Years ago in a small group study I attended, we were discussing “monuments”– those things in our lives that served as a sign that God exists and is actively engaged with humanity. For some it was an object that reminded them of something they overcame, survived, or perhaps something that symbolized a moment of enlightenment. For me it was a person. My monument runs around on two legs, his arms flailing around wildly, his espresso curls bouncing, his eyes bright and mischievous, his smile wide and unsure, his voice loud and demanding, and his laughter coating the air. My son River was born 8 years ago and then reborn again on October 27th 2014 when he drowned in our in ground pool and survived the impossible. See, my baby is a true miracle. He was given a 30 percent chance of surviving, and that was a generous number. The experts said that River would unlikely survive and that if he did he would be severely disabled. I remember exactly when they told us that.

An air doctor and helicopter pilot from the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia stood in front of us and in his strong Australian accent crushed our hopes with the statistics of a near drowning, especially with River’s presentation. He arrived in Morristown sometime that day, I can’t remember quite when, to fly River to CHOP. This would be River’s second helicopter ride that day. The first was from Hackettstown Hospital to Morristown. Morristown could not properly sustain the oxygen levels in River’s blood. The only machine that could was something called an “oscillator” which was a special ventilator that pumped oxygen at high levels. But the very action of pumping could and probably would have stopped River’s heart and Morristown was not equipped to properly save his life if that should happen. CHOP had oscillators specific to children. The doctors and nurses prepared River for the dangerous flight, we kissed him goodbye, and quickly rushed to Philadelphia by car.

The ride felt like a lifetime. At times I cried, but mostly I sat in silence praying and thinking. I was afraid to hope. And the scene was sadly familiar, for ten years before, we made our way to Egleston’s Children’s Hospital in Atlanta to say goodbye to our son Blade who died September 1st of 2004. I dared not hope. I had hoped for Blade and was crushed when he was declared brain dead. A fear and grief I can only describe as a heavy black weight sat heavy over me as I remembered the past and as I grieved the present. We arrived at CHOP in the wee hours of the morning. The sky was still black. As we parked, River’s chopper was landing. It was strangely comforting that we arrived at the same time, like my baby was in-sync with his mom and dad. After much stabilizing, the doctors and staff came out to meet with us.

River had not even been placed on an oscillator yet and had begun holding oxygen appropriately during the helicopter ride. There was no need to place him on one and risk his heart. They said it seemed like a hopeful sign. He was on full life support in an induced coma. They lowered his body temperature by placing him on an ice bed. Tubes were coming out of everywhere. J-tubes, catheters, drains, breathing tube. Wires danced out of his head monitoring brain activity. It was surreal. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me, the helicopter mom constantly hovering over her children.

How could I have allowed my two year old drown? I played it over and over again in my head as I watched him struggle to live. As the nurses came in and sucked the fluids out of his lungs as he writhed and choked. As they pressed the button for his sedation and fentanyl as he fell back into his coma. I painted a chair as he fell silently into the water. A blasted, fucking chair. He was floating quietly as his brother and cousin watched him, while I cheerfully gave my antique chair a new color. My God, they could have drowned too. It was that quick. There was no splash or struggle. There was just eerie silence. I wanted to tear the flesh off my arms. I wanted to gouge out my eyes. That was the enormity of the pain I felt. Why didn’t I check on them sooner? I replayed the moments. My sister screaming that River was in the pool. Throwing the paint brush and leaping down the stairs. Jumping into the murky and freezing cold water. Lifting River’s lifeless body up to my sister who immediately performed CPR. Crawling out of the water and running to the phone. Dialing 911 and screaming incoherently. The police arriving. Calling Brett and telling him his son was dead because I really thought he was gone.

And as I mourned what I thought was the impending diagnoses of brain death, River began to improve. He had no seizure activity. He was fighting his sedation. His brain MRI scan revealed swelling but not brain death. River moved his legs in response to my voice. Impossible things for a boy that sick. Five days after River arrived at CHOP, they removed his breathing tube and it was like a baby freshly born. The first cry he let out filled the room with emotions. Nurses, doctors, Brett, me. There was so much emotion but the prominent one was joy. The same joy you feel when they hand you your freshly born baby. I will never forget that moment. He struggled but he breathed and he cried and we cried as we comforted him. River recovered for 5 weeks in Children’s Specialized in New Brunswick regaining his ability to move, walk, and eat. It took longer for his speech to recover.

Today the only residual effects of his anoxic brain injury are slightly delayed learning and some speech issues that are more an effect of intubation than injury to the brain. Everything else is completely normal. A boy given a 30 percent chance defied all the odds. He surprised the most experienced doctors at CHOP and Morristown and Hackettstown. Even the EMTs and police officers that intervened that day were all astounded at River’s recovery. He was even a case study. A true medical miracle, he had the best care possible. The best outcome possible. My monument on two feet flailing about the house as mischievous and energetic and happy and full of life-and might I add now-a fantastic swimmer.