The last 9 days have proved difficult. Poppy started running a fever last friday, developed some severe congestion by Saturday morning, and fought hard all week just to breathe and eat.
I am so tired of watching my baby girl suffer.
Every time she is ill, I am so taken by fear that it is all I can do to to stay positive. There is still a deep, dark hole in all of this. I crawled out of it – I know it’s close enough to fall back into.
The limbo begins – home or hospital. How sick is too sick? When do the risks of simply walking through the doors of the hospital outweigh those of staying home and struggling? The balance beam of home offers less possible complications and a much larger area to maneuver through the illness, while the tightrope of a hospital stay is far more frightening – but offers an enormous safety net.
I suddenly don’t want to be grown-up. I want my mom. I call my mom. Countless times I tell her this is not fair, it is too much, I haven’t slept in days, I am angry and scared and alone. She of course swoops in and saves me from certain insanity. She drives my oldest to school, holds Poppy as she slobbers and sneezes and fusses. I take a shower. Eat a meal. Apologize profusely for having become such an insatiable belly of need as of late.
A close friend helps get Kieran from school and while she is over asks how long it’s been since I left the house. Seven days. She watches my babes so I can go to the grocery store. I wander aimlessly. I rock my hand basket back and forth like a baby. I feel totally crazed. Jumpy. I probably look like I’m on drugs.
Somehow I have lived through 9 days without any decent, substantial sleep. Apparently I was designed for this. Go figure.
The sun is shining. We take a walk around the river with a friend. Kieran and I pick apples in the forest. Poppy can breathe again… finally… at last…peace.
Poppy lets out a horrific scream and starts wailing. A bee has stung her beneath the eye.