My son was lying flat on his back in the grass, his pupils big and unfocused. Sweat beaded on his forehead then ran down his cheeks, pooling around his collarbone. He wore his school’s yellow and blue cross-country jersey and tiny blue running shorts. His sneakers lay in a heap on the ground next to him. A gold medal on a blue and yellow cord hung around his neck. He has long muscular legs like you’d expect on a runner. His fingers are long and slender like maybe he could have learned to play the piano. Big black carpenter ants marched across his chest. This is how I found him.
When my son was small, maybe four years old, he was bound by rules. He liked the structure and order of them. Every time he left a room, he would close the door behind him. He would walk through the house closing all the doors. He was a cautious child, shy too. He took his time observing the other children before he decided if he wanted to join them. His fingers were long and slender like he might have been good at the piano.
My son was gentle and quiet. I signed him up for ballet classes instead of soccer. At the dance recital, he stood in the center of the stage with his arms stretched out to the side, letting each girl take a turn to hold on and do an arabesque. He took piano lessons for a few years too, but eventually settled on athletics instead.
He wore his school’s yellow and blue cross-country jersey and tiny running shorts. When he was first issued his uniform, he came down the stairs into the kitchen and asked “What do you think, Mom?” We laughed at how tiny they were. They showed off his long muscular legs that now lie still in the grass, carpenter ants crawling up them and into his shorts.
This is how I found him. After a teammate discovered him incoherent and pacing back and forth near the fence.
“He’s acting really wonky,” he said.
“What’s happened?” I asked, but my son did not reply, his pupils were big and unfocused. Sweat ran down his cheeks, newly covered in stubble. I sat down right next to him on the hard ground and cradled his head. His hair stuck to his forehead and his pulse could be seen through a vein on his temple.
My son was born into this world already infected with Staph B. His first day was filled with x-rays, spinal taps and IV antibiotics. Maybe this startling beginning is what made him such a cautious child.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran in rivulets down to his collarbone. His brown skin faded to a milky white. The medical worker shoved ice packs into his armpits and down his shorts near his groin. She said he had been belligerent with her, yelling and refusing to drink the Gatorade.
“Should I call 911?” she asked. She was only a volunteer in the medical tent, probably someone else’s mom. And she had exhausted her knowledge of what to do.
“No Mom, you call 911. You do it!!” He struggled to sit up and poked his finger into my arm, leaving a red welt.
“Please just take a drink.” I held up the bottle, but his eyes didn’t track it. He stared straight ahead, not blinking.
“I feel like I’m looking through a straw,” he said.
When my son was a toddler, he would collapse into a tantrum if he got too hungry. “Throw a cookie at him,” was the pediatrician’s advice. I walked around for months with pockets full of crumbling cookies.
I brought the bottle of Gatorade to his lips and forced him to take a sip. He shoved my arm, and the bottle flew across the grass.
“Are you happy now?” he said, bright red Gatorade running down his chin. “You just killed your son.” His face turned pale, and his eyes rolled back as he lost consciousness again.
“Is he always like this?” the medical worker asked.
“No, he used to dance ballet.”
His sneakers lay in a heap on the ground next to him. Who took them off, I have no idea. The field clears out. His coach and classmates head home unaware of the danger my son is in. I brush back the hair that is stuck to his forehead and he opens his eyes.
“I fell asleep during the race,” he said,
“That’s impossible, I watched you finish it.”
“You’re lying to me, Mom.”
I showed him the gold medal on the blue and yellow cord that hung around his neck. He turned his head and looked away.
When my son was a young boy, maybe eight or nine, he really wanted to win a prize. Any prize. He would enter every contest he could find from the packages of his favorite Trix yogurt or the back of a cereal box. He would beg me to buy ten boxes of the same type of cereal if there was a chance to win a prize. He fell for advertising hook, line, and sinker and went about life with a wide-eyed innocence. He really believed if you ate Chips Ahoy cookies, a rainbow of chips would fall from the sky.
The ambulance takes thirty minutes to arrive. The ice packs shoved under his armpits and down his shorts near his groin are melting and leaving large wet circles on his jersey and shorts.
My son’s school uniform in first grade required wearing a belt. He insisted on following this rule even though he struggled to undo the belt on his own. Even though he knew he would have to wait his turn to use the bathroom. A large wet circle formed while he struggled to unfasten the belt. The hot tears of humiliation left wet circles on his shirt.
My son felt the signs of low blood sugar mid-race but powered through. It was against his self-imposed rules to stop before the finish line plus he really wanted that prize. So here he lays flat on his back in the grass, his head cradled in my arms like a baby while black carpenter ants criss-cross his torso. He begins to examine his hands.
“Look how big they are.”
“They look fine, son”
“No, Mom. They’re huge and so white,” he cried, “like big balloons.” All I could see were long slender fingers that would have been great for learning to play the piano.
My son was six years old when my grandmother died. I took him to the funeral and he spent the next few months grappling with the idea of death. He had trouble sleeping at night and would creep into my room and tap me quietly on the shoulder until I woke up.
“It’s happening again. I’m thinking of not existing.”
“Don’t worry, son you are here right now.”
“But when I die there will be nothing. I’ll just be gone.”
“You’re here and you’re fine.”
“Gone! How can I just be gone?” he cried.
It was a concept impossible for me to think about.
My son crossed the finish line and looked for the medical tent, but it was too late. His blood sugar had dropped so low that he started hallucinating, believing the medical worker was trying to poison him. Then he passed out flat on his back in the grass, his pupils big and unfocused. His sneakers in a heap on the ground next to him –that is how I found him.
My son keeps a picture of himself in his ballet costume on a shelf in his room. He doesn’t mind being teased about the shiny silver pants and sequined top he wore. Also on his shelf, amid many athletic trophies, is a framed certificate naming him the Mt Dew king. A prize awarded to him by his friend for downing the most bottles of Mt. Dew in the span of an hour. I often wonder if he still worries about dying or if he has adopted the invincibility of a teenager.
Later, when his blood sugar has been restored and his hallucinations are gone, he is ready to be released from the hospital. He gets up from the bed and I stare at the trail of dead ants he leaves in the sheets.
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Jennifer Pinto earned her doctorate in clinical psychology from Wright State University’s School of Professional Psychology and worked as a clinician for a number of years. She has recently started writing and her first piece was published in Sun Dog Literary Magazine. Her other interests include making slab-built pottery. She lives with her husband in Cincinnati, Ohio.
© 2023, Jennifer Pinto
Halfway Down the Stairs 