It was a cold January morning in 2010. Javi had left for work, and I had just finished breakfast with Jax. At the time, we were living at my parents’ house, preparing to move into our townhouse in the coming weeks. We had celebrated Jax’s first birthday the November before, and he was walking, talking, and curious in every way a one-year-old could be. He had routines he loved; after breakfast, he would watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse in the living room and play with his toys. I can still see him today, sitting there with his little snack bowl, completely absorbed. To keep him safe, I’d barricade him with an ottoman and chairs, so he only had access to the living room and a bedroom and bathroom off to the side. He was still too small to open doors, so closing the bathroom door was enough to keep him safe.
I refilled his snacks, started another episode, and headed into a bedroom to pack boxes for our upcoming move. The house was quiet—no music, no other distractions—just Jax talking to Mickey through the TV, excitedly yelling colors and shapes. And then, abruptly, the noise stopped. I thought I’d refill his snacks again and check on him. I walked into the living room—and he was gone.
My heart skipped a beat. “Check the bedroom,” I thought. It was attached to the living room, and with the furniture barricades, there was no other way he could have gone. But he wasn’t there. Panic began to rise. I started calling his name, louder this time, my voice trembling. I went outside, my mind racing, and immediately saw the pool in my parents’ backyard. It was empty. A fleeting wave of relief hit me—at least he wasn’t in the pool. The lake behind our neighborhood houses was next. Relief again—he wasn’t there either.
Back inside, I ran to my dad’s office. Jax loved spending time there, especially when my dad had snacks or was watching football. But he wasn’t there either. My shouts grew louder. My father joined the search, but nothing could prepare us for what was coming. I ran back outside, and there he was—face up in the lake, in his dinosaur footie pajamas.
A sight I will never unsee.
I collapsed immediately. My baby was gone. I screamed. “No! God, no!” My body froze. All my training, all the years I spent learning CPR and child safety—it vanished. My mind could not process the scene in front of me. My dad ran down, shouting, “No buddy! No buddy! No my buddy!” He pulled Jax from the water and began CPR, urging me to call 911. I scrambled for the phone, everything moving in slow motion.
Three minutes—what felt like hours—had passed. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. I fumbled through the words to tell the 911 operator our address. I watched my dad, crying, pushing on Jax’s chest, whispering, “Come on, buddy. Come on…” And then, water gushed from Jax’s mouth. He coughed. Relief and disbelief collided in my chest. Firefighters arrived, took him from my dad, hooked him up to machines under the patio, and prepared him for transport. I heard a weak, waterlogged cry, but with so many people around, I couldn’t reach him.
Another fire truck arrived—my dad had suffered a mild heart attack from the trauma. Helicopters, news crews, and chaos surrounded us. One firefighter finally said, “Come with me, we’ll follow the ambulance.” I left the backyard, barefoot, in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, sending a single text to Javi: “Mesa hospital, JAX!” Then I focused on the road, terrified the ambulance would speed away, leaving me behind.
The ride felt endless. I worried: Does he know I’m right here? He’s not alone—I’m right here! At the hospital, the first person I saw was Javi. Somehow, he had made it to Jax first. Relief flooded me. Jax was awake, eyes open, and knew who we were. My chest tightened with gratitude, but also with lingering terror. I had to remind myself: he was alive.
They allowed me into the room. I whispered in his ear, telling him I loved him, apologizing for not keeping him safe. Only later did I learn how he got outside: the small dog door my parents had for their beagles. A tiny door—my little boy had found his way through it.
I didn’t know it then, but my behavior had been closely observed by firefighters and hospital staff. I was soon interviewed by Child Protective Services. I was offended at the time, but had nothing to hide. My only thought was getting back to Jax. My dad, thankfully, was okay—the heart attack was mild—and Jax remained stable. They monitored him in the Children’s Unit for four days, ensuring his brain and organs were unaffected. Miraculously, he was our same sweet, clever boy.
The experience taught me a devastating, humbling lesson. I had once judged parents in similar stories, thinking they weren’t careful enough. Now, I was that parent. It happens in seconds. Even with every precaution, children can find danger in ways we cannot anticipate. Jax’s survival was nothing short of a miracle.
The firefighters explained why I hadn’t seen him immediately—he was completely submerged, the drowning process invisible. The cold January water had helped protect his vital organs, slowing his heart rate and preserving his brain. It was a terrifying gift of fate, and I thanked God over and over.
We eventually moved into our townhouse, ironically in another lake community. CPS closed our case, labeling the event a tragic accident, not neglect. I was grateful for their diligence—because some parents truly do not watch their children. This reinforced for me the fragility and preciousness of life.
Years have passed. We’ve had more children. I regret not seeking therapy. Javi and I rarely spoke about that morning, because his first reaction to danger is anger, and mine is fear. I understand him now, but it took time to process the PTSD and the weight of those moments. I cannot forget that day. I cannot forget my father, whose quick actions saved Jax’s life. I cannot forget the miracle that Jax is here. Every time I look at him, I feel it. Every hug, every laugh, every breath—it’s a gift I will never take for granted.
Even if it was only for moments, I lost him. And now, I will cherish him for a lifetime.
