“Why are you always so anxious?” my partner asked, half-curious, half-concerned, as I rushed to grab a thermometer from my nightstand for our whimpering nine-month-old. When I returned home from work, I found him clinging to the coffee table, cheeks flushed bright red, with drool and snot smeared down his chin.
The thermometer beeped, displaying a concerning 103.8, and that was just under his arm. “How long has he been like this?” I called out to my partner, who was busy cooking dinner while our two-and-a-half-year-old played nearby.
“He seemed fine a bit ago. The teachers mentioned he had a good day at daycare. Kids get sick; don’t stress so much.”
But I do stress. I can’t help it. The fear surges every time illness triggers a haunting memory. That memory. It happened to him too. Why isn’t he worried? Doesn’t he realize how every little thing matters? Maybe there’s still time to save our son, unlike when we lost her.
I called the doctor, who advised us to come in. My heart raced when the nurse confirmed that this could be serious. It’s flu season, and he had just received his vaccine months ago. But viruses can be unpredictable.
“Do you want me to save you some dinner?” my partner asked.
“No, I can’t eat. I’m too anxious.”
Thirty minutes later, we were at the clinic, in an exam room waiting to see the doctor. My baby was dozing in my arms, exhausted from fighting whatever was afflicting him. The nurse took his temperature again: 105.
The doctor entered and said, “We need to run some tests.” I felt my body tremble.
“Is he going to be okay?”
He was straightforward. “I’m 95% sure he will be fine; it’s likely no big deal. I’ll have more information after the tests.”
“How long will it take?” I needed to know every second until he would be back. “You remember that I had to fill out forms saying I lost a child, right?”
“Ten minutes. I promise,” he assured me before leaving.
I took a deep breath, holding my son close, rocking back and forth, trying to comfort myself rather than him. He slept soundly on my chest while I counted his breaths, ensuring he was still with me. Unlike her. She never drew another breath.
“Please stay. Please stay,” I whispered through tears.
The wait felt all too familiar, reminiscent of that dreadful moment when the nurse had to tell me four years ago that my baby had passed.
“You can’t take him,” I silently pleaded with death lurking near the door. “Not again, please. It wouldn’t be fair.”
But I knew better. Life isn’t fair. Suffering isn’t distributed evenly. You don’t get a break just because you’ve faced tragedy before. Lightning does strike twice; just ask mothers who’ve lost multiple children or those who’ve endured cancer after loss. It happens.
“Please not again,” I begged. “Don’t take another one of my children.”
The doctor returned, and I braced myself for the news. “He has influenza A.”
“Will he be okay?” was all I could think to ask.
“Most likely. You brought him in quickly. We’ll start treatment right away. It won’t eliminate the virus, but it should help shorten its duration. Start it tonight.”
On the drive home, I frantically called my partner multiple times, but there was no answer.
Once home, I burst into the bedroom, “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I yelled, 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’s serious!”
“Calm down; you do this every time the kids cough. Kids get sick.”
“…and die!” I interjected, finishing his sentence for him without him realizing it.
“Stop. He’s going to be fine. Everything will be okay.”
I felt chills run down my spine, instantly transported back to the delivery room, swollen and ready to meet my newborn, when the words “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat” shattered my world.
“You don’t get it!”
“Get what?”
“It’s just like her. Every time the kids get sick, I’m thrown back to that moment when we left the hospital without our baby. Every. Time. I can’t afford to mess this up again. It’s exhausting trying to prove to everyone that I can keep my children safe.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. She got sick,” he said, wrapping his arms around me as I sank into him, sobbing.
That’s why he doesn’t understand. He wasn’t the one who carried her; I was. I should have noticed the signs, the subtle changes that indicated her illness. She passed away inside of me.
And that’s why I worry so much.
This article is originally published on November 5, 2020. For more insights, check out this other blog post on home insemination. If you’re looking for expert advice, Cryobaby is an authority on home insemination kits, and Parents.com provides an excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
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Summary:
This piece delves into the anxiety of a mother whose child falls ill, reflecting on her past experiences with loss. Each illness in her children serves as a painful reminder of a previous tragedy, igniting fears of losing another child. Through a visit to the doctor, she confronts her anxieties and the reality of illness, grappling with the emotional weight of motherhood and the fear of loss.