As I drove in the rainy, dreary weather I looked over to my
son in the car seat. He was content, playing with his toys and happy as can be. Me? A Nervous wreck, scared to
death he would just instantly start choking while I was driving on a main highway.
We arrived at the hospital an hour later. Running to the emergency room all the way. They took the x-rays and my
baby and went into this little room. I was not allowed in. There was a little window I could see in but I only
saw the backs of doctors and nurses. Shaken and scared out of my mind I walked the floor in circles. Finally, after
forty minutes, which seemed like eternity, the doctors came out. My thought? Great, its all over with. Boy was
I wrong.
They told me that they could not get the coins out because he was screaming and moving around too much. So they
would have to try another technique. The other way was to give him some relaxing medicine to calm him down.
I spent time with him in a different room cuddling him and pampering him until the medicine took effect. Soon after,
the doctors took over again. Another little window to look through and more pacing the floors.
Finally, after another hour, they came back. Still unable to receive the coins. The only other solution? Surgery.
I couldn’t believe it. My baby. My sweet, innocent little boy. I had to tell them to do it.
They prepped him for surgery and sent me on my way. No little window this time. I was sent to the waiting room.
Pacing the floor, I had to get out. I couldn’t breathe anymore. I went outside the hospital to get some air. I
returned immediately. Still no answers from the doctors.
Two hours later the doctor arrived. He told me that he couldn’t go anywhere with trying to tug them out and he
almost gave up and was going to end up cutting his throat to get to them but he said a quick prayer and on the
last tug the pennies came out. I finally sat down and cried.
Thanked God for everything. Bringing notice to his throat, having me drive safely in an unknown area, in the rainy
dark when I can’t see at night, and for that doctor who wouldn’t give up without saying a prayer.
The hospital kept my son for a few days just to make sure he would be alright. I did not leave his side for one
moment. I would fall asleep in the chair next to him, rubbing his little tiny hands with tubes sticking out all
over. Every time he wanted me, I held him and alarms would go off thousands of times but I didn’t care. Just to
hold him again was all he wanted and me too. My son is fine now. He’s ten years old. He is a happy, overactive
little boy. I thank God each and everyday for him.
