replaced with normalcy; back to laughter and family banter, back to the deep end. Yet, nothing was normal anymore.

There she was, my tenacious bundle of energy, tossed back and forth, in the deep end of another pool. Her giggles echoed around the pool, piercing through the veil of relief we were all trying to wear. Somehow, she seemed unfazed. Unscathed. She was swimming again, braver than ever, her spirit undeterred by the recent ordeal. It was as if she had inherited some of her mother’s remarkable resilience.

I share this story as a profound reminder of how fragile life can be. It also highlights children’s strength and courage, often surpassing our own. Losing a child is a tragedy no parent should ever experience. It’s a loss that alters you, reshaping your world in unimaginable ways.

Fortunately, my daughter was spared, and for that, I am forever grateful. However, the fear and trauma of that night have never left me. They linger, like ghostly shadows at the back of my mind, rearing their heads, whenever I hear of parents who have had to endure the ultimate loss. The pain may lessen with time, but the scar always remains, a stark reminder of the vulnerability of life.

Regardless, the sight of my daughter fearlessly diving into the deep end, right after floating face down, at the bottom, a memory I can never erase from my mind, is a testament to the extraordinary resilience of the human spirit. But also, forever etched in my heart, is the buoyant aide-memoire, that no matter the depth of the despair we face, we can always learn to swim again.