I’m choosing to share more of it, because this experience showed me how fast medical emergencies can happen — and how unprepared you can feel when they do. My hope is that by telling our story, another parent might recognize the signs sooner, feel less alone, or hold onto hope if they ever find themselves in a similar situation. God forbid — but if it happens, I want them to know survival and healing are possible.
This isn’t just another post asking for help. This is me being honest about where we are right now. This is the moment we need support the most — and I’m choosing not to be ashamed of that anymore.
I’ve spent most of my life being strong, holding it together, and handling everything on my own. But this experience taught me something important: it’s okay to put the wall down. It’s okay to ask for help. And it’s okay to admit that I don’t have to carry everything by myself.
I have to be okay for him to be okay. And right now, letting people show up for us is part of that.
So buckle up folks I wanted to make it look good
I’ve gone back and forth on sharing this. Overthinking it. Deleting it. Rewriting it a dozen times. Because growing up, the worst thing you could do was ask for help. Telling a story for someone to feel sorry for you. How could you be so dramatic and look for attention that way. You didn’t show weakness. You didn’t let people see you struggling. You handled your problems quietly and kept moving.
So this is uncomfortable for me. Letting people see me scared, overwhelmed, and not okay does not come naturally. But if there was ever a time to be honest, open and scared, this is it.
A few weeks ago, my son Maverick—my wild, energetic, usually unstoppable little boy—was diagnosed with asthma. Three days later, what we thought was just a common cold turned into a full-blown emergency.
He went into respiratory distress at home. I called 911. Watching your child struggle to breathe is a fear I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It’s instant panic. Pure helplessness. He seemed better once they arrived, but as soon as the ambulance pulled out of our driveway he was back into full panic mode. I called 911 back and said I needed them back ASAP and off to Dubuque we went. At our local ER, I remember overthinking in my head that I was overreacting and just being an extra dramatic mom. And I but would have been the first to tell anyone he was most likely going to have a albuterol treatment, maybe prescribe him some steroids and off we go. The albuterol treatment was 60 minutes long, and that was the calmest he had been all morning. When the 60 minutes was complete, not even 30 seconds later he went right back into full panic mode. On his hands and knees in the hospital bed, crawling and grasping at the bed sheets. And I will never get the image of his face, so scared, looking at me and repeating "I can't breathe, I can't breathe."
Crazy to think back on it, but at that moment, I couldn't breathe either. I would have done absolutely anything in that moment to be in his shoes. To take that pain, fear and anxiety away from him. Things then escalated very quickly in the ER, and it just seemed like nothing could come easy for us but I continued to remind myself - don't sweat over the things you can't control. The amazing ER physician at Mercy was calm and compassionate when telling me he needs to send my son to a bigger hospital for more critically ill patients, which stabbed my right in the heart, but then he continued and I am still surprised I was standing by the end of our conversation. He continued to tell me that my son's condition is so severe and critical he truly believes its best to aircare him to the hospital, and I would not be able to go with in the helicopter. The thought of leaving my baby boy at his most vulnerable almost killed me. Once he hit me with, "We are going to intubate him and sedate him on the ground first, just so they don't have to try and do that in the air if he became more distressed.
The words coming out of his mouth didn’t feel real. My mom yelling, “What?! What do you mean?!” while trying to hold back tears made me melt into a puddle right there.
I’m a nurse. I’ve been in situations like this more times than I can count. I know how to stay calm and collected. But when it’s your own child, all of that training means absolutely nothing. That was my moment to shine — and instead, I fell apart.
He was intubated and stabilized so he could be flown by helicopter to a children’s hospital. My 4-year-old baby was in respiratory distress, and all I could think about was how I didn’t know how long it would be before I’d hear him sing K-pop Demon Hunters to me again. That thought alone made me want to run far away from everything.
But somehow, in the middle of all of this, I remembered what he’s taught me. He’s taught me how to be strong — not because I want to be, but because I have to be. For him.
Iowa City was our first destination, which gave me some comfort because I’ve worked collaboratively with them before. Then we were told they had no beds available. Next was Madison, Wisconsin — until moments later, they didn’t have beds either. Finally, Des Moines became our destination. Four hours away from home.
About an hour into the quietest, most depressing drive of my life, my phone rang. “St. Luke’s” flashed across the screen, and my heart sank. I truly thought the worst. Thankfully — though it was still absolutely traumatic — they were calling to tell me they had to make an emergency stop at St. Luke’s because my son’s breathing tube came out mid-flight. With only two medical staff in the helicopter, one of them had to manually bag him so he wouldn’t code, and they needed additional hands immediately.
We were only ten minutes away. We ran into that room and saw our boy — sedated, sleeping, still fighting. They assured us everything looked good and there were no setbacks. The pilot was refueling, and once things were secure, they would be back in the air.
So we got back on the road, chasing a helicopter carrying our entire world.
35 minutes later, my phone rang again, and St. Lukes popped up on my screen. "I apologize, but I just spoke with the physician in Des Moines prior to take-off, and they don't feel comfortable with how critical your son is to have him admitted to their hospital. They believe he may need more extensive treatments such as ECMO, which they do not provide at their facility so they are no longer accepting him at their hospital." My mouth dropped, and I am pretty sure I just chuckled because I was so dumbfounded. My head was so whiplashed, and I just wanted to be bedside to my boy. Thankfully, the man upstairs heard my wish and we were shortly accepted for admission at University of Iowa Children's Hospital, Pediatric Intensive Care Unit who has an ECMO team on the unit if it was needed.
Thirty-five minutes later, my phone rang again. St. Luke’s flashed across my screen, and my stomach dropped.
“I’m so sorry,” the voice said. “I just spoke with the physician in Des Moines prior to takeoff, and they don’t feel comfortable admitting your son given how critical he is. They believe he may need more extensive treatment, such as ECMO, which they do not provide at their facility. Because of that, they are no longer able to accept him.”
My mouth dropped open. I’m pretty sure I laughed — not because anything was funny, but because I was completely dumbfounded. My head was spinning so fast it felt like whiplash. All I wanted was to be at my son’s bedside. Nothing else mattered.
Then, somehow, the universe answered.
Shortly after, we were notified that University of Iowa Children’s Hospital had accepted him for admission to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit — a unit with an ECMO team available if it was needed.
It wasn’t relief exactly. It was survival. And for the first time in hours, I knew he was going somewhere that could give him everything he might need.
Four days in the PICU. Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. In the hospital. Machines breathing for him. Tubes. IVs. Bruises from procedures. My baby waking up confused and terrified, restrained, unable to understand why he couldn’t talk or breathe on his own. There is nothing that prepares you for that. You don’t become strong—you just survive minute by minute. We never had a definite discharge day, and I could barely let myself hope for one anyway. But through it all, we were treated with so much kindness and care. The accommodations they provided to make an impossible situation feel even slightly less overwhelming is something I’ll never forget — and something I’ll always be deeply thankful for.
Thankfully, Maverick fought like hell (and yes, I definitely passed down my stubbornness). Four days later — the day after Christmas — we walked out of the hospital grateful beyond words, but deeply shaken.
But if you know me, and you know my life, then you won’t be surprised when I say… it didn’t just end there.
Writing this took more out of me than I expected. Part 2 will come soon.
Thank you for the love, patience, and support. I appreciate you all more than you know. 💙
