Auntie Guilt

Bubs had a seizure. Almost a year ago now… and I can still feel that memory inside me, a wound that never fully healed. His fever spiked out of nowhere. People love to tell me now that it’s “common,” like that’s supposed to heal anything. But in that moment? There was nothing common about it.

My whole world snapped into slow-motion. He looked up at me with eyes that weren’t his. And before I could even panic properly, his tiny body started convulsing in my arms. There are no words for that kind of fear. It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s not even scream-y. It’s heavy. It sits in your lungs and squeezes without mercy. It steals every rational thought and replaces it with pure, animalistic terror.

And I’ll be honest- I don’t pray much anymore. Not like I used to. But right then? Begging. “Please don’t take him from me. Please. Please. Please.” I didn’t say it out loud, but inside I was on my knees. But at the same time, something in me kicked awake. This raw, terrifying clarity. Not calm. Not brave…

Simply instinctual.

I got Mamaw to call 911. I held him and kept talking to him even though my voice felt like it was borrowed. I moved downstairs, closer to the door, because help couldn’t get here fast enough. I cooled him down and checked the clock. My brain glued together snapshots so I wouldn’t forget anything important.

No one told me what to do. No one had to.

I remembered we had another sleeping child in the house. “Please someone find the monitor,” I said. The world couldn’t fall apart twice in one afternoon.

Then his dad came home mid-chaos, and when he froze, I told him, “Call your wife.” Because somebody had to steer the ship. People told me afterward that I handled everything perfectly. They praised me. They kept telling me how “incredible” I was, how “instinctive,” how “strong.”

Inside… I wasn’t thinking about bravery. I was trying not to collapse under the weight of what almost happened. I kept replaying every second: He was clingy that day. Should I have seen something sooner? Should I have known? Should I have done anything differently?

Logically I know the truth: He had no fever. There was nothing to treat. This wasn’t preventable. This wasn’t on me. But guilt isn’t logical. Guilt is emotional shrapnel. And even now, I still feel that moment in my bones. The way it rewired me. The way it made me love harder, watch closer, hold tighter.

Me and Bubs were close before. But that day soldered something between us I don’t even have words for. And more than anything… I hope he never remembers the terror. I hope all he carries is the warmth - that he was held, loved, safe in the worst moment of his little life. If someone has to remember the fear in detail, it should be me.

Never him.