The Angels Among Us
It’s been an amazing, exhausting, gut-wrenching 10 days. It began on what would have been my parents’ 60th wedding anniversary, had they lived to celebrate it. My daughter texted early that morning to ask if I’d watch her 19-month-old while she went to the ER, possibly to give birth a few weeks earlier than her official due date. By the time I got there (ugh, pre-COVID traffic is back), symptoms had subsided and a quick trip to her OB/GYN confirmed she was fine.
About 30 hours later, I got a text that everyone was again at an ER and heading by ambulance to another hospital that wasn’t under a cyberattack. My grandson had collided with a tailgate during a neighborhood block party and suffered a concussion. He was vomiting and lethargic and disoriented. I needed to take care of their dog, who’d been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer two days prior. I privately noted that it was the anniversary of my beloved grandmother’s passing and therefore all would end well.
And it did until the next day.
The morning of Mother’s Day I was again summoned on short notice to come babysit while my daughter and son-in-law headed to yet another hospital, this time for suspected food poisoning. She worried her baby might be in distress, and that indeed proved true. My grandson was born that morning weighing 4 lbs., 15 ounces. He’s the spitting image of his big brother, and a healthy eater despite initial deficits.
While Mom, Dad and baby recovered over the next several days in a Labor and Delivery Unit, I contended with a child with a head injury and ongoing GI issues. By the second day of full-time Grandma duty, I too felt queasy and chalked the nausea up to exhaustion. But the belly aches worsened until I began to retch. My husband and 12-year-old had come to help me with the dog, who only poops in someone else’s yard. Within hours, they too were sick. So now I had no sleep, no help, no appetite, no strength and no idea how long this might last. Toddlers do not take illness well, especially when their caregiver is the one ill and trying to stop a stomach bug’s spread to the outside world.
You’d think this would be the end of it, but no. On Day 3, we were doing bubbles in the backyard when I smashed my toe into the corner of a heavy table. It bruised and swelled instantly. Somehow, I managed for the four days it took everyone to return home, and for the next five serving as a night nurse while my daughter began healing from her surgery. By then my stomach bug had been replaced by a respiratory one that still lingers.
Yesterday I returned home full time, dropping into familiar sheets and falling asleep without a baby monitor in my face. I thought I’d sleep well, but I missed rocking a little one back to sleep at 1 a.m. as I have previous nights. I missed the darkness that eliminated all distractions, the stillness that let my mind wander where it wanted. I missed the tiny prayers made to all of the people who’ve passed and therefore cannot share in this family milestone. The angelic features of my grandson when I dared shine my watch light over his face for confirmation he was again asleep.
I’d probably still be there if I had my druthers, but one thing a good parent learns is when to let their children figure things out on their own. No doubt my son-in-law will pick up what little slack I’d provided in their sleeping schedules. Already I am amazed at how bad things were just a week ago, and how far we’ve already come. I guess I should thank my lucky stars, or at least the angels that look over each of us in our time of need.
