Unraveling

It's been about two weeks since A's really bad reaction but today was the day I unraveled.  I think I'm masking the pain by ignoring it and trying to fill my life with things to make me forget.  I've been feeling numb and I see myself subconsciously distancing myself from it all.  It's like I'm getting ready to say an inevitable goodbye.  But as Mike says, "There is no way to prepare to say 'good-bye' to your child."

Ugh.  Today was a bad day.  A was sick with a fever.  We are always on high alert when she gets sick because her immune system is usually maxed out trying to fight off perfectly normal things like food and her own skin.  After work today I come home and play with her a bit before dinner.  She wants to play "Horsey"  but I tell her to eat dinner first.  I feed her the corn pasta that my mom made for her.  About 30 minutes later, A is coughing and wheezing so I get her nebulizer ready thinking it is related to her flu/cold.  Halfway through the treatment, she says that her tummy hurts and that she has to throw up.  My mom and I take her to the bathroom as she begins to vomit.  I glance at my mom who is beginning to shake and cry.  I'm reminded just how traumatizing it must have been for her to hold a listless A in her arms as she waited for help to arrive and I think how cruel it is that she has to watch this again. 

A throws up her pasta.  It's thick and I can see that she's struggling to breathe as it continues to pour out of her mouth.  I preform mini-Heimlichs to help eject the food and I'm realizing that I'm holding my breath as I watch because I don't want to breathe if she can't.  She's choking on her vomit, and all I want to do is cover her mouth with mine, puke and all, and breathe life into this child.  After everything is out, we struggle for a few seconds wondering if we need to administer the epi and get started on our way to the ER.  But we look at her and she looks at us and sees the tears streaming down our faces and says, "Don't cry. I'm ok now."  We finish her neb treatment and I hold her close as her eyes flick from my face to grandma's with such a profound concern for us because we are sad.  She says, "I'm sorry, mama."

God help me.  

What made her react like that?  Was it the new pasta?  The flu?  Cross contamination somewhere?  

I dream about what it might be like to have a healthy child who can be sick, throw up, and get on with life without a host of people watching and wondering if this is the beginning of the end.  I'd like to know what it feels like to wipe her mouth, send her off to bed with some medicine and hope she feels better in the morning.  Instead I keep vigil near her side through the night in case I made a bad judgement call and she needs more help than I gave.  

A asked me to hold her like a baby while she slept tonight.  I would have pulled down the moon had she asked for it.  I sang her a lullaby and, in the dark, I let myself unravel.  

This is the valley low.  The raw side of life.  It keeps me pinned to the floor at times but, surprisingly, this pain also tremendously deepens the good times in my life.  Because if life is short, we've got to make it count.