“Why are you so anxious?” my partner asked, half in disbelief, as I rushed to grab the spare thermometer from my nightstand and placed it under the arm of my whimpering nine-month-old. Upon returning home from work, I had found him clinging to the coffee table, trying to stand while his cheeks glowed crimson and snot mixed with drool dripped down his chin.
The thermometer beeped, revealing a concerning 103.8, and I knew that was just an underarm reading. “How long has he been like this?” I called to my partner, who was busy preparing dinner while our two-and-a-half-year-old played chef at his feet.
“He seemed fine a minute ago. The teachers said he had a great day. Kids get sick. Don’t worry so much.”
But I can’t help it. Anxiety washes over me every time illness strikes, bringing back memories of the past. Memories that haunt me. Why doesn’t he worry like I do? Doesn’t he understand that every small action can have significant consequences? I wish I could save my son this time, unlike the time we couldn’t save our daughter.
I called the doctor, and they advised me to bring him in. My heart raced as the nurse echoed my concerns; this could be serious. It’s flu season, and he had just received his vaccine a few months before. Could it really be that?
“Do you want me to save you some dinner?” my partner asked.
“No. I’m not hungry,” I replied, too anxious to eat.
Thirty minutes later, my baby and I were at the clinic, waiting in an exam room. He was falling asleep in my arms, his body exhausted from fighting whatever illness was affecting him. The nurse took his temperature again: 105.
When the doctor entered, I could feel my hands tremble. “We need to run some tests.”
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked, my voice shaky.
He replied honestly, “I’m 95% sure he will be fine. I’ll explain more once we have the results.”
“How long will it take?” I needed to know exactly when he would be back. “You remember I wrote about my two children, one alive, one gone?”
“Ten minutes, I promise,” he assured me.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Holding my son close, I rocked back and forth, seeking comfort for myself rather than him. He was sleeping peacefully against my chest. I kept my hand on the spot where his neck met his shoulders, counting his breaths to ensure he was still breathing. Unlike her. She never did.
“Please stay. Please stay,” I whispered through my tears.
The wait felt hauntingly similar to the moments I spent waiting for the ultrasound that revealed my baby had died over four years ago.
“You can’t have him,” I said to death, who seemed to linger near the door. “Not again, please. That wouldn’t be fair.”
But I knew better. Life isn’t distributed evenly. You don’t get a break just because you’ve faced tragedy before. God seems to give people more than they can bear. Misfortune strikes repeatedly. Just ask any mother who has lost multiple children or those who have faced illness after losing a child. It happens. Suffering doesn’t stop just because you’ve already endured pain. It’s dealt randomly, like a game of chance.
“Please not again,” I begged. “Don’t take another one of my children.”
The doctor returned, and I braced myself. “He has influenza A.”
“Will he be okay?” was all I needed to know.
“Most likely. You brought him in quickly. We’ll start him on medication right away. It won’t eliminate the virus, but it should help shorten its duration.”
During the drive home, I tried calling my partner numerous times, but he didn’t answer.
Once home, I rushed into our bedroom, “Why haven’t you answered my calls?” 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 is serious!”
“Calm down. You do this every time our kids sniffle. Kids get sick.”
“…and die!” I interjected, finishing his unspoken thought.
“Stop. He’s going to be fine. Everything will be okay.”
A shiver ran down my spine, taking me back to the delivery room, swollen and ready to meet my newborn. That was when my partner said, “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”
“You don’t understand!”
“Get what?”
“It’s just like her. Every time the kids get sick, I’m sent back to when we left the hospital without our baby. Every. Time. I can’t bear to fail again. Do you know how difficult it is to prove to the world that I can keep my children alive?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. Emily 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 the one who could have saved her. I should have noticed when she slowed down, or recognized the fever that indicated the infection that silently took her from me. She died inside me, not him.
And that’s why I worry so much.
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Summary:
This article explores the profound anxiety that comes with a child’s illness, particularly through the lens of a mother who has experienced the devastating loss of a child. Her fears are compounded by past trauma, leading to a heightened sense of dread each time her children fall ill. The piece captures the emotional turmoil of parenting in the shadow of loss and the struggle to maintain hope amidst fear.
Keyphrase: Parenting anxiety related to child illness
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