That’s pretty much how the day goes. Kendall trades Ridge, Everly for Beck, while Dawn takes Ben. “Babe, we should have a cookout at our place every weekend,” I tell Reagan.
“Right?” She laughs. “Y’all do diapers too, right?” she teases.
It’s a great day with family and friends. The twins love all the attention, and my wife and I are enjoying a break.
“Come on, little man. If you cry, I have to give you back to your mommy,” Kent whispers to Beck, who’s getting restless.
“He’s hungry,” Reagan says, reaching for the diaper bag and mixing up two bottles. “We’ll take them.”
“What? You don’t trust us?” Seth speaks up from where he’s sitting across the patio, holding Ben.
“Of course we do. I just didn’t want to assume you’d feed them.”
“Hand over the bottle, woman.” Kent grins.
My wife does as he says, then hands the other off to Seth, giving them each a receiving blanket just in case.
I reach out for her as she heads back to her seat and pull her into my lap. Conversation lulls on until Seth breaks through our conversation.
“Ty!” Seth yells, panicked. “He’s… something’s wrong,” he says. Worry is etched in his voice.
Reagan jumps from my lap, and I’m hot on her heels as we rush to where Seth is sitting with Ben in his arms.
“Oh my God,” Reagan cries.
One look at my son and I know something is seriously wrong. His color is bluish and he doesn’t appear to be breathing. “Kendall!” I shout, but she’s already standing next to us, pulling Ben from Seth’s arms and starting CPR.
Somewhere in the blur of the background, I hear someone shout that they called 911. I watch as my sister-in-law breathes air into my son’s lungs.
Reagan is in my arms; her cries hysterical. Her body is trembling. Then again, maybe that’s me.
I feel a tear roll down my cheek.
I hold my breath. Willing him to breathe.
Seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
I’m not sure how much time passes.
“Ben,” Reagan says with a sob at the same time we hear him cry. Her body slumps into mine, and I stumble slightly. My legs are jelly. I feel a strong arm on my shoulders, and a whispered voice, “Lean on me, brother.” I don’t know who it is. Mark I think. But I can’t take my eyes off my son.
“Kendall?” I croak her name.
She cradles Ben in her arms, tears streaming down her face. “He’s breathing,” she says as the sounds of the life squad blare in the distance.
“W-What happened?” Reagan asks.
“I’m not sure,” she says, not taking her eyes off Ben.
I want to hold him. I want to reassure myself that he’s okay, but we don’t know that. I’m scared to death to hold my son, not knowing if he’s going to stop breathing again.
“Ben,” Reagan weeps as we move toward them. His cries quiet at the sound of her voice. Reaching out, I offer him my finger, and he latches on with an iron grip.
I still have the strength of someone behind me. Turning, I see Mark standing there, worry written all over his face. The next few minutes are a flurry of activity as the paramedics arrive. Kendall remains calm, and through her tears, relays the events and about how long she thinks he was out. Less than a minute, I hear her say. I’m thankful, but it felt as though it was a lifetime.
“Hey.” Ridge comes over to us. “You two ride with him. We’ll take care of Beck.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. As if he knew what we needed, Kent appears at our side, and we each take a turn hugging Beck and telling him we’ll be back soon. Reagan climbs on the stretcher as instructed, and holds Ben in her arms. I wait until I’m given the okay, then climb in the back of the rig, leaning in close to them. My eyes are laser-focused on his little chest, watching the gentle rise and fall.
The ride to the children’s hospital is a blur. I try to listen to what the paramedics are saying, but all I can do is stare at my baby boy lying in my wife’s arms hooked up to oxygen. It’s a sight I never thought I would see and one that will surely haunt my dreams for many nights to come.
At the Emergency Room, I battle with my emotions as I watch doctors and nurses run test after test, and poke and prod our little boy. I will him to stay strong, to battle against whatever it is that caused this. What we thought was going to be a nice day with friends and family turned into a nightmare.
Chapter 25
Reagan
* * *
Congenital heart defect.
We’ve been here for hours, so long that I’ve lost track of time, and they’ve just given us the official diagnosis. Ben was born with a hole in his heart. I have millions of questions running through my mind. How could this happen? Why my baby? How was this missed? All of which the physicians here at the children’s hospital have calmly answered. The care Ben is receiving is outstanding. We have a family room. Meaning, Ty and I get to stay here with him. No outside visitors, but we get to be here.
My heart is split in two. It’s breaking for my son, who is currently lying here hooked up to machines. And then there’s Beckett, my baby boy who’s not with us. Does he have this same condition?
“My advice would be to have him checked, just to make sure,” Dr. Langston says.
Apparently, I asked that last one aloud. “So, he has a hole in his heart?” I say, trying like hell to keep the tears at bay. Trying to wrap my head around what that means for my baby boy.
“How do you fix it?” Tyler asks from his spot beside me. His grip on my hand is tight, but I don’t mind. It’s a constant reminder that he’s here with me. I’m not going through this hellish nightmare alone.
“There are two ways. Open-heart surgery and cardiac catheterization. I want to run some more tests just to be certain, but I believe that catheterization is the best treatment for Benjamin.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Dr. Langston, who introduced himself as Ben’s pediatric cardiologist, nods. “It means that I’ll take a thin tube and insert it into a blood vessel in his leg. I’ll then guide the tube, or catheter if you will, to his heart. The catheter is equipped with special equipment so that I can see exactly where I am the entire time.” He pauses, letting us process what he’s said so far. “Benjamin has an atrial septal defect or ASD. It’s a hole in the heart that divides the two upper chambers. I’ll be placing a tiny patch, shaped almost like an umbrella over the hole. As Benjamin grows, the tissue will grow over the patch and create a natural barrier for the wall of the heart, keeping it together.”
“And the other option?” Ty asks, his voice tight.
“Open-heart surgery. We would cut open his chest to perform the same procedure. The recovery time is longer since it’s a more invasive surgery. However, I’m confident that we can repair Benjamin’s defect through catheterization. The hole is rather small. It’s important that we fix this issue quickly to prevent further episodes or give the hole time to grow larger, at which, open-heart surgery would be necessary.”
“What does all of this mean for him?” I ask. “Can he live a normal life?”
“Absolutely. The only real limitation is we would recommend he not participate in contact sports such as football. He’ll still be able to run and play like a normal child. He will need regular checkups and testing to ensure the patch is secure and that the tissue is growing over the patch as it should be.”
“What are the risks?” I ask. I’m trying really hard to keep my emotions in check. My head is swarming with questions and fears. My heart is breaking for my baby boy.
“As with any medical procedure, especially one such as this, there are risks. Medicine is not an exact science. I can assure you that I’ve performed this exact procedure countless times and that not doing the procedure has higher risks than the procedure itself.”
“So, when do we do this? When do you fix his heart?” Ty asks.
; “Today. I’m going to order some more tests so that I have recent scans, but we go in today, with your permission, of course.”
I look over at Ty and he nods. “Okay,” I agree.
Dr. Langston bobs his head. “I’ve given you a lot of information. I’ll have the nurse bring you a packet that explains the procedure in detail. Take a look, and I’ll come back in an hour or so and answer any further questions you might have.” He stands and leaves the room.
“Come here.” Ty pulls me into his lap.
“He looks so tiny hooked up to all of these machines,” I say, looking at Ben sleeping in his bed.
“He does,” he agrees. “He’s going to be okay.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s a fighter.”
“What if Beck has the same thing?”