Hey, how are you?
If you answer that question with fine, I'm gonna assume you mean like the acronym, freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional.
I was doing the rounds when I was a teenager and at the time I had no idea that's exactly how I would feel in my 40s.
Have you heard of the term lifequake?
In this podcast, we talk about lifequakes, those unpredictable seismic shifts in time that lead to profound growth and empowerment.
And since we're on to season three now, you'll have heard me talk about my life, but maybe not in all that much detail.
So I figured that's what we would do for this episode.
My lifequake.
You can expect heartfelt conversations throughout this season that reveal the joy and the discomfort of unexpected change.
And I think you're going to like it here.
My name is Sean and this is Something Shifted.
have you ever needed to give someone a rescue breath?
Also known as mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Well, you see, my first real job was teaching kids to swim.
I swam competitively throughout high school, so teaching and then coaching was a natural progression.
But to become a swimming instructor, you must complete first aid training.
And doing a first aid course is like
taking out insurance.
It's the kind of thing you do but really hope you never have to use it.
Anyway, every year I would go to a refresher class and they'd pull out those creepy resus dummies.
I'm sure you've seen the kind of dummy I'm talking about.
know, a faceless, limbless torso of a man.
The color of putty.
Every year the facilitator would run through the steps for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and then
Give us each a chance to practice on this rubbery mannequin.
Start by assessing the situation.
Feel for a pulse.
Listen for breathing.
Sweep the mouth for obstructions.
Tilt the patient's head and lift the chin to open the airways.
Pinch the nostrils shut.
Cover the person's mouth with yours.
And if the patient is a baby or a child, you would cover their mouth and nose with your mouth, making sure you've created a tight seal.
give a rescue breath and if the chest rises then give a second breath.
Watching the rubbery torso inflate was somewhat amusing.
but watching my baby girl's chest rise and fall wasn't.
I hosted a drive time radio show in Cape Town the year that Zoe was born.
The city lights would fade in and the blue sky would slowly change to purple then pink, making for a spectacular drive home every evening.
And I would make it there just in time to join the nighttime routine, which included a bath before bed.
But it was June, so the roads were slippery and the sky was ominous.
By winter of 2016, Zoe was six months old and Rwenda and I were a pretty well-oiled bath time pit crew of two.
I was in charge of all the coochie coo entertainment while Rue took care of drying and moisturizing.
And we were well into our slick routine.
Rue reaching for a nappy, my hand on Zoe's chest so she wouldn't roll off the table.
And that's when I noticed Zoe stopped responding.
Her sky blue eyes glazed over.
pink cheeks turning pale and a blue tint developed around her lips.
Listen for breathing.
I don't hear anything.
Sweep the mouth for obstructions.
I can't open her mouth.
Her jaw is too stiff.
Picking her up, I bounced her against my shoulder, hoping that I'd be able to dislodge a wind bubble or reflux that might've gotten stuck in her throat, but the bouncing didn't
help.
Now she's gray.
Rue went in search of a phone, leaving the two of us alone.
Both of us were quiet.
one of us was lifeless.
But I listened again and this time there was a strained gasp.
Cover the baby's mouth and nose with your mouth making sure it's sealed.
If the chest rises give the second breath.
Watching Zoe's chest rise and fall as I breathed life into her body is something I can't unsee.
Rue finally got through to the ER and they said just come.
So we grabbed a blanket, ran down the stairs, chased the dogs out the house and started the car.
There were seven minutes of silence in our race to the hospital.
I know how long it takes to get from our home to the hospital because we had timed the route when Rue was still pregnant.
Back when we worried about the normal things that normal parents worry about, like developing language skills in a bilingual household.
Are we in a good school district?
Will we have rules for screen time?
know, seven minutes of silence erased dreams and plans.
Seven minutes changed our reality.
The harsh fluorescent light of the emergency room is unflattering and clinical.
Rue barged through those double doors, Zoe in her arms, not waiting to be triaged, while someone gently pulled me back because only one parent is allowed in the ER.
As those double doors swung closed, I heard it.
Zoe was crying.
She was breathing.
Had we overreacted?
Did I even need to give those rescue breaths?
And if not, why had she stopped responding in the first place?
803.
Now what?
There were 43 empty seats, 86.5 ceiling tiles and 12 strip lights.
There's only so much counting you can do to stay busy in a waiting area.
41 empty seats.
Finally an update.
The on-call Pead wasn't too fazed by my panic and clearly she'd seen many first-time parents in the ER.
Zoe was breathing and she was being monitored.
Standard issue blood tests were ordered and the hunt for answers had begun.
Some hours later, the doctor said Zoe was looking a lot better.
The color had returned to her cheeks and her vital signs were now stable.
With no real answers to the question of what had happened, we could either go home or choose to be transferred to a different hospital that had a pediatric intensive care unit
where Zoe would be monitored overnight.
What would you have done?
So did we.
They prepared Zoe to be transferred to a hospital 30 minutes away.
The rain dancing on the hospital roof and our dogs were outside.
It was late.
We needed to be practical now.
Ruenda would go with Zoe and I would go home.
I followed the ambience a little way until it turned right onto the highway and I needed to turn left.
As we parted ways, I felt like I was being split in two.
I wanted to be with my girls and I wanted us to feel safe.
But I wouldn't have either of those things for a very long time.
Like an intruder entering a home that isn't theirs, I spotted dishes in the sink, a onesie on the floor, soapy water in the bath, the smell of body lotion hung in the air, and a bag
of nappies ripped open.
Like someone had hit pause on a home video, interrupting our lives.
So full of life a few hours earlier, it was suddenly a house, no longer a home.
Zoe's bed would be empty tonight.
but I couldn't switch the lights off in her room.
Switching them off would be like hitting the play button on a video that would continue without her.
I couldn't bear the thought of being alone.
Noxonova slept on the bed with me that night.
I was in the car before the crack of dawn the next morning, joining the stop-start sea of taillights into the city, towards the hospital.
Zoe was the only baby in the pediatric ICU and she had everyone's attention.
The doctor had started lining up tests and scans and even meetings with specialists and all of this was very big.
Rue was recounting the version of events from the night before when I walked into the room and the doctor made eye contact with me saying,
We got the blood test results back, Dad.
And we can see that if you had not breathed for Zoe, she wouldn't be here today.
Now it was me struggling to breathe past the lump in my throat.
A stream of tears flowed from my eyes.
And it took a while before I could phone my manager to say, I wouldn't be entertaining Cape Town today.
We spent the next 50 days in hospital.
Doctors and specialists with quizzical looks on their faces and a sense of uncertainty in their words became our norm.
50 days of tests, results, followed by heartache.
That's how long it took for them to diagnose and start treating Zoe.
Over the next three years, we got to know pediatric specialists and pharmacists by name because that's what happens when you're in and out of hospital every month.
The scent of bleach hitting our nostrils coupled with all the white coats moving up and down the squeaky vinyl floored passageways was oddly comforting to us.
I don't know if it was the fact that our anxiety was off the charts or simply that we were so sleep deprived, but we would often switch the words hospital with hotel, which may say
a lot about what we consider as luxurious, I guess.
So we will be nine in January and I'm only now beginning to come to terms with what it takes to raise a child with profound disability.
What it takes to shoulder the looks from people when we're out just buying groceries.
What it takes to fight medical aids for assistive devices.
What it takes to administer medication three times a day.
What does it take to live a life interrupted by epileptic seizures?
If you're just a
tiny bit curious, you can go behind the scenes with me on Instagram at Sean Loots.
Zoe has intractable epilepsy, making managing seizures with medication really hard.
The second part of her diagnosis is global developmental delays.
And this is a diagnosis that's given to a child when they're delayed in one or more milestone areas.
So think of things like motor skills, speech, cognitive skills,
social and emotional development.
She's also low-toned, so the strength in her body is unpredictable.
And if we were to look at the average two-year-old as an example, many of them are walking to some degree, attempting to dress themselves, they might utter a few words or syllables,
and for short periods of time, play.
even if it's just somewhat independently.
Zoe isn't there yet.
With each passing day, she shows us how a small change in perspective unlocks a whole world of possibilities for her.
She keeps rewriting paragraphs of her life and defying what doctors had predicted for her.
Zoe is the most tenacious person I have ever met.
Jeepers, she's strong.
and she's introduced us to people and places and concepts that we would never have encountered if it weren't for her.
She's reminded me that despite the relentless pain and the discomfort that we've endured as parents, she's also given us hope and joy.
And I think it's because Zoe is surrounded by love and support and the fact that we believe in possibilities that she's gained the confidence and is learning to get herself
into an upright position.
This child wants to walk.
Zoe is my daughter.
and I love her wholeheartedly.
I am incredibly proud of her.
She means the world to me, but sometimes I do wish it was a bit easier.
I wish we could ride our bikes and eat ice cream on the weekend, hula hoop to Taylor Swift on the radio and revel in little things.
I wish others understood what it takes to fight for acceptance, to fight for inclusion.
to advocate for someone that can't speak for themself.
And that's what brings us to something shifted.
It's the kind of shift that changes your mindset, the way you feel in your body.
It gets right to your soul.
If you'd like more of that, you can join my mailing list, 321shift.
I've become a lot more empathetic and grounded as a result of my life quake.
and I've learnt about so many stories of situations similar to ours that provide me with motivation.
So it's my aim to share more stories of this kind with you and provide a space for possibility to thrive.
And this season we're exploring what it takes.
Now that you know a little bit more about the 24 hours that changed my life forever, I'll be asking some of South Africa's most interesting people to share how significant life
shifts
have led to profound personal transformation and empowerment, we'll speak to some experts along the way too.
What does it take to truly connect with yourself and break free of generational trauma?
What does it take to compete at the highest level of sport, just two years after giving birth for the very first time?
And what does it take to face a life-threatening illness?
What does it take to raise a child with a profound disability, Sean?
What does it take to conquer a new path when your normal undergoes a seismic shift?
It's true that I don't have all the answers, but in my experience, it starts with one more breath.
If you're hearing this, then you've listened to nearly the entire episode.
The next one will be out in two weeks from now.
November is also my birthday month and the best birthday present you could give this 45 year old is a five star review on Apple podcasts or Spotify.
Just tap that button inside the app you're listening on right now.
All five of them.
And when you do, imagine me smiling from ear to ear, doing a happy dance.
Thanks so much for listening.
Follow Something Shifted on Apple Podcasts or your favorite podcast player and share this episode with your friends and family.
You can find me on Instagram at SeanLewits and the mailing list I mentioned, 321 shift, gives you three things for your mind, two things for your body and one thing for your
soul, plus a few more little fun surprises every second Sunday.
I've made it really easy and included the links in this episode's show notes.
Thanks again for believing in possibility.
My name is Sean and this is Something Shifted.
See you in two weeks time.
Bye.