But your family is healthy.I know. I know.
And your daughter was so ill- hospitalized!- and now she's much better.Thank God.
And your husband is doing good, for this time of year. The new medication is working well. It's much better than it's ever been. I love him so much.
Do you have enough food to eat, and clothes to wear, and hot water, and a place to call home? Yes.
Well?
...........
San Diego in January has been bipolar: sweltering hot and then book ended with frigid, frost covered mornings and cold windy afternoons. The sky is blue and somehow still dimmed. Muted. I wake and turn on the heater as the dark lip of sky just begins to brighten, stick my head in Dakota's room, let the dogs out, return to wake Lola, Dakota again, then to lay Ever in front of the heater and change her diaper, sing song to her in hope of one of her heartbreaking smiles. Eventually we are all in the car, kids with hot oatmeal and lunches in backpacks, Ever in her carseat next to Lola. I ask Lola in what I hope is a neutral voice How's Ever? She glances at her. Fine. I wish for the millionth time that I could more clearly see Ever when I'm driving. And then, for the millionth time, follow that thought up with the admission that it wouldn't be safe if I could, craning to watch her chest, try to count her breathing, see if she's working.
Dakota texts most of the way to school. I run my hands through the curls at the back of his head, kiss his cheek. He tells me he loves me as he slings his backpack over his flannel. I watch his six foot frame walk casually away from me, the same soft loping whether he might be late or not- he's not hurrying. I drop Lola off and hug her tightly. Then it's just Ever and I. We head to Starbucks and she falls asleep in her seat. I cover her warmly and we head in where the same baristas I've known for years nod and smile at me, E. asks if I want my regular and I say yes. A few other regulars who know me ask about Ever, how she's doing. I look at her. Good, I say, wishing I could feel that, live in it. Good. And then home.
Mornings at home. Since Ever became congested and needed breathing treatments, mornings have become a stressful, isolating time. I count her respirations, and often they are on the highest end of normal. This is her new normal for now, with the cold and so soon after RSV, a slightly increased respiratory rate and a stuffy nose, small retractions for a while that fade. My job is to watch her, and there is no balance that is comfortable, watching my infant girl for signs of struggling to breathe. It reminds me of the feelings of new motherhood: Are they sure I can do this alone? Who left ME in charge? I've never had a more important job: ensure my child is breathing. And I never will. The morning sits around me. The house is smug and silent. The noise of TV is depressing. My body responds sluggishly to commands. I make myself move, make phone calls, get things done. This is not hibernation. It is some kind of fear response. I am too prone to this. Maya Angelou wrote a poem Life Doesn't Frighten Me. And before I had children, maybe this was true.
