Mama Marina

TW: grief, loss, illness

It’s day 12 of a medley of viruses attacking my daughter’s immune system. She’s back asleep in my lap, stealing those rare, quiet moments she can take up space by herself. When little sister is still sleeping in the bassinet and “bubbah” is off to daycare alone. Again. Though he’s also “sick.” Not sick in this pitiful way where eyes stay closed more than open, and laundry and baths are no doubt doubling our water bill for the month. But “too sick to go to school” because he’s learned morning coughs just might be his ticket to freedom.

I sit in the dim light of a still-standing Christmas tree and electric fireplace, waiting. Waiting on yet another return call from the pediatrician who I’m certain will only tell me to wait even more. It’s been a fall of endless viral plagues, so I pretty much know the routine by heart. Wet diapers at least every 8 hours. Fluids in increasing quantities. Straight to the hospital if there are signs of dehydration. Yada yada yada. All very practical, reasonable advice. But when you and every cloth surface in your home has been covered in vomit so many times you’ve lost count, this advice starts to sound an awful lot like bullshit. Especially when every virus has hit the rest of us like a train but is slow strolling along inside her not-yet-two-year-old body.

It was almost exactly seven years ago that I took family medical leave to care for my mom in her final months. We also spent days and nights camped out on couches, my mom’s body creating a deep canyon that would always mark her spot. A layer of blankets and bed pads spread underneath so cleanup would be simple and easy. Her words, no one else’s. She, too, was very practical.

At her last scheduled doctor’s appointment, the opthamologist told her it was far too late to remove the cataracts making her blind to her final days. The polyps in her throat had already robbed her of the chance to speak through them. The final straw seemed to be her last sit-down meal on the way home from the eye doctor. She took morsel bites of every side on the plate and asked me to confirm the Cracker Barrel cooks had scooped out garbage in place of actual food. I considered lying, but instead, my words became the punctuation mark to the last meal she would ever eat.

Later that evening, I opened the refrigerator door to prepare a meal for one. Packed and ready to feed an army, as usual. I grabbed milk, butter, and cheese and set them on the counter beside bread and a can of tomato soup. The simple ingredients to my mom’s go-to comfort meal when I was sick as a kid. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. Expired. Toss. Expired. Toss. Expired. Toss. I was left with a half-empty tub of butter and a can of tomato soup.

It’s hard to describe what happened next, but when my stepdad came to see what all the commotion was, I was standing in front of an open refrigerator door holding the second overflowing garbage bag. He commented that my mother would be pissed, but I think we both knew my mother’s days of walking to the fridge had also expired. So, I waved open another trash bag and plopped down in front of the lower cabinets that served as my mom’s pantry. By the time I was done, my mother’s kitchen resembled the bachelor pad the whole house would soon become anyway.

In the words of a wisening Olaf, “We’re calling this ‘controlling what you can when things feel out of control.’” After I finished, I could suddenly breathe again and I no longer felt the need to eat either.

It’s now day 12, plus the one hour it’s taken to write this, and my daughter is still wrapped in a cocoon made of mommy legs. At least once a minute of every waking minute in the last 12 days, I’ve felt the urge to set aside my daughter’s need for comfort, my baby’s need for breast milk, my son’s need for attention. To set all of that aside and move misplaced ottomans and throw pillows and a littering of toys creating a minefield of my living room. To fold and put away the laundry whose homes have become couch cushions because we’ve run out of baskets. To empty refrigerators and cabinets. To control something that feels even remotely within my control.

But instead, I sit here in the discomfort of not moving. Not knowing. Not controlling. And I wait some more.