The fact of the matter is, I work through things better with sarcasm and self-deprecating humor than with sappy introspection and for the most part those posts are a better read. So I apologize in advance for the shear indulgence and perhaps banality of this post but I can still blame it on the hormones for at least another month.
My husband and I have spent a lot of time recently talking about the future, if we want to have more kids, if we are in a financial position to do so, if we can even currently provide for Owen the way we would like to, etc. The only answer where there is a "yes" is the first one, well for me it's a yes, for my husband it's more of a "maybe." The other two are pretty solid nos, or at least for Mitch. I pretty much live in the world of, "hey, it will work out," and he lives in the, "things do not work out unless there is a plan," camp. And sometimes these camps blend nicely, like a well shaken salad dressing and sometimes they don't blend at all.
This week a lot of this came to a head as we heatedly discussed each of our future earnings, a timeline for having another child, Mitch's income goals prior to having another child, my returning to work or not returning to work. For me the discussion has the loud background music of a very loud biological clock sounding much like the tell-tale heart beating under the floor boards from Poe's horror story, louder and louder until it practically drowns out Mitch's words. And on top of all of this, Owen got sick again.
As Owen moved into day two of 102.458 fever, I broke down and took him to the doctor. I know that that seems like a very specific fever but for some odd reason my thermometer is stuck in Celsius and as I am an American I have a pathetic understanding of most measurement systems. Each temperature reading was displayed along side either a frown or a smiley face, tokens to my illiteracy. All of his readings displayed frowns. But there were no ranges of facial expressions like the ones used on doctor's charts to show pain on a range from "everything is okay" to "my genitals have been lit on fire." So, I was not sure if it was a, "Hey, he has a little fever but you might as well go to the grocery story and get a bottle of wine," or an, "Immerse him in an ice bath STAT and call 911 type of fever." So, I ended up doing an internet search after each reading to calculate for me.
But I could tell without knowing an exact temperature that he was not well. His skin burned beneath my fingers, even his hands which are habitually cold and he was listless, clingy and sad. He whined, cried, and clung to me and was generally miserable which made me alternate in waves of sympathy, love, and frustration. The doctor basically said he probably has a virus, keep watching the temperature and let me know in four days.
I went home, bitter about my $30.00 co-pay and not feeling any relief. That night, Owen started screaming in his crib, this high-pitched whine that I had never heard before, and frankly, scared me. We went and got him from his crib and he was burning up. We took him temperature, and after a quick search on my IPad, saw that is was 104.256. We stripped him of his pajamas, and tried to cool him down with a washcloth as he nursed and whimpered. I put him against me skin to skin because I had a vague memory that this helped regulate body temperature though I had no idea if this worked with a fever. When we picked his arm or leg up, they were completely limp. After an hour or so, he felt a little bit cooler. And after another one, we all drifted back to sleep.
In the morning, the fever was back below 101.789 and it continued to drop from there. I know that these sicknesses will be less scary as time goes on but there is something so helpless about the feeling of having your child be sick and not being able to do so much to change it and being a new enough parent that even what you can do, you second guess at each step. Am I stupid to take him to the doctor with a cold? Am I stupid to not take him to the ER with a high fever? Do I warm him up? Cool him down? Use the nasal aspiration? Not use it?
By that weekend he seemed to be recovered and I took a much needed trip to the gym where I planned to work out and take a long steam. I took the book I was reading to the gym and as I pretended to go somewhere read it with the enjoyment of a gourmand who now subsists mainly on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches getting a once a week taste of truffle oil or farmer's market greens. The novel took place in Africa, a fictionalized portrayal of the dubious morals of big Pharmaceutical companies in third world countries. I read the following line, " . . and the women holding babies to sick to cry." And right there, on my elliptical machine, in the middle of my fancy gym, I lost it as tears leaked down my face. As helpless as I felt, I can not imagine what it must be like to be a mother who can not feed your baby, who can not do anything to prevent what probably should be a very preventable death. To not be able to breastfeed because you are starving, and to have no alternatives.
I came home and hugged my husband and told him this. I was thinking about our discussion about potentially not having a second child because we could not afford to give them what we wanted, and of course by this we meant summer camp, piano lessons, trips to Europe, etc. And the fact is, we are so lucky. I am lucky to be able to take Owen to the doctor when he as a 102.347 fever. And if this life is really it, then really we are just so damn lucky. And yes, I know this is very prosaic and pedantic in a way, a sophomoric realization of your order in the order of things but hey, you can not process things as a mother until you are one, or not in the same way, so I guess being sophomoric is okay.
No comments:
Post a Comment