When I was little, I was sick constantly. I had my first ear infection at 3 weeks old, and proceeded to have them until my mastoid rotted out and had to be removed at 3 years old. I was in the hospital for 17 days with my head wrapped in gauze while my parents took turns sleeping on a “love seat” in my room at Children’s.
Dee’s got her first ear infection. Double in fact. Which…if I remember one thing about all those inner ear infections – they hurt. Miserably. My poor sweet girl is trying her absolute hardest to have fun and laugh (you know, her favorite stuff to do) like yesterday morning when she finally wandered out into the living room around 10am croaking “EL. MO.” and pushed the button of her little singing Elmo doll…proceeding to dance, her usual morning ritual. On a normal day, she can go four or five rounds, but yesterday she exhausted her tiny self before that monster finished singing his first Jackson Five Cover. And the Darth Vador wheeze is just horrifying. She’s coughing so hard it’s made her puke a few times, and now I can just see she’s terrified of puking whenever it’s coming. Ugh, and when I took her in to the Doctor yesterday, she was totally content until the moment Nurse Else opened the door and called her name, at which point recognition flickered across her little face, and she let out the saddest, voice-less, wheezy shriek I have ever heard in my life.
Oh man — and when we finally got her down to nap yesterday I could hear her weeping on the monitor after about 30 minutes. I went in a got her, and she was just so uncomfortable, hacking away, eyes practically puffed shut.
On the one hand, yesterday was a peaceful day, in that I had a sole purpose. I laid with my baby on my chest, and rubbed her back when she cried. I cut grapes and watered down juice, and blew up the air mattress in the living room so she could alternately nap with me and watch all the EL.MO. she wanted, which is a bit of a sick day ritual around these parts. I know it sounds kind of crazy, and for a lot of you guys that stay at home with your kids, it also probably sounds like pretty run of the mill stuff. But about six months ago I went back to work full time and I gave up those moments. The Grandma Squad gets to kiss the ouchies and cut the grapes from 9-5 now. But even when I did have her all to myself all day, I never appreciated it for a second. I was too panicked — too frantically watching the clock for a reprieve — too hiding in my iPhone. In some weird sick backwards way, I’m grateful to have these small moments with her that I’ve missed so desperately. I know that’s the worst thing in the world. Future Delilah, if you’re reading this, I would obviously prefer you well any day of the week. But if you have to be sick, then I’m just a little giddy that I get to take a day to do nothing but love on you.
On the other hand, I don’t know how my mother did it. I’m completely irrational. Completely panicked. I mean, I know my Mom wasn’t recovering from a complete and total mind fuck at the time, but she had a really sick kid. Her littlest baby had to have part of her skull removed and suctioned out to prevent a brain infection. And I never had a damn clue that what was happening to me was REALLY FUCKING SCARY. Talking to my parents about it as an adult, I was floored the first time I realized how horrifying an experience my surgery and subsequent hospitalization must have been for them. Because that was how my Mom was. She was always sitting on the edge of my bed when I woke up, her big 80’s hair in a halo around her face, smiling her beautiful Mommy smile. I remember always thinking she had the most beautiful smile when I was sick. I still think about that smile, and I’ve caught her giving it to Delilah a few times — which makes my heart swell. I also remember how comforting it was for me to hear her banging around in the kitchen, always moving, always purposeful, always making sure I had everything I needed. Motherless by ten and orphaned by 27, she never let on to how frantic she had to have have felt. She’d seen more common ailments than mine go wronger.
When I went back to work six months ago, I was incredibly lucky – Dee has two amazing Grandma’s within miles who came to our rescue. My Mom takes her four days a week, and Grama Ann Marie heroically donates her day off to give Grandma Margie a mid-week break.
But I was lucky in another way. This year, when I was desperately trying to relearn how to act like a human, feeling terrified and wondering what the hell was happening to me, my Mom was — yet again — there to take care of me. There to take care of that heinous mommy guilt by giving Delilah the moments of the day I couldn’t, and doing a job I knew I could only hope to mimic in my finest hour. There to bring me lunch at my desk because I would forget to eat if she didn’t. There to shock me by letting down her super Mom shield, and showing me the woman behind the mask. The woman who was terrified. The woman who became meticulous about pill regimens and schedules because she had to be. The woman who didn’t have a mom of her own to call and cry to.
Over the years, my Mom and I have had our differences, for sure. When I was a teenager, I don’t think there was a single day we didn’t fight…although she did still manage to shock me with her coolness from time to time – laughing at me for being hungover on my way to a college meeting and making me coffee to drink in the car, or not telling my Dad about the time she caught me sleeping over at Scott’s house (at least, I don’t think she did…) But I’m so grateful to get to have her here to be there for Dee. And for me. And sure, she drives me crazy sometimes — lots of times (love you Mom – focus on the nice post!) but I really wouldn’t have it any other way.
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