As I transferred the wet sheets and scattered other garments to the dryer it hit me hard, real hard. My face crumpled and morphed into an expression of anguish as I began to let loose a torrent of unexpected tears. The thing is, they weren’t grieving, but grateful tears that erupted from within me.
I had just been standing over my three year old daughter as she slept the sleep of the exhausted, her body performing a natural rest period in the face of the illness she had experienced over the past couple of days. I had stood over her and simply watched her sleep, enamored over her beauty, even with the tangle of dried vomit in her hair.
She was stunning, and more importantly, she was on the mend. She was getting better, I just knew it. I could feel it in some deep part of me where mommy knowledge resided. I probably would have stood over her forever if I hadn’t been ripped away at that moment by the sound of her little sister toppling a full bottle of apple juice.
I thought I had put it out of reach, but it seemed no such place existed any more for my mischievous toddler. She grinned around the apple juice straw that jutted from her handful of clinched teeth. The juice had belonged to her sister, but everyone knows a drink tastes better when it belongs to someone else.
And that was an existing problem when sickness fell on our home. Infection control. It was near impossible to maintain. I realized I needed to hire a nanny just to help me keep cups separated.
It would only be by some miraculous occurrence if the baby and I remained without illness. I wasn’t sure exactly what the illness was, but I knew it caused what my three year old had termed “a case of the throw-ups.” And boy did she ever!
For the past couple of days she had puked so many times, and I can’t stand vomit! The smell of it in the summer is familiar to pennies, and I’m always reminded of vague memories from elementary school, a kid upchucking the beef stew, and then the janitor covering it with some sort of saw dust or something.
My poor kid had puked on every piece of furniture in our living room, the toilet, the bathroom floor, in a big, red mixing bowl, in our bed, and of course in my hands as I tried in vain to ward off the upcoming spew. As much as I hated the loads of additional laundry, scrubbing of sofa cushions, and the act of vomiting period, I would have taken it from her in a heartbeat.
I couldn’t stand seeing the look of terror in her eyes afterwards as it dripped from her nostrils and chin. It was hard being a mom when sickness descended on your babies, but I felt the struggle of my double roles trying to collide, and that was worse. Being a mom and a nurse was complicated.
Some might think it’s helpful, and it is, but it’s also a hindrance. It’s great to have the knowledge when confronted with sickness, but it was also a curse. It was like constantly being on WebMD. You couldn’t log off! You know the worse, and you’re constantly pushing those thoughts away.
To combat your worst fears (the curse of knowing too much), you end up being super blasé about the whole thing, and your kid will have to be bleeding from their eyes before you take them to the doctor. I’m typically in a constant struggle wondering, “should I be more concerned or something?” It ends up coming back full circle. You’re so busy being unconcerned over a mild illness that eventually you worry something really terrible could be going wrong while you stood idly by. Or maybe I’m the only crazy nurse that thinks this way.
You also want answers. You need a diagnosis, and this isn’t always easy to come by with kids. You know they’re sick. With something. They’ve stopped running on the ceiling so something is up, or rather it’s down, but you can’t always get the specifics. I would love a dollar for each time my kids ran a fever for one day and I never figured out why. Actually, I don’t want the dollar. I’d rather have the answer as to why they ran fever, but I won’t be getting it. It’s viral, or it’s bacterial, or it’s neither. That may be all you get. Sigh.
So I was trudging through this whole illness with a nurse’s mindset, but still having to be mommy too. Moms are tough, but simultaneously a pushover. My nurse mind told me my kid needed to remain on clear liquids status post gastrointestinal illness. My mommy mind knew that would be as difficult as nailing jello to the wall.
I mean four hours after her last bit of nausea and vomiting my child was asking for full entrees. Within a matter of two hours, after our exodus of the acute care clinic, and while still picking up prescriptions, she asked for a push-up pop, french fries, a blueberry muffin, a Happy Meal, macaroni and cheese, a hotdog, cheese and crackers, an apple, and chocolate milk. I could just imagine her vomiting up that concoction. The thought was only rivaled by when you find and must wash a sippee cup of week-old curdled milk.
Subsequently we comprised. She got half the stuff on the requested list. Sigh again.
And somehow she kept it all down, as if she knew her fragile little tummy could handle more than sprite. Or maybe I just got lucky. Either way, as I had looked down at her sleeping body I knew she was getting better.
I had cried though. Actually I had bawled. As I cleaned puke-stained sheets I was overcome with gratitude for my healthy, little girl. I knew she was going to be okay, and I was humbled by the fact that in essence my girls were so healthy. I knew in a shadow of my mind, where I kept things I didn’t want to think about, that not all children were so well as she, and I couldn’t begin to understand why. Like my fleeting diagnoses, I knew this was a question I couldn’t answer. I could only be grateful that after 48 hours of illness, my girl was on the mend.
The tears fell mixed with thank you’s, then I put a dryer sheet in with the damp load and hit start. Then I went back to my tasks of straightening a home interrupted by a bit of sickness, but I went back to it with a joyful heart, content in so many gifts I didn’t even deserve.