It wasn’t until my little boy became seriously ill that people finally listened. For months, I’d complained of something being amiss, but every attempt at explanation was met with the same answer: “He’s too young to have been diagnosed with asthma.”
Rory was just a year old when the cough started. It wasn’t a little cough — it was deep, harsh, and persistent, particularly during the night. My husband, Koby, and I would lie awake hearing him gasp for breath, powerless to make him stop. We brought him to the doctor again and again and each time were sent home with assurances that it was “just a cough” or something he would “grow out of.” But I knew better.
Koby’s had asthma since he was a baby. I’ve heard horror stories about his childhood — his oxygen plummeting scary low, his parents race-driving him to the hospital, and nights when only the nebulizer kept him even. Even today, he continues to suffer through winter and fire season. Aware of how hereditary asthma is, I couldn’t help but think that Rory had inherited it as well.
By July 2021, Rory’s cough was just a part of our daily lives. And then one morning, he woke up with what looked like a light cold runny eyes, a little cough nothing I hadn’t seen before. I assumed it was teething. He went off to daycare, and Koby and I went to work. But that day, his teacher phoned, indicating that he was having trouble breathing and a weird pull in his neck. She inquired whether there was an asthma plan. My heart dropped there wasn’t.
I hurried over to pick him up and took him directly to the doctor. We were informed it was bronchiolitis and discharged with antibiotics. But at night, he got worse. He was hot with fever, coughing spasmodically, wheezing on every breath. I telephoned the hospital multiple times and was instructed to administer fluids and pain medication. Something was seriously wrong, all my instincts shouted, but I wasn’t sure because the experts didn’t appear alarmed.
It was early morning the following day before I couldn’t wait any longer. I insisted that his oxygen and breathing be monitored. His small chest heaved with the effort of breathing 62 breaths a minute. We were rushed straight to the hospital. Doctors swarmed around him, sticking swabs into his nose and throat and drawing blood. In hours, his oxygen levels plummeted into the 70s. Seeing him battle for air was terrifying. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, and eventually was too weak to remain awake.
He hardly moved for two days. They needed to put in a feeding tube to keep him hydrated one of the most difficult experiences of my life was keeping him immobile while they did so. The subsequent tests revealed he’d contracted metapneumovirus, an ordinary respiratory virus. For most children, it’s not serious. But for Rory, whose lungs were already delicate, it became deadly.
Lastly, a pediatric expert verified what I’d suspected all along Rory was asthmatic. They placed him on Ventolin every few hours, and within no time, his breathing relaxed. The wheezing diminished, and gradually, our boy began to return to us. On day four, he smiled again. On day six, we were able to take him home at last.
Now, Rory takes daily medication for his asthma. Some days are worse than others there are still sleepless nights and anxious moments but at least we now know what we’re up against.
Asthma is no joke, and it doesn’t discriminate by age. If we’d waited any longer, I don’t know that Rory would even be alive today. To all parents out there: believe your gut. You know your kid more than anyone. Keep insisting on answers, even when nobody wants to hear them because your kid’s life may be hanging in the balance.
