Alright, parents, buckle up—being a parent this story had me at the edge of my cheap and worn out computer chair, but with a miraculous twist at the end. Benny Johnson, the columnist who usually slings words for a living, found himself in the middle of every parent’s worst nightmare this weekend.
It all started when his 11-month-old son began wheezing like an old radiator. At first, they chalked it up to a virus. No big deal, right? But when 24 hours passed with no other symptoms, the alarm bells started ringing. And not the good kind—this was full-blown red flag.
We Just Witnessed A Miracle. Praise Jesus Christ. Yes, Miracles Are REAL…
This weekend we noticed our 11-month-old son wheezing with every breath. ‘He has a virus,’ we thought. After 24 hours of no other symptoms, we realized our worst fear: a foreign object. He ingested… pic.twitter.com/h5eAtE1y7i
— Benny Johnson (@bennyjohnson) August 13, 2024
You know that sinking feeling when you realize something’s seriously wrong? Yeah, Benny and his wife, Kate, felt it hard. They threw the daughters in the grandparents’ car, floored it to the hospital, and braced for whatever came next.
Now, here’s the thing about hospitals: they’re not always as reassuring as they should be. X-rays were a bust—turns out, they’re not great at spotting things that aren’t metal. The ER doc was ready to send them packing, but Kate, being a nurse with a spiritual side, wasn’t having it. Mother’s intuition? More like momma bear instincts on overdrive.
Our son would not be home and healthy without the gifted medical instincts of my wife @Nursekatejohn
Thankful for her.
Men, marry a good woman.
A nurse if you can. pic.twitter.com/2ugYydEjUp— Benny Johnson (@bennyjohnson) August 13, 2024
They got their little guy into the OR, where a doctor spent 90 agonizing minutes fishing around for whatever was causing the chaos in his tiny lungs. The verdict? A piece of yellow crayon lodged in his left upper bronchus. The doc tried everything—every trick in the book—but no dice. That damn crayon wasn’t budging.
Cue the longest, most miserable night of their lives. Staring at your baby hooked up to machines, not knowing what’s next? Absolute torture. The next morning, enter Dr. John, a lung specialist with nerves of steel. He wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. One more try, he said. It was either that or losing a chunk of their son’s lung.
So, they handed their baby over, again, to strangers in scrubs, praying harder than they ever had. 90 minutes later, the pulmonologist walked out—sweaty, exhausted, and holding a vial. Inside? The yellow crayon that nearly took them all down.
This whole story has left me completely freaked out—and I’m not even the one who lived it. How does something like this even happen? One minute, your kid’s playing with a harmless crayon, and the next, you’re in the ER, praying for a miracle. It’s the kind of thing that makes you question everything.
I mean, seriously, how does a little piece of crayon—a toy we’ve all grown up with—turn into a life-threatening situation? It’s enough to make any parent paranoid. I find myself staring at every tiny object in my house, wondering if it’s a ticking time bomb just waiting to turn into a medical emergency.
And then there are the “what-ifs” that spiral out of control. What if the doctors had sent them home? What if they hadn’t pushed for another look? What if that crayon had caused more damage? It’s terrifying to think how quickly things could’ve gone south.
