I stand there paralyzed by the knowledge of what I know I will find when I pull back the cover. I want to stay here in this moment - the instant before our world will change forever.
But instead I pull back the heavy chenille blanket and find my three-month old son face down, unresponsive, and blue. As I pick up his limp body I step outside myself. The events unfold before me and I capture them through the lens of my mental camera. Bringing each scene into focus before snapping the terrible picture.
I see myself saying his name, cautiously at first, reaching out my hand to touch him.
"Griffin!" I scream. "Oh my God, Frank, he's not breathing."
The Monkey's appear outside my bedroom door, one-then two-then three, along with their friends, yanked away from the innocence of their childhood game of hide and go seek into the unimaginable reality unfolding around them.
"Mom, whats wrong?" Monster Monkey cries. "Why is he blue?"
Their hysterical screams go unanswered as I carry their brothers lifeless body down the steps.
I can't answer them as I am not present.
Just a photographer standing on the sidelines documenting each second of the horrible scene.
I watch my self scream again and hand off the baby to my husband. He screams and shakes him to no avail. He hands him to his Guardian Angel, the woman who saved his life and to whom I am forever indebted. My dear friend, Jamie responds with nurse like calm and immediately commands the situation.
"Call 9-1-1." She states, but this simple command baffles me. I can't find a phone and when I finally do, I don't know how to dial.
Blessedly, her husband had already made the call and was directing EMS to our house within seconds.
Fire police respond instantly and are the first on the scene. They administer "blow-by" air further resusciating our son. His breathing had already been restored due to Jamie's quick reactions, cooling my baby's fiery body and performing chest compressions to restore blood flow.
As I explain what happened, what I found, what I know to be true, the emergency responders try to convince me otherwise.
"He must have had a seizure, he must have had a diabetic episode, he must have bacterial meningitis."
How else would a perfectly healthy three-month old child have this kind of "episode." What other explanation can there be.
But I know the truth.
That he was tangled in heavy blankets and had rolled onto his face. After fighting desperately to free himself, he had finally succumbed to fatigue. His lactic acid levels and glucose readings were spiked providing evidence to support this agonizing truth. Dehydrated from trying valiantly to escape the cocoon of chenille, my son almost died because of my lax parenting.
If I didn't believe in angels before, I do now. They are among us. Everywhere.
And I have been forever changed.
And if I didn't belive before, I do now, that we are all held in the Palm of God's hand.