My son almost died last month.  My only son, whom I love with every breath I take, almost died in my arms for the second time in his life.  He is twenty-four years old now. The first time was at birth.  He was born with a diaphragmatic hernia, had surgery when he was a little over an hour old and has a foot long scar on his chest to prove it.  His father and I divorced almost eight years ago.  He moved to Asia and has lived there ever since.  I stay in the city where I was born and raised, taking care of my father and providing a home base for our children.

A month ago my son called from Chicago around 7 PM in the evening, “I don’t feel right. Can you come and get me?”

“What’s wrong?  Zach! I am three hours away! If it’s that bad get your ass to Northwestern! 

“I don’t have a car, Lois, remember?” He has always called me Lois.  Lois, Loey, Lobo, Lo Lo… anything but Mom. 

“Dear God, Zach, call one of your cousins.  They both have cars.”

“But, I want you to come and get me.  I want to see my doctor.”

“Let me repeat, I am three hours away.  What is wrong with you?”

“I’m not sure. This morning I was tying my shoe, then… I jumped up and threw my hands in the air and it felt like I pulled something in my chest where my pec muscle is.”

“You think you pulled a muscle and you want me to drive three hours to Chicago, then three hours back to Peoria so you can see a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“No!” I hung up the phone in disgust.  He had to be kidding, right? My thoughts were muddled. What if he were really hurt?  He couldn’t be.  He runs five miles a day. He plays basketball four times a week.  He rock climbs at the gym a couple of times a week. He lifts weights.  He eats healthier than anyone I know. 

My phone rang again, “Please, please come and get me, Mom.”

I didn't think twice.  He called me Mom. This was serious. I grabbed my purse,  jumped in my car and headed north to Chicago.   The sun was barely setting as I drove past cornfield after cornfield until I reached I-80.  By the time I was rounding my way onto Lake Shore Drive, the city was lit with a million flickering lights.  I pulled up in front of my son’s apartment and there he stood, my 6 foot tall, slender and strong boy child, his backpack slung over his shoulder, waiting for his Mommy with a smile on his face. 

I got out of my car, threw my arms around him giving him a huge hug.  He seemed fine.  He seemed really fine.  He was smiling and joking and happy.  He didn't seem to be in any pain. Why was I here, exactly?  I didn't question him.  We headed back to Peoria down interstate 55, him sleeping most of the way.  The closer I got to home the more I thought... a twenty-four year old man doesn't call his mommy at 7:30 on a Friday night to come and get him unless something is seriously wrong. I drove straight to the emergency room.  I had been driving for at least six hours.  It was after 1:30 AM.  

To be continued...