Don't Hold Your Breath

On the 15th December 1988, our first grand-child, a son, was born in Carletonville. He was born premature, and so small that I had to buy dolls clothes to fit him. After a week or two, he was allowed to go home.

I was on Christmas break, from the factory that I worked at. My daughter asked me to help with her new baby, and I willingly agreed. They were living in a mining village named Blyvooruitsig (which means; happy future).

That first night at home, the new mom, Raylene and her youngest sister, Angel (whom was thrilled to be an aunt) were changing the baby. I was in the lounge, when I suddenly heard the girls' panicked voices. Raylene was in tears, saying that the baby had stopped breathing. I grabbed the baby, and blew hard in his face; (it was my first instinct which made me do that), the baby took a deep breath, and started to breath normally again. We thought, at the time, that he might have swallowed a wind or something that babies do sometimes.

The next night, baby Kyle stopped breathing again. His mom tried the trick of blowing in his face, but this time, it didn't work. By the time Raylene had run shrieking, down the passage to her dad and I, the little one, was blue in the face. My husband and I administered CPR, and managed to get him back to normal again, while Raylene stood by, wringing her hands in despair and pleading with her baby son "Don't hold your breath my baby, please, just breath". At that time, we realised that we had a serious problem on our hands!

Raylene and her husband got the baby to a doctor as soon as possible, only to be told that nothing could be found wrong with him. My poor daughter was too scared to sleep, in case something happened to her son while she was asleep. Many a night, I "slept" with baby Kyle on my chest, but unfortunately, at the end of the holidays, I had to return home and to work.

Over the next few months, baby Kyle was rushed to the hospital more times than I care to remember. Many doctors examined him, including five paediatricians. Nobody could tell why he would stop breathing. Except for this problem, he was a healthy little boy. This information did little to soothe the family's frazzled nerves.

I know this is not a dream site, but I am not asking for an explanation or interpretation. I am only going to state the facts!

When baby Kyle was eighteen months old, I had a dream that I will never forget as long as I live. I dreamed that Kyle was sleeping on the foot end of a single bed. Right there, by him, was my late dad. My dad was dressed in a white shirt, grey flannel pants and grey sleeveless pullover. (This is how I will always remember him.) He was sitting on a chair, leaning over Kyle, elbow on knee and hand cupping his chin. Behind my dad's right shoulder stood a misty, ghost-like, woman dressed all in white. She looked like a hospital matron, from years gone by, with the large white veil that they used to wear.

Not a word was exchanged in my dream, but the implication was great. My Father had now taken on the job of looking after his great-grand-son! Almost twenty years after his passing, I had seen dad (for the first time, since his passing) in a dream, and it was so vivid that I could not deny it.

I awoke with a deep sense of peace.

Not once, since that night, has Kyle stopped breathing involuntarily. Today, he is a healthy, charming, young man.

Thank you for reading my story, if you have any questions, I will gladly answer them.

Humbly,

Fergie