I found them in the ER. The baby was flailing in my husband’s arms, an oxygen mask over his tiny face
It was Motzaei Shabbos and my husband had just called me from the pediatrician’s office. Our baby, six months old, had been wheezing terribly, and my husband had brought him in.
“Hi, Mom, this is Dr. U. I have your little man here.” That made me smile. “He doesn’t look too good, his oxygen is at 95. Usually we say that at 95 they can go home, but here, wait — okay, now it’s fluctuating, 95, 94… If it’s not stable at 95 or above, they really need to be in the hospital.”
He stopped talking for a moment, there were voices in the background — my husband, a nurse. “Now it’s 95 again… 94… 93. You have to go to the hospital.”
My mind was blank. “Right now?”
“Wait, 92… 90. Hang up, I’m calling Hatzalah.”
I hung up.
Hospital, hospital. How do I do this? I need someone to come stay with my kids. Who should I call? Shevy, she’s the one you call in an emergency.
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