Last year I planned an amazing
party for Owen’s third birthday party.
He was neck deep in love with anything having to do with firemen and even
though I have always struggled with theme parties, it was easy to get excited
about this one. I ordered fireman themed
plates and bowls, candles, hats, favors, and even practiced making natural dye
red icing for the fire truck shaped cake I was determined to construct. To be fair, the icing never really looked red;
it looked, and sadly tasted like magenta dirt, which made sense since it was
made out of beet root powder and strawberry juice. I booked a day at the YMCA which provided a
room and an hour of indoor play complete with bouncy castle and sent out
invitations. I have never been so prepared
for a party outside of my wedding. And
then Friday, February 28th, six days before his birthday, I went in
to check on him during a nap and found him unconscious, having vomited, and apparently
still having a seizure. In that moment,
I thought that I had lost him. We went
by ambulance to the hospital where he did not regain consciousness until the
next morning.
We
stayed in the hospital for six days, and in fact thought we would spend his
birthday in the hospital, in isolation.
The nurses promised to make it special and I tried hard to believe them.
At some point during his hospitalization, I snuck down to the children’s
playroom that we could not go into because Owen was in isolation and called the
YMCA to cancel his party and then sobbed. Somehow, in a small miracle we were
released on his birthday, perhaps the best birthday gift possible. I don’t think I have ever bought a birthday
cake for anyone in my life. I love making
homemade cakes, have been making cakes for family and friends since I was seven
and aside from the one year I put in a tablespoon of baking soda and baking
powder instead of a teaspoon of each in a cake for my grandfather, I have been
fairly successful. But last year,
physically and emotionally exhausted, I could not make Owen a cake. My husband took Owen to the local gourmet grocery
store and bought him one, a big expensive chocolate cake, twice as large as we
needed because when Owen asked for it in the store, my husband could not say
no, could not think of anything other than the fact in that moment, we were so thankful to have him home and alive, he would
have bought him every cake in the store if he could have. The lady behind them in line rolled her eyes, muttering something about entitled
children. My husband did not say
anything, just paid for the cake and brought it home and we put the special
fire fighter candles on it and sang to him around the dining room table.
This
year we are one week out from Owen’s birthday. Owen is still madly in love with
firefighters but I couldn’t bring myself to make it his theme. As is, we don’t even have a theme but I will
make a cake, possibly two. The party
feels important somehow, that because we did not get to have one last year,
this will somehow serve as a milestone, something solid to say, “Here we are a
year later, still on medication but seizure free. Here we are approaching normal, a different type of normal, but normal.” But as the anniversary of his seizure
approaches, I find myself getting more and more anxious, sliding back into the
behavior of the weeks and months immediately following his hospitalization
where I could not let him nap without checking on him constantly, laying my
hand on his chest to make sure he was breathing, pressing my lips constantly to
his forehead to check for fever, running my fingers across his limbs like a
seismologist searching for subtle tremors.
And my fear is not contained to Owen, is has somehow transferred onto Nora,
my younger daughter. She has a bad cold,
a cough that settled deep into her chest and at night I can hear her choke,
then pause, and each pause feels to me like death and I stay awake trying to
decide if I should go back in and check on her.
What if the end of February is a doomed time for me, as if the days
themselves were still hungry for tragedy, unsatisfied?
Roughly eight years ago, I was
driving up I-95 from NYC. It was roughly
6:30 in the morning, just slipping into daylight and the roads were empty aside
from a few trucks and other cars. Then
in front of me, a tire rolled off a truck.
I watched it fall, watched it bump and fly across lanes in front of me,
hurtling towards my car. The car in
front of me swerved and I swerved too. I
managed to stop before I hit the car in front of me but the car behind me hit
me. I was shaken and scared but fine, as
were the other drivers. I eventually
continued on to work, training some teachers at a high school. But on the way home, I narrowly avoided two
other accidents. It felt like the
accident I had escaped was chasing me, wanting to sink its still hungry fangs
into my neck. And this feeling followed me for days as cars seemed continually
drawn towards me as if I was magnetic north. As I move towards the end of
February, I feel a nasty presence in the same way, like I’m waiting for tragedy
to come. I am not sure where this comes
from but I try to be kind to myself and not tell myself to get over it, to feel
that I am not entitled to this amount of grief, that that is reserved for
someone with real tragedy.
But there it is. Here we are, one day away from the day that
changed my life as a mother but also didn’t.
I am thankful for that and even more thankful that this month is almost
over and in one week we will be having a wonderful, if theme-less party.