Woodinville is an active community. Venture outside on any given day and you’ll see runners, walkers, cyclists and every manner of person enjoying the outdoors, though running is by far the preferred sport.
Yet somehow I was surprised when my son, Oliver, became a cross-country athlete. Now a freshman at Woodinville High School, he has been a visible symbol of the sport during his daily runs through Leota, Wellington and beyond. He logs at least 6 miles a day, 6 days a week. By choice, I should add.
He loves running as a way to listen to the sounds of nature and to tune out the swirling thoughts in his mind. It’s not just a sport; it’s a moving meditation.
“I don’t know”
Oliver wears a watch to track his stats, which also serves as his cell phone.
When he texted “I don’t know” in the middle of his run this week, we knew something was amiss. He didn’t respond when we texted back. Odd. Then the home phone rang.
“I’m with your son Oliver. He’s in severe distress on the side of the road.”
My first thought was that I had received a prank call. My Oliver? He’s the epitome of physical fitness. What was he doing on the side of the road? The woman’s voice told me that he had collapsed in front of her and that he wasn’t able to stand.
She handed her phone to Oliver but all he said was, “I can’t hear anything. Are you there, Mom? Mom?”
The woman’s voice came back on the line. “He’s at Teresa’s church. I’ll wait with him until you get here.” The line went dead and I ran out the door.
“Stay with me! Keep your eyes open!”
I didn’t know what to expect. Had he merely depleted his glycogen reserves? Was he severely dehydrated? Did he twist his ankle? 3 miles have never felt so far away.
I saw Oliver thanks to his high-vis running jacket. He was crumpled on the ground, face half-covered by grass. A woman was squatting next to him.
“What happened? Did he fall?”
The woman said she had spotted him while she was out for her daily walk. “He looked like he wasn’t feeling well so I stopped to see if he needed help. He started slurring his words and said he couldn’t figure out how to call you.” Somehow, the woman managed to get my phone number from Oliver so she could call me. “Would you like help getting him into your car?” she asked.
A cross-country runner has a lithe, muscular physique. Though he appears slight, Oliver is muscle-bound. The woman and I struggled to get him up to sitting. I braced him against my shoulder, his arms around my neck. Then he went limp. I braced his head in my hands, his eyes rolling back into his head. That’s when I saw how swollen his face had become. Panic finally hit me.
“Stay with me! Keep your eyes open!” I patted his cheeks and rubbed his sternum.
“Oliver, you have to stay awake! Open your eyes, please!” His eyes, swollen almost shut, fluttered open.
“Okay, Mom. I’m...” he slurred. His eyes closed again.
“Should I call an ambulance? He looks worse.”
50/32
The woman handed me her phone. I don’t know what I said to the dispatcher beyond, “Hurry, please hurry.” Oliver’s lips had swollen so much that the skin looked like it would burst.
Woodinville Fire and Rescue pulled up a few minutes later. With both speed and efficiency, they approached Oliver. “Hey, can you tell me your name? Did you take any drugs today? Drink any alcohol? Be honest, we’re here to help you.”
Oliver managed to slur indignantly, “I don’t do that stuff - I’m in training! Coach would be so mad at me!”
One of Oliver’s high school cross-country coaches is a Woodinville firefighter. There aren’t enough words available to describe the positive influence he has had on Oliver, both as a runner and as a person. He probably has a first name but we know him as Coach.
The EMTs attached a blood pressure cuff, sensors for an ECG and an oxygen monitor. One of the EMTs read out Oliver’s blood pressure. “Uh, his BP is 50/32. Let’s get an IV in and get him to Evergreen right now.”
“Oh, jeez, look at his legs!”
I don’t know how long the ambulance ride lasted. It could have been hours or minutes. Swallowing back tears passed the time.
Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland. COVID-19 ground zero. The wave of infections at the hospital had decreased to almost nothing so I wasn’t concerned about a hospital-acquired infection. I was concerned that the staff was too exhausted to give Oliver the care and attention he needed.
Oliver’s gurney rolled through the sliding doors and into a room with nurses waiting for us. Multiple nurses and physicians drew blood, measured vital signs, asked about health history and spoke with the EMTs. The cacophony of noise was oddly soothing, almost like the sound itself would help Oliver. He shivered under the heated blankets even though he was drenched in sweat.
“Was his skin this red before you transported him?”
“No, the redness increased steadily during the drive.”
A syringe of epinephrine was immediately ordered. One of the nurses uncovered his leg to administer the shot. “Oh, jeez, look at his legs!”
I rushed to his side to see the nurse jabbing a rather large quantity of epinephrine into Oliver’s left thigh. “His legs look like a muscle anatomy diagram.” Her eyes wrinkle into a smile above her medical mask. I exhaled and tried to smile back.
Prednisone was administered through his IV line to prevent a relapse. A soft voice and kind pair of eyes above a mask explained that Oliver experienced a textbook case of severe anaphylactic shock. “He’s stable but we want to check his blood and monitor him for a few hours.”
Oliver was finally allowed to close his eyes and rest. The nurses and physicians turned off the lights so the room was lit only by the glow of his monitors. I watched as his blood pressure soared to 140 and dropped to 90. The low heart-rate alarm flashed constantly. Elite athletes have ridiculously low heart rates and Oliver’s normal resting pulse of 45 worried the machines. We were in that room for 5 hours and I don’t believe I sat. I stroked Oliver’s brow as he slept, marveling at how much my little boo had grown into a young man. I stole a moment for a few silent tears in the darkness.
“Thank you for bringing us someone we could save”
My watch logged 3 miles of pacing in Oliver’s room. He eventually opened his puffy eyes and said the words that every parent of a teenager expects. “Mom, I’m starving!” I texted my parents the good news.
“Tell the boy we’re bringing over Chinese food tonight.” My family has always been of the mind that food equals comfort in times of trauma. It’s a symbol of support beyond the usual hugs and kind words. Food shows love.
“I’ll text you when he’s been released. See you at our place.”
The final hour or so in the ER dragged. What’s the saying, that the final 10% of any task takes 90% of the time? But it didn’t matter because Oliver was back. He cracked jokes; he complained about waiting, he swore that no one has ever fed him. It was wonderful.
The physician returned with discharge information. He handed me a few prescriptions and a referral to an allergist. Then he said, “Finally, I want to thank you for bringing in someone we could save.” Then he left the room. Did he really just thank me for allowing him to save my son?
The toll of COVID-19 has been theoretical for the masses under stay-home orders, but the emotional drain among the first responders has been under-reported. Consider the helplessness these caring professionals have faced over the past several months. Imagine how difficult it must have been to lose patient after patient no matter how hard you tried.
Yet after all of that, this physician thanked me.
“I don’t care if you’re busy, I’m stopping by”
To say that there was no leftover Chinese food would be an understatement. Not only did Oliver polish off his dinner, he ate most of mine and several chocolate bars that my dad “secretly” brought over. My parents’ dog lay at Oliver’s feet while my dad sat with his arm around his grandson. The conversation was irrelevant; it was the physical connection that mattered. Reluctantly, my parents headed back home with assurances that they would call in the morning.
And calls did we receive! The next day I received a barrage of calls from friends and neighbors who had heard about what happened. After a phone call, one friend walked over with a 1,000-piece puzzle for Oliver, knowing that she and he bond over such challenges. “I don’t care if you’re busy, I’m stopping by!” The gesture was nothing yet it meant everything.
Coach texted that Oliver should have just asked him for a tour of the EMT rig instead of resorting to anaphylaxis. Coach declared that Oliver had earned the Lifetime Achievement Tough as Nails Award for training so hard that he ended up in the ER. I told you, cross-country runners are a strange bunch.
The Angel of Camp Unity
Anaphylaxis is a severe allergic reaction that is rapid-onset and may lead to death if not treated. It can be triggered by common allergens like pollen and nuts or, infuriatingly, without apparent cause. That Oliver collapsed in a spot where he could be easily spotted was serendipity.
Many of us have heard the parable of the Good Samaritan: He who shows mercy to the injured man. There is no legal requirement to show mercy. Those who show mercy demonstrate the most admirable trait of humanity.
I only know her first name. She may not know my name, just my phone number. Our conversation was brief yet so intense that I will never forget it.
She’s a resident of Camp Unity, currently residing at Blessed Teresa of Calcutta Catholic Church. Perhaps you have seen the tents at various churches in the area. Perhaps you have negative opinions of these encampments. I say those opinions are wrong.
This woman is not just a woman: She is the Angel of Camp Unity and Woodinville is fortunate to have her in our community.
The Best Worst Thing
My family jokes that it’s been a year this week. The emotional swings and dips and heights have been exhausting but on balance, I’m more hopeful than I have ever been. Yes, Oliver has to carry and Epi pen for the rest of his life but he HAS that life thanks to so many caring people.
The outpouring of support and well wishes inspires me but we aren’t the ones who need it right now. It’s clear that our community wants to support one another and it’s the little gestures that have the biggest impact. Oliver’s story isn’t just about a boy’s trip to the ER; it’s a story of a community with a huge heart.