A cold, dark New Year’s Eve on the prairie many years ago. The first snowflakes are swirling from the dark sky when I close the door behind our neighbors. They had planned on taking us to a year-end dance in the arena of our small ranching community. We had to decline because the only babysitter that night phoned in sick.

Although I love dancing I was not too disappointed because I did not want to leave our little son, our pride and joy for a long night out.

Peter and I decided to to prepare for a cozy evening with games and music instead

Suddenly, I heard a terrible retching sound from the living room and saw our little boy throwing up violently. Our little whirlwind had been unusually quiet during the neighbors’s visit, and now I realize why. When after a few hours, the violent vomiting and diarrhea did not stop; panic gripped me. This was not a mild stomach flu that little children survived quickly.

I convinced Peter to drive us to the local hospital for help. Our sick son was immediately admitted by the perceptive head nurse to be put on intravenous to replenish his body fluids. 

“Now he is in the best hands,” Peter told me, “and we can still go to the dance”.

I was in disbelief. The thought of going home never entered my mind. I would stay with our little boy. 

Disappointed and telling me that I was an overly protective mother, Peter left for home.

I watched the nurses trying to find a vein for the intravenous needle in our son’s head after they administered medice to stop the vomiting and diraiah and to calm him down.

I sat by his crib, gently stroking his body, watching him breathe, and occasionally stirring in his sleep.  Time ticked away. It felt such a relief to see him sleep.

After a few hours, a nurse came to change his intravenous drip. While she was working on the apparatus, I saw our little son suddenly turn blue. Unaware of what was happening, I asked the nurse if this was normal. She had not looked at him while installing the drip fluid bag. One glance and she stormed out of the room, returning in an instant with an oxygen tank. By that time, our little boy was in convulsions. She immediately pumped his heart to revive his breathing. After what seemed an eternity, she succeeded and immediately put him on oxygen.

I watched it tomorrow. She called another nurse and phoned the only doctor attending the dance.

Dr. Knight arrived in his finery, annoyed to be called away from the festivities. He told me to leave the room to call my husband, saying, ” I think we are fighting a losing battle.” I was numb with anguish and terror and sank down beside the wall, praying with incoherent words, beseeching God to save our little boy. I felt like in a nightmare.

On his way out, the doctor asked what I was doing, seeing me on my knees with folded hands. My heart was crying out to God to save our child. I repeated over and over the Prayer like a mantra;

Suddenly the doctor muttered, “I will try to phone a specialist in Edmonton. Pray that I can reach him.” (This happened before mobile phones.)

The prayer was answered. The specialist advised the doctor to give a calcium injection to stop the convulsions. Young children lose electrolytes faster than adults. Until that night, the country doctor did not know children needed different procedures.

These calcium injections not only saved the life of our son but many small children from that day on. As the nurses told me later, many small children in the past had died of similar conditions because the doctor lacked that knowledge.

On New Year’s Day, our little boy was transported by ambulance 300 km over icy roads to Edmonton Hospital to be tested for brain damage due to the convulsions.

I am happy to say that he survived the ordeal without any damage and grew up to be a healthy, strong, intelligent and loving man.

I never forget that fateful night. It taught me to believe in God and the power of prayers to bring about miracles.