“Austin!” I call out, but he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even turn his head toward my voice.
My heart lurches. Now I’m moving, taking the bleacher steps two at a time.
The other kids cluster around him, their high-pitched voices overlapping in confusion. I shove my way through and drop to my knees beside my son, my hands already shaking. He’s on his back, eyes closed, but his chest is moving. Breathing. That’s good.
I press my fingers to his wrist, feeling his heart hammering way too fast. His skin feels clammy, and I keep thinking about how he could barely catch his breath before he collapsed.
“Austin, baby, I need you to open your eyes for me,” I say, and I hate how my voice shakes. I’m trying to stay calm, but seeing him like this is ripping me apart.
“I’ve called an ambulance,” the coach says from behind me.
I stroke Austin’s hair back from his forehead, noting how his breathing sounds labored even unconscious.
Please wake up, I think desperately.Please be okay.
“Has he been drinking water?” I call to the coach without taking my eyes off my son, surprised I can even form words when my throat feels so tight.
“Yeah, he had some at halftime. Maybe ten minutes ago.”
So dehydration isn’t the issue. My mind races through possibilities even as panic digs in, sharp and merciless. Heat stroke? Maybe, but the temperature isn’t extreme today. Could be low blood sugar, but he ate a good breakfast.
The siren cuts through my mental checklist, growing louder as it approaches.
I keep talking to Austin, telling him I’m here, that everything’s going to be okay, but the words feel hollow when he doesn’t respond. When the paramedics arrive, I force myself to move back and give them room to work, even though every instinct I have screams to stay right beside him.
“I’m his mother,” I tell them immediately, trying to keep my voice steady. “He collapsed about ten minutes ago. His heart’s racing really fast.”
The female paramedic nods, already checking his vitals. “Any medical history? Allergies? Medications?”
“None that I know of. He’s never had problems like this before.” My voice wavers. “But he’s been more tired than usual lately, napping more, getting winded easily.”
They work quickly, efficiently. I catch fragments of their conversation: “heart rate elevated,” “oxygen saturation low,” “possible cardiac event.”
Cardiac event. In a six-year-old?
Terror floods through me, but I swallow it down. I have to stay functional. I have to be what my son needs right now.
When they load Austin onto the gurney, I climb into the ambulance beside him and take his small hand in mine. His fingers are so still, so limp. It’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
“Ma’am,” the male paramedic says gently, “we’re headed to Mountainview Hospital. There’s a pediatric cardiology team waiting. I want to prepare you that things might move quickly once we arrive, and you may not be able to stay with him for all the procedures.”
The thought of leaving Austin’s side makes me feel physically sick, but I nod. “I understand. Is there anything else I should know? Anything I should be prepared for?”
“Just that the team at Mountainview is excellent. Your son is in good hands.” He pauses, studying my face. “Is there anyone you can call? Family? The boy’s father?”
My throat tightens. “He’s my only family.” Growing up in foster care doesn’t leave you with much of a support network. “But I can call a friend.”
I pull out my phone and text Keshia, my best friend and roommate:Austin collapsed at soccer. Heading to Mountainview Hospital. Please come.
I’ll fill her in on details later. Right now, I need to focus on the fact that my son is unconscious in an ambulance and I don’t know if he’s going to be okay.
The hospital is controlled chaos. Austin is wheeled into a bay surrounded by people in scrubs, and I’m directed to a chair where I can see everything but stay out of the way. A woman in a white coat over her scrubs approaches the gurney with purpose.
She takes charge immediately, rattling off orders while examining Austin. When she pulls out equipment for what I recognize as an echocardiogram, my stomach clenches. I’ve never seen one performed, but I know what it is. They’re looking at his heart.
The grainy black-and-white image on the screen means nothing to me, but the doctor’s frown as she studies it means everything.
“I’m Dr. Murphy,” she says when she finally approaches me. “Pediatric cardiologist. Your son has a heart defect called pulmonary valve stenosis. The valve that controls blood flow from his heart to his lungs is too narrow, which restricts oxygen flow. That’s why he collapsed.”
