The Day Daniel Drowned
It
was a mild October afternoon in 1993 when Daniel drowned. I was doing homework with the
older children and he was outside riding his plastic motorbike up and down the
driveway. I suddenly realised that the rhythmic sounds had stopped. “Ethel,” I
called our maid. “Please can you check what Daniel’s doing.”
Seconds later a shrill scream changed the course of my life forever. With a mother’s instinct I threw the homework aside and ran to the swimming pool. He lay on the surface of the water, face down, limbs limp, hair floating like a golden mist. I was already praying as I plunged down the steps, swam to him and pulled him to the love seat in the deep end. “Lord, please let him be okay when I turn him over.”
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Daniel |
I
hefted him onto the pool surround and turned him on his side. His face was blue
and grey like marble, lifeless and dead. Water ran from his mouth, his eyes
were shut. I tilted him further over to get the water out while shouting at
Ethel. “Go and find a neighbour, ask them to call an ambulance!”
The
ABC steps I’d learned in a CPR course a few weeks earlier miraculously came to
mind. Airway, breathing, circulation. No more water was coming out but he was
still and had no pulse. I started breathing into him, compressing his tiny
chest, breathing into him, over and over. The lady from across the road arrived
with Ethel. Took in the situation with a horrified glance and dashed off to
call an ambulance.
It
seemed forever that I breathed into and compressed my son’s lifeless body,
praying fervently the whole time. And then he coughed, water came up, and he
coughed again and drew in a shaky breath. The relief was immense but I didn’t
realise the battle was just beginning.
The
ambulance arrived 30 minutes later. I’d stripped Daniel’s clothes off and
wrapped him in his cot duvet. He was breathing but unconscious. The children sat
with me, all of us silent and devastated. The paramedics assessed him quickly
before carrying him to the ambulance where I sat in the back with him. They
wrapped him in a thermal blanket to warm him up. By now he’d started making
convulsive movements and his breathing was raspy and laboured. “It’s called
posturing,” they explained to me. “It’s a sign of the brain being starved of
oxygen.”
We
were taken to A&E at Greys Hospital and a couple of doctors had a brief
look at Daniel. He was still posturing and they told me his pupils were dilated
and unresponsive to light. Both of these were signs of brain damage but they
refused to treat him as we earned too much to qualify for hospital care. I knew
the first hour was critical in situations like Daniel’s and begged them to do
something. But they would not. The system had robbed them of humanity and a
heart.
Kevin
arrived at this stage and sought information from the medical staff on Daniel’s
condition. He spoke to the paramedics, A&E nurses, the matron, the doctor
and all of them advised him they had no idea and we would have to wait for our
private doctor. When the doctor arrived, he told Kevin that if Daniel lived
through the night, he would be mentally impaired and probably spend the rest of
his life in a wheelchair. He also refused to treat him and said Daniel needed a
paediatrician. Kevin walked outside, looked up to the stars and asked God to
please take him home. He didn’t want him back in a damaged state. He
then went back into A&E to see Daniel and was asked to hold an oxygen mask
to his face. Kevin watched in disbelief as Daniel’s face swelled up by 25
percent. At this stage, the shock was too much and he was given half a Valium before heading home. A friend took the other
children home for the night.
Two
paediatricians from the practice we were with arrived an hour after we’d
reached the hospital. They assessed Daniel as critical as convulsive movements
shook his little body and his eyes stared vacant and unfocused. It was now 6pm.
He
was lying on a normal bed in A&E with the rails up and the doctors decided
to move him immediately up to paediatric high care. Brakes off, they stood one
on each side of the bed pushing it, running through the hospital corridors,
into the lift and up to the children’s floor. In a private room they tried to
get a line into him, poking and probing as he postured and wailed. Eventually
one of them turned to me. “His veins are all flat. Do you mind if we shave some
of his hair off and insert the drip into his scalp?”
Would
I mind when he was at death’s door? “Do it,” I said. Several minutes later, they
said that too had failed. The last resort was to insert the drip directly into
his jugular vein. Once the medication was finally seeping into his battered
body, they ordered a set of x-rays and then updated me on their findings.
“His
brain is swollen due to a lack of oxygen,” they said, “and his pupils are not
reacting to light. We’ve started him on Mannitol which should reduce the
swelling … but he’s scoring low on the Glasgow coma scale, about 4 or 5 out of
15. It’s really a waiting game now. If he makes it through the night, we’ll be
able to assess how bad the brain damage is.”
I
sat down in a chair next to Daniel’s hospital cot. His hair was shaved on the
side and there were monitors and cables attached to various parts of his body.
He was still convulsing and posturing but his eyes remained shut. He had his
own nurse who would spend the night with us in the room. It turned out she was
a Christian. “I’m praying for your son,” she told me as she checked the
readings every 15 minutes. The figures remained the same.
This
was before mobile phones were in use and from about 7pm, friends from church
started calling the hospital. Time after time the staff called me to the phone
in the nurses’ station. Friends and acquaintances told me they were praying for
Daniel, praying for us. That they were so sorry to hear what had happened. They
encouraged us to keep believing God for a miracle. It was heart-warming to know
that our church community was behind us.
At
9pm a small group of people arrived from the church, just three or four of them
from memory. We hugged and I updated them on the situation. Daniel lay in the
cot, unconscious but alive. These wonderful friends gathered around him, laid
hands on him, called him back to life, bound the enemy’s work and prayed
blessings over him.
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Daniel with my Mom in 2018 |
Still
there was no change. I had a bed in the same room and lay awake all night,
praying, wondering how all this could have happened so quickly. How our lives
had been changed in an instant. How the pool gate had been left open. I still
don’t know how it happened. I chose not to question the family over who might
have left the gate unlocked. It had a chain and padlock but both were lying on
the ground that afternoon.
At
5am, I leaned over Daniel’s cot yet again, brushed hair back from his forehead
and talked to him. His eyes opened and he looked at me. Not through me like
he’d been doing, but at me. “Daniel,” I said. “Where’s your foot?” Slowly the
blanket lifted. “Where’s your hand?” He lifted his right hand. His nurse was
behind me, sharing the miracle.
“Your
son is back!” She sent a message through to the doctors and I called Kevin.
“After
I left the hospital,” he said, “Kelvin (our pastor) came around to see me. He
had a word from the Lord and said that just as Daniel was in the lions’ den
overnight, so our son would be in the den for a night but would walk out
unharmed in the morning.”
One of the
paediatricians came in soon after and confirmed that Daniel was in good shape
with no ill effects of the drowning. He said he was very surprised to see the
remarkable recovery after being in such critical condition the night before. In
fact the story spread throughout the hospital and medical staff stopped in throughout
the day to see the miracle baby as they called him. By mid-morning, he was
running around, playing with toys and eating and drinking. He was put on
antibiotics as a precaution and kept in hospital until evening for observation
but he was fine.
In
the days that followed, we found out how extensive the prayer support had been
for Daniel. Stories were told of people interceding, lying on the floor before
the Lord and crying out for God to save and heal our son. Without them, he
might not be with us today and I’m eternally grateful to all those who prayed
and cared.
So
Daniel was fine but I lived with the guilt for years after. The shame of not
keeping my home safe. Of not noticing sooner that he’d gone quiet. I imagined
people judging me behind closed doors for having too many children and not
being able to look after them properly. His story was picked up by the local
newspaper and a couple of friends let slip that I was getting too much
attention for nearly letting my son drown. I’m also so aware that many people
have faced a similar situation that has not ended up as well as ours did. For
years I never talked about what happened although Kevin shared the story frequently,
often bringing people to tears.
Things
would probably have continued like this, but I was on a flight to Sydney last
week and spotted a movie called “Breakthrough” on the new release list. It was
the true story of a teenager who drowned in an icy lake and the steadfast faith
of his mother that God would heal him. I lived through all the emotions as the
movie unfolded, remembering my own story and the anxious hours waiting to see if
Daniel would live. I realised afresh that my son is a miracle and I should share
our story just like that family has shared theirs.
I
still have mementos of the day Daniel drowned. The little green tracksuit top he
was wearing, and the baby duvet I wrapped him in while waiting for the
ambulance. I pull them out every so often, close my eyes and remember that
terrible day. Life is fragile and every breath we take is a precious gift. Hold
your loved ones close, look out for them and never give up hope, even if the
situation is desperate. God still performs miracles.
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The Tracksuit Top Daniel was Wearing when He Drowned |