“Why do you fret so much?” my partner asked, half-curious and half-concerned, as I hurried to grab the thermometer from my nightstand, gently placing it under my whimpering nine-month-old’s arm. When I got home from work, I had seen him clinging to the coffee table, trying to maintain his balance, his cheeks flushed a vivid red while drool and snot dripped down his chin.
The thermometer beeped, reading 103.8, and that was just the underarm temperature. “How long has he been like this?” I called out to my partner, who was busy cooking dinner with our two-and-a-half-year-old pretending to help at his feet.
“He was fine just a bit ago. The teachers said he had a great day. Kids get sick. Don’t worry too much.”
But I can’t help it. The tidal wave of fear crashes over me every time illness triggers a memory. That memory. It happened to him too. Why isn’t he anxious? Doesn’t he understand how every decision counts? Maybe there’s still time to save my son, unlike how we couldn’t save her.
I called the pediatrician, who advised us to come in. My heart raced as the nurse echoed my concern about the seriousness of this situation. It’s flu season, and he had just received his vaccine a few months ago. Could it be that? But it’s spreading.
“Do you want me to save you some dinner?”
“No, I’m not hungry,” I replied, feeling too tense to eat.
Half an hour later, we arrived at the clinic, sitting in an exam room as my baby dozed off in my arms, his little body using every ounce of energy to combat whatever was attacking him. The nurse took his temperature again: 105.
The doctor entered, “We need to run some tests.” I began to shake.
“Is he going to be okay?”
He was straightforward. “I’m 95% confident he will be fine, and it’s likely nothing serious. I’ll explain more once the tests are done.”
“How long will it take?” I needed to know the exact duration, down to the second, for when he’d be back. “Do you remember what I wrote on the forms the first time we met?”
“Ten minutes. I promise,” he said before stepping out.
A deep breath, then an exhale. I held my son close, rocking gently to comfort myself, not him. He slept soundly against my chest. I kept my hand on the base of his neck, counting his breaths, ensuring he was breathing. Unlike her. She never did.
“Please stay. Please stay,” I whispered through silent tears.
The wait felt hauntingly familiar. It mirrored the moments I spent in the hospital waiting for news about my first child, just over four years ago.
“You can’t have him,” I whispered to death, who seemed to linger near the door. “Not again, please. That wouldn’t be fair.”
But I knew the truth. Death is indiscriminate. Suffering isn’t distributed evenly. You don’t get a free pass after experiencing tragedy. Lightning can strike twice; just ask any mother who has faced the loss of multiple children or those who have endured cancer after losing a child.
It happens. Misery doesn’t cease just because you’ve been through enough. It strikes at random, like a cruel game of chance. No logic to it, just often the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Please, not again.” This time I pleaded. I couldn’t bear to lose another child.
The doctor returned, and I braced myself for the worst. “He has influenza A.”
“Will he be okay?” was all I wanted to know.
“Most likely. You brought him in right away. We’ll start him on medication right away. It won’t eliminate the virus, but it should help shorten the illness. Start it tonight.”
During the twenty-minute drive home, I repeatedly called my partner, getting no answer.
Once home, I rushed into our bedroom. “Why haven’t you answered my calls?” I demanded, finding him barely awake under the covers. “I needed you.”
“I fell asleep.”
“What if something serious happened?”
“Relax. What did the doctor say?”
“He has the flu. It is serious!”
“Calm down. You react like this every time our kids sniffle. Kids get sick.”
“…and die!” I finished his thought, the one he didn’t realize he needed to voice.
“Stop. He’s going to be fine. Everything is going to be okay.”
A chill ran down my spine, taking me back to the delivery room, swollen and ready to meet my newborn, just before the doctor uttered the words, “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”
“You don’t understand!”
“Get what?”
“It’s just like before. Every time the kids get sick, I’m sent back to when we left the hospital without our baby. Every. Time. I don’t want to mess this up again. Do you know how hard it is to prove I can keep my children alive?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Lily got sick,” he said, embracing me as I sank into him and sobbed.
That’s why he doesn’t understand. He wasn’t there. She died inside of ME! I could have saved her. I should have noticed her slowing down, recognized the fever that indicated the infection silently taking her life. She perished inside of me, not him.
And that’s why I worry so much.
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