My youngest brother, Ted, died for 7 minutes when he was a 1 year old baby. He was born with a heart murmur. On this occasion, Ted was ill with pneumonia and Dr. Hewitt had spent the night using poultices and what medicine he thought might keep him alive until his temperature went down. Mama told us about this later and she said his temperature was 106 1/2.
About 7:00 A.M., there were more than a dozen people gathered in the kitchen--- dad, the church pastor, neighbors and relatives, and the kids, of course. The doctor came out of the bedroom and said, "I'm sorry. The boy is dead." Immediately, the scene turned to grief, some giving comfort and others receiving it. Everyone was in the kitchen except mama. She was in the room with Ted. Dad announce, "She won't give up."
Ted had stopped breathing. The seconds were ticking away, turning into minutes. Mama had gone berserk, we thought. She ought to accept his passing and come out and grieve with us. But she wouldn't.
After a couple of minutes, she came out of the room. The crowd fell silent, looking at her. She only spoke to dad. "Get your bottle!" she ordered. The adults knew what that meant. The time was during prohibition. Liquor was illegal. Dad and many others drank anyway, keeping the bottle hidden. Even we kids knew he kept it in the barn behind the cotton seed hulls.
Without a word, he got up and hurried out to the barn bringing the bottle back. By now, 3 or 4 minutes had passed. Mama ordered, "Fix Ted a STRONG HOT TODDY!" Some of the women gasped but cut it short. They watched as dad quickly mixed the drink in a cup. Then he took the drink into the room. The doctor stood in the doorway. Mama held the baby up and began pouring the fiery liquid into the baby's mouth. Ted was already blue from the lack of oxygen. She poured so fast the liquid filled his mouth and ran over. She held him higher and slapped him on the back, then gave him more.
The doctor looked at the clock on the mantel; six minutes had passed and imperceptibly shook his head. Suddenly Ted's eyelids quivered and his lips closed. Mama stopped pouring and gave him another slap on the back. He squirted a mixture of whiskey and sugar out of his mouth and gave a weak cry. He was alive.
Never underestimate the power of a strong mother to do the impossible for her child. Mama attended church the next day, and, of course, taught Sunday School.
About 7:00 A.M., there were more than a dozen people gathered in the kitchen--- dad, the church pastor, neighbors and relatives, and the kids, of course. The doctor came out of the bedroom and said, "I'm sorry. The boy is dead." Immediately, the scene turned to grief, some giving comfort and others receiving it. Everyone was in the kitchen except mama. She was in the room with Ted. Dad announce, "She won't give up."
Ted had stopped breathing. The seconds were ticking away, turning into minutes. Mama had gone berserk, we thought. She ought to accept his passing and come out and grieve with us. But she wouldn't.
After a couple of minutes, she came out of the room. The crowd fell silent, looking at her. She only spoke to dad. "Get your bottle!" she ordered. The adults knew what that meant. The time was during prohibition. Liquor was illegal. Dad and many others drank anyway, keeping the bottle hidden. Even we kids knew he kept it in the barn behind the cotton seed hulls.
Without a word, he got up and hurried out to the barn bringing the bottle back. By now, 3 or 4 minutes had passed. Mama ordered, "Fix Ted a STRONG HOT TODDY!" Some of the women gasped but cut it short. They watched as dad quickly mixed the drink in a cup. Then he took the drink into the room. The doctor stood in the doorway. Mama held the baby up and began pouring the fiery liquid into the baby's mouth. Ted was already blue from the lack of oxygen. She poured so fast the liquid filled his mouth and ran over. She held him higher and slapped him on the back, then gave him more.
The doctor looked at the clock on the mantel; six minutes had passed and imperceptibly shook his head. Suddenly Ted's eyelids quivered and his lips closed. Mama stopped pouring and gave him another slap on the back. He squirted a mixture of whiskey and sugar out of his mouth and gave a weak cry. He was alive.
Never underestimate the power of a strong mother to do the impossible for her child. Mama attended church the next day, and, of course, taught Sunday School.
1 comment:
Uncle Bill,
I had heard this story from Granny Lou and it still is quite a miracle every time I hear it. You write beautifully and I also heard my Dad wrote poems. I wish I could have read them. Take care and tell everyone hello.
Becky Crittenden
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