Every Morning He Proves Me Wrong

The fear never goes away.

It lays dormant for months, years even, when health overrides sickness as the norm. But deep down in my pores, in the cells that make me a parent, those first words I heard fester: "He's alive but I can't tell you he's going to survive."

All those times the NICU alarms blared, and the crash team rushed to his isollette, and his tiny body turned blue, and I reminded myself to breathe as I willed my baby boy's heart to beat, live within me, in the wrinkles in my brow, the silver strands on my head.

Worry defines parenthood--amplified when your child enters the world limp, with lungs unable to breathe.

An X-ray yesterday showed streaking in Elias's right lung. He coughs deep from his chest, his skin pale, his normal endless hunger subdued. We started him on antibiotics last night for pneumonia and the flu and he promptly threw the medicine up on the futon, in the shower. Cleaning puke out of pubic hair didn't make my list of perceived moments of motherhood.

No book or class or mentor can prepare us for the world we enter when a small being claims us as their Mom or Dad.

No training program exists for parenthood that includes moments like this.

When I pulled Elias's blankets over his strong shoulders, that old nagging voice returned: "What if he doesn't make it through the night."

But he did.

And he sits next to me checking the weather on his iPad, wearing his elevator union sweatshirt, with his skinny legs crossed beneath him. His cough rattles as he struggles to clear his throat.

We will drive back to the clinic this morning for a follow-up, hoping to keep him out of the hospital. Moments like this put all other life-stressors--work, money, politics, home projects, world events-- on hold.

I remember walking out of Providence, after days in the window-less Newborn Intensive Care Unit, amazed that traffic clogged Northern Lights as usual, the ravens gathered in the back of a trash-filled pickup like they always do, the sun fell into Turnagain Arm, as if time hadn't stopped when my son's heart did.

I walked down the aisles of Fred Meyer watching people fill their carts thinking, "If only they knew..."

Now, all these years later, I know if I stopped any of the folks I passed and peeled back their masks of competency, I'd find we are all one long night away from despair.

None of us live without pain, fear and sorrow woven into our pores.

I also know, when stripped down to our essential souls, we can no longer hold the idea of the "other" that tends to separate us one from another. 

So I'm telling you I'm a mom who can't shake the fear my son will die while I sleep, even though every morning he proves me wrong. 

Every morning-- he proves me wrong.

 

Comments

[Valerie]

So true so true...
Christy did you get my question about the holes in the elevators that I believe Elias can aswer?

[Luisa]

I’ve read your blog since Elias was a baby but I don’t think I’ve ever commented. Eight weeks ago I became a parent for the first time and now, at last, I get it.

Keep writing. You do it so beautifully.

[Christy]

Valerie, yes and I answered under the comments on my previous post but will also send you an email. A keyhole for responders to open the doors if the power is out:)

[Christy]

Luisa, congratulation and thank you so much for following along for all these years. Your comment made my heart feel good--thank you for your words:)

[Kate]

Worry defines parenthood. Yup it does. It’s like a switch was flipped fifteen years ago that quietly hums in the background. Hope he gets well soon and that no one else gets sick.

[Ginnie Miller]

So beautifully written and so true! Even now I still hope for my sons that every day brings them health, love and joy!!

[Vicki]

How is Elias today?

[Christy]

So Elias has improved each day and today even greeted me at the door with a smile when I came home from work. His lungs have improved and he’s cleared to return to school next Tuesday as long as he continues on this path. Thank you all for being here with me.❤️