Aaroh Chandramouli

I lost my 12-year-old son, Aaroh, to sepsis.

He had recently undergone a minor diagnostic test — a VCUG (Voiding Cystourethrogram)— and had been on oral antibiotics for nearly 15 days in preparation. The evening after the test, he developed a mild fever. We consulted a doctor by phone, followed the prescribed medication, and the fever subsided before bedtime. We continued giving him the antibiotics that day and the next.

That night, he complained of pelvic and lower abdominal pain — we assumed it was a side effect of the test. Concerned, we took him early the next morning to a nearby walk-in urgent care clinic. There, he was given IV fluids and an intramuscular painkiller. No one checked his vitals. We were told this was routine post-procedure discomfort. (Sepsis and Children, Sepsis and Invasive Devices)

Later that afternoon, around 3 p.m., we took him to his pediatrician — a pediatric urology surgeon with over 20 years of experience — at a reputed corporate hospital. Aaroh was quiet and said his legs felt weak. He walked slowly and leaned on us for support. The doctor said it was probably due to poor food intake and fatigue from the procedure. He dismissed the need for blood tests, saying results would likely be unreliable so soon after a VCUG. As we were leaving, standing at the door, he casually said, “Feed him or admit him.” It felt like a light comment — not a medical directive. No vitals were checked — no blood pressure, no oxygen saturation, not even a pulse.

We believed him.

That evening, Aaroh had a full meal. He walked around the house and even had a bowel movement. He was quieter than usual, but stable. When his dad was around, he would ask to be carried. But when I was around — and I couldn’t carry him — he agreed to walk with a little support. He was cooperative, even steady, when I took him back to the urgent care later that night.

He had asked for the IV needle to be removed because he said it was bothering him and he couldn’t sleep with it. So I took him back to the clinic around 8 p.m. to have it taken out. He walked in himself, holding my hand, and the nurse removed the needle. Even though he was visibly weak, no one checked his vitals. Not then. Not ever.

And we didn’t know we had to ask — because every time we had gone to hospitals or clinics for stomach aches or fevers in the past, no one ever checked his vitals then either. We had come to believe — as many parents in India do — that blood pressure and oxygen checks are only for adults, not children.

That’s what our experience taught us.
That’s what the system reinforced.

At around 9:30 p.m. that night, we received a WhatsApp message with Aaroh’s blood test report—one we had done earlier that day, before seeing the pediatrician. The numbers were high, just as the doctor had predicted. I remember actually feeling impressed that he had anticipated the anomalies and explained them in advance. So I chose to ignore them—something I would never have done under normal circumstances.

Back at home, Aaroh still said his legs were hurting. I gently massaged his legs to help him sleep. He seemed a bit more relaxed afterward. He was still tired and moving less, but nothing seemed alarming. We were watching him, caring for him, staying close — never imagining we were on the edge of something fatal.

Then, around 10:30 p.m., Aaroh said something I’ll never forget:
“Something is very wrong with my legs.”

He wanted to try standing. I helped him gently off the bed.
The moment he stood — he collapsed.

Within seconds, he turned blue.

We rushed him to the emergency room. On the way, he lost his speech, but tried to tell us something. His body was shutting down. In the ER, oxygen briefly improved his levels, but his body had already gone into full septic shock. IV fluids wouldn’t go in — his veins had collapsed. Before an ICU ambulance could even be arranged, our son passed away in front of us.

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That entire day — from morning to night — two visits to clinics, a corporate hospital, a highly experienced pediatric urology surgeon, and a nurse — not one person checked his vitals.

No blood pressure.
No pulse.
No oxygen saturation.
Not once.

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We are in India. And even in our best hospitals, vital checks in children are skipped unless they are unconscious or gasping. There are no standardized protocols for early pediatric sepsis recognition in clinics or hospitals. And no one teaches parents what to ask.

But sepsis doesn’t always scream.
Sometimes, it whispers: “My legs feel funny.”
Sometimes, it’s a child who wants a needle out of his wrist so he can sleep.
Sometimes it’s a boy who walks on his own — and collapses two hours later.

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This is my plea — from a mother who watched her child fade silently:

Make pediatric vital signs mandatory at every clinical interaction — even for mild symptoms.

Train every pediatrician, nurse, and urgent care staff to recognize the early signs of pediatric sepsis — leg pain, fatigue, lethargy, cool skin, subtle behavioral changes.

Educate parents. Don’t assume we’ll know. We were present. We responded. But we weren’t told what to watch for.

Aaroh was gentle, intelligent, curious, and deeply loved.
He was trusting. He did everything right.
And the system failed him.

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Please share this.
For Aaroh.
For your child.
For every child still alive today.

Source: Bindu, Mother