A Rattlesnake Bit My Toddler and Sparked Memories of Losing My Parents

I was sick at home when my 2-year-old son was bitten by a rattlesnake at a kid’s fairy-themed birthday party in LA.

My husband, Mac, was with our two kids when our son fell into the grass, crying and pointing to his hand. At first glance, Mac thought he was having an allergic reaction to a bee sting, a fair assessment for an Angelino parent, until he identified a second puncture wound in the divot between his little fingers.

It’s one thing to be present when your child gets hurt. The self-blame is straightforward — “It’s all my fault. I wasn’t quick enough. I should have seen it coming.” But when it happens without you, the guilt wanders until it emboldens — “Had I been there, I would have prevented it. I would have lured the snake away with the live mouse I keep in my first aid kit next to the Paw Patrol Band-Aids and butt cream.”

Mac rushed to the Children’s Hospital LA while I went through the suddenly delicate motions of being a parent to our oldest. The CHLA attending doctors, in tandem with California’s leading poison specialist, determined that he would require an anti-venom treatment. A Marvel comic book plotline except this was real life, and the idea of Mads becoming Sssnake-Man was far-fetched, even in our desperation. Ironically, this is when you’re meant to conjure hope. Even if your son’s hand has gone from swollen pink to rigid gray.

As we waited to see if the anti-venom would work, I ran through the unthinkable what-ifs until I landed on a firm bed of memories from the last time I feared death.

My mom died at 67

The first time someone deeply close to me died was 10 years ago, when I lost my mother.

Her death made no sense to me. She was 12 years younger than my dad and only 67 when she died. She’d lived a self-proclaimed glamorous life before meeting my dad and becoming surprisingly pregnant with me at 39.

Before that, she was a “walking model” at Bal Harbour Shops in the 70s, touting signage from the then-emerging designers of couture. We loved each other completely, but it was no secret that becoming a mother deprived her of her golden years.

I traveled across the county to be with her after her first heart attack. She refused medical advice to be added to a heart transplant list and was vehemently against keeping a low-sodium diet. For this, I was angry. I plead with her. I begged. Did she want to live? What if I were to get married one day? Wouldn’t she want to meet her future grandkids? All she wanted was sodium-rich tomato soup. I was so mad, I decided to cut my trip short so I didn’t have to watch her kill herself. Harsh, maybe, but that’s what it felt like at the time.

“Won’t you stay and hold my hand?” she asked before I left.

She died a few weeks later from sepsis after another heart attack. I made it back in time for her last breath.

Then my dad died at 82

I tried to do better when my dad became ill three years later. His death made more sense. He was an 82-year-old personal injury attorney with diabetes, Parkinson’s disease, and eventually bladder cancer.

In a word, my dad was basic before it became a popular insult. I mean it in the most endearing way. He was a New York Jew who grew up at the tail end of the Great Depression and was generally satisfied as long as he had a Miami Hurricanes game on and a palmful of peanuts that, in his final hours, he wouldn’t be able to swallow. It was then that I’d watch the games with him and drop ice chips into his mouth to offer some relief.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before he died, but I guess I expected to be there when it happened. Instead, I got a call very early one morning to let me know that my father had “expired.” Like a carton of milk.

My son’s snake bite taught me something important

In the weeks leading up to Madsen’s snake bite, we were preparing to move across the country to be closer to Mac’s family. The decision was made at the last minute, and we had limited assistance. We were moving so fast, we forgot what mattered until Mads was admitted to the ICU.

A decade ago, I had somehow mistaken my mother’s autonomy for abandonment. It was only now that I understood, far too late, that my mom needed me just as much as I needed her.

Madsen received 21 doses of anti-venom over a 72-hour period. And it worked. When I saw him, he kept saying “I got you!” which is what Mac had been telling him since they arrived.

“I got you, too, little buddy,” I said and held his hand in mine.