A Mother's Urge To Protect Her Young

I was never prepared for this hurt. No one tells you when you decide to have children that you wil physically feel their pain. You cry when they get their immunizations as babies. One time, when Evan was 10 months old, he had a stomach virus that left him dehydrated and his electrolytes completely depleted. He had to have an IV, and I had to leave the room. I could have sworn I could feel the stick myself, outside of a closed door, in the hallway of that ER. None of it prepared me for this.

Evan went to see the child psychologist today. She got down on the floor with him, playing with Legos, and managed to pull out of my child all of things he never told me. I sat by silently, trying to focus on the questionnaires she gave me to fill out, while my son poured it all out to her. In his beautiful mind, he could not understand why he had to do the mundane schoolwork presented to him in class. He knows this stuff, so why should he have to prove himself to his teacher? Then we got to the part where his retention in kindergarten was discussed. It was all I could do to keep myself from breaking into gulping sobs when I heard the sadness in his little voice as he explained to her in very adult terms how the children at school called him a dummy, or stupid, or retarded because he was forced to repeat kindergarten. How they pick on the Southrn accent we all find so adorable. How he is taunted about being a "rich" kid because of the shoes he wears. He said sometimes they combine it all: Dumb rich hick. Never, in all of this time, did I imagine my bright and beautiful child would be the butt of jokes at school. Never did he utter a single word about any of this. I told him as we were driving to his appointment that we were going to meet a lady who was going to help us with the problems he was having at school, and how important it was that he tell her the complete truth about what is truly going on. I am so proud of him. He did just that. I sat there and let him speak.

Her opinion of my son is that he is a "social butterfly with an abnormally high intellect". That he never should have been forced to repeat kindergarten, and that the school should be doing more to offer to him more challenging and engaging work. We will continue to meet with her to work on these issues. His IQ? I will not report that publically, but I will say it is freakishly high.

But then I came home. After grocery shopping and playtime, homework, bath and bedtime have passed, I am alone in a silent house. And I feel this deep, primitive urge to wreak havoc on the morons who did this to my son. He has been hurting and I could not fix it. I know about it now and still am not sure I can fix it. I want to keep him home tomorrow. I want to tell him he never has to go back to that place, full of cruelty for him. My understanding of the teacher's view, my desire to back the school, and my inclination to put up a united front with them in front of Evan? Those are all gone. I want to fight them tooth and nail to ensure that they do right by my child. If he had an impairment of any kind, the law would force them to come up with an individualized plan to meet his needs. Well he has needs, just at the opposite end of the spectrum, and I do not see why they should not legally be forced to accomodate Evan as well. And the children who have tormented him, when in truth he is exponentially more intelligent than they are??? They need to be dealt with by the teacher. How could she not know this was going on?

I have not made a decision yet as to what I plan to do about this. I need to speak to John first, and he will be home from work soon. Private school? Home-school? Just change districts? Raise hell at his existing school? Maybe a combination of any of those. Hell hath no fury like a pissed mother. And I will go down protecting my baby.

Allowing a Connection

"I'm dying.", he said. " And I don't want to."

I had to stop. I couldn't not stop. I could hear the tears in his voice.

Here's the thing: I try not to feel while I am at work. I know to the average layperson, this will seem terrible. Because I wear the badge of "healthcare professional", I am supposed to be this all-feeling, caring, compassionate individual. To a degree, I am. But I am also human. On a daily basis, actually multiple times per day, I see patients as they face death. I cannot allow myself to feel. If I did, it would be my downfall. So when I am at work, it is all science. In other words, let me help you physically overcome your disease. If the disease is going to win, I will at least go down swinging for you. I win the fight many, many times. But I lose, also. And then I have to go home to my family, intact, and play the role of Mommy.

There are some situations where I cannot turn it off. Well, I can almost always turn it off. It is just that sometimes, after I have turned myself off to what is happening, the emotions of it all catch up with me later on, when all is calm. The first time I had to resuscitate a baby, John knew immediately that something profound had happened to me at work. I walked in the front door, enveloped Evan in my arms, and automatically started to cry. But while I am at work, I cannot allow myself to shut down. I am a professional.

So here I am with my patient. And he is dying. I have just finished giving his bronchodilator treatment. I've replaced his oxygen cannula, and have turned to leave his room in the intensive care unit when I hear those tears in his voice. He has end-stage COPD. Not only does he have to face the fact that he is dying, but he is doing so with the full realization that his actions caused the condition. He is ashamed. He is sad. He is guilty. But mostly, I hear fear: fear for himself, fear for the loved ones he will leave behind. And in his voice, I also hear my mother. You see, we never truly get over the loss of a mother. Never. Enough time has passed for me since my mother's passing that I can carry on with my life without you ever knowing that she died. But she died of COPD. And I became a respiratory therapist. My ability to disconnect keeps me safe from ripping open the wounds.

For the first time since I was a child, losing her mother, I am powerless with this patient. I cannot stop what is happening to him. I can intubate and place him on machines that will keep him alive, but I cannot grant him the ability to truly live. I've seen the chest films. I've looked through his chart. And I know that nothing I can do will help him. So as his wife sleeps peacefully in the corner of the room, I sit with him. I hold his hand, and we cry together as I tell him about my mother and he tells me about his wife. To him, I am the other side. I am the one left to live, and he is the one afraid to leave. I tell him the truth. I miss her every day, but the degree to which I do became less and less debilitating each day. I explain how I reached the point where I can see the influence she has had on my life, shaping me into the person I am. How I can see her in my son's smile, even though the two of them never met. I tell him how she lives on inside of me.

My day finishes. I am no longer on hospital time, but rather my own. I hold his hand as he drifts off to sleep. He seems more at peace, somehow less afraid. But later on, in my home, as I close my eyes to try to sleep off the night I had, all I can see is my mother's face. Swimming in my tears I never shed.

OMG

First of all, I am typing this as I sit with my left shoulder on ice. Force gloves are wonderful....when you are in shape, that is. I, well---I am not in shape. So My shoulder feels like it is trying to detach itself from my body at the moment, and I am still sitting here typing this. How's that for dedication?

I am also multi-tasking like only a mother can. In other words, there is a load of laundry going in the washer, and in the dryer. I have meat for dinner defrosting, sauce cooking. Nah, I don't deserve a cookie for this. In all honesty, I would be loafing if my child were not screaming that he is going to starve to death. I assure you he is not. He still has that toddler Buddha belly at the age of almost-7. It is more than likely that his "I'm starving!" is more like the equivalent of "I am no longer full from lunch." How do you explain the difference to a little boy? And so I am cooking.

My child is also the source of a big ol' gross-out today. I am sorting through laundry, when I stumble across denim with a glop of brown muck on it. I didn't delve into the pile to see whose jeans they were, but instead yelled for John. I made him smell the mystery substance and from the look on his face, deduced that it was indeed dog poop. But here is the enigma. It was in the middle of the back of the leg. Not by the ankle or the hem. By the knee. And they were my beloved child's jeans. WTF? How did he do that? So the imagery pops into my head of what he would have had to have done to get that there. My original theory I had as a little girl in kindergarten was bang-on, it seems. Boys ARE yucky!