Jonny McCambridge: Ten years since the most traumatic day of our lives and we’re back in the hospital with our son

Birthdays and anniversaries may be similar, although I have regretfully proven adept at failing to remember both. As some sort of semi-magnanimous defence, I have sometimes shown myself to be more proficient at remembering other people’s birthdays than my own.

But beyond that, dates tend not to stick in my memory. There are many events that I can confidently say I will always remember occurring but would struggle to pin them down to a specific year, never mind month or day.

Social media serves as an (often unwanted) aide memoire. Facebook reminds me of anniversaries of former posts. Usually, I am underwhelmed when the event turns out to be a picture of something I once made for dinner or a photograph of a hole in my sock, leaving me wondering why I bothered to record something so inane.

But there are exceptions. Last week I received a post which reminded that it was 10 years ago since my son was in hospital. The trauma of the occasion remains fresh and I struggled to believe that a decade could have passed. However, the maths do not lie – my son was an infant when he was admitted and is now on the point of leaving primary school.

I was driving home on that evening in June 2014 when I received the message from my wife that our boy had been rushed to the emergency department. Since birth he had been prone to ear infections which caused high temperatures which could occasionally lead to seizures. The medical term is febrile convulsions. The longer the seizure lasted, the more dangerous it could become.

I drove to the hospital and rushed to reception. I was taken to a room where my son was lying on a bed. There seemed to be tubes everywhere. Doctors worked as his tiny body writhed horrifically. The fit lasted for more than 20 minutes before it finally broke and we heard the glorious sound of our boy crying.

Although the danger had passed, the ordeal was just beginning. The doctors wanted to get a clearer sense of what had occurred and to continue to monitor my son, so he was taken by ambulance to a larger hospital. There were to be several days of tests. My wife slept in the cot with my son while I attempted to get my rest sitting upright on an armchair. It is difficult to keep a one-year-old boy cooped up in a small space for endless hours. Those days were characterised by long periods of boredom, exhaustion and occasional adversity.

The doctors needed to keep a channel open into my son’s arteries so they could extract blood or insert medicine as needed. So, they put a line into his arm. As any active child might do, he promptly pulled it out. The line was inserted several more times into his limbs, only to be yanked out again. Within a couple of days, my boy resembled a pin cushion. As a last resort, a doctor told us that they wanted to put the line into a vein on his head.

My baby son was taken towards another room. I went there too but was asked to wait outside. I pleaded that if somebody was going to stick a needle into my son’s head, I wanted to be with him. The staff told me it was better I didn’t see and closed the door. Within minutes I heard my boy yelling and then the nurse stepped and outside asked me if I could help.

I held my son tight in my arms. I whispered about how he was the “bravest boy in the world” as I saw the large needle approach from behind. His face was buried in my chest, so the screams were muffled.

He spent the next couple of days with a large bandage covering the rubber tube attached to his skull. Often, he attempted to remove the dressing and I had to summon a nurse to refit it.

There were other children on the ward, some much sicker than my son. As the days passed we got to know a few of them, and their parents. A bond of some sort was formed as we comforted each other. The relief was limitless when we were finally told that our son could go home after the most difficult week of our lives.

As I said, I received the post reminding me of this anniversary in the last few days. What I didn’t state was that we were once again in hospital when it pinged onto my phone.

My son continues to be prone to infections and high temperatures. Last week, it progressed into a rash on his neck. We took him to the GP who was concerned enough to advise us to drive him to the A&E department. The unspoken fear was meningitis.

Blood was to be taken and tested. Once more it was explained that a line would be placed into our son’s arm. A young doctor reassured him about how simple the procedure would be before inserting the needle, covering the bed in blood and having to rush to summon a nurse for assistance.

We waited patiently for the results, which arrived shortly after midnight. The doctor smiled as he informed us that there was nothing to be concerned about. I drove us home. This time the ordeal was just hours, rather than days.

There is no particular significance in the fact that we ended up back in hospital on the tenth anniversary of our previous visit, no cosmic or ethereal meaning to be drawn. It was just a coincidence. But it served as a useful reminder that while the kids get bigger, the constant sense of worry does not get smaller.