“Why are you so anxious?” my partner asked, half curious and half concerned, as I rushed to grab the thermometer from my nightstand, quickly placing it under the arm of my whimpering nine-month-old son. Earlier that day, I had returned from work to find him clinging to the coffee table, struggling to stay upright, his cheeks flushed bright red and a mixture of snot and drool trailing down to his chin.
The thermometer beeped, displaying a concerning 103.8—not even a full reading. “How long has he been like this?” I shouted to my partner, who was busy preparing dinner while our two-and-a-half-year-old played pretend chef at his feet.
“He seemed fine just a little while ago. The teachers said he had a great day at daycare. Kids get sick. Don’t stress so much,” he replied dismissively.
But I do stress. I can’t help it. Every time one of my children gets sick, I’m overwhelmed by memories of past experiences—the painful memories that haunt me. Why doesn’t he worry? Doesn’t he realize how every little decision can have serious consequences? Perhaps I can still protect my son, unlike when we lost our other child.
I called the doctor, who instructed me to bring him in right away. My heart raced as the nurse affirmed my fears that this could be serious. It’s flu season, and he had just received his vaccine a few months back. Could it still be the flu?
“Do you want me to set aside some dinner for you?” my partner asked.
“No, I’m not hungry,” I replied. My anxiety made it impossible to eat.
Thirty minutes later, we arrived at the clinic and were quickly ushered into an exam room. My son was dozing in my arms, his little body fighting whatever infection was invading him. The nurse measured his temperature again, and this time it hit 105.
When the doctor entered, I could feel my hands tremble. “We need to run some tests,” he said.
“Will he be okay?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He was candid. “I’m 95% sure he’ll be fine, and it’s nothing serious. I’ll explain more once we run the tests.”
“How long will that take?” I pressed, needing to know every second of the wait. “You remember what I went through before, don’t you? I wrote ‘one living, one dead’ on the forms the first time we met.”
“Ten minutes. I promise,” he assured me before leaving.
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, cradling my son close as I rocked back and forth, trying to soothe my own fears more than his. He was peacefully asleep against my chest. I kept my hand on the spot where his neck met his shoulders, counting each breath, ensuring he was still breathing. Unlike her. She never did.
“Please stay. Please stay,” I whispered through tears.
The wait felt hauntingly familiar, reminiscent of the moments leading up to the devastating news when I learned that my baby had died just over four years ago.
“You can’t take him,” I pleaded with the shadows of death that lingered in the room. “Not again. That wouldn’t be fair.”
But I knew better. Life isn’t fair. Pain and suffering don’t distribute themselves evenly. Just because I’ve faced tragedy doesn’t mean I’m exempt from further heartache. Lightning strikes twice, as any mother who has lost multiple children would tell you.
“Please not again,” I begged.
When the doctor returned, I braced myself for the worst. He confirmed, “Your son has influenza A.”
“Will he be okay?” was all I wanted to know.
“Most likely. You acted quickly. We’ll start medication immediately. It won’t eradicate the virus, but it should help shorten its duration. Start it tonight.”
During the twenty-minute drive home, I tried calling my partner several times with no response.
Once home, I burst into our bedroom, exclaiming, “Why haven’t you answered my calls?” He was barely awake, hidden under the covers. “I needed you!”
“I fell asleep,” he replied.
“What if something serious happened?”
“Relax. What did the doctor say?”
“He has the flu. It is serious!” I shot back.
“Calm down. You react this way every time our kids get a 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, dragging me back to the delivery room, 40 weeks pregnant, ready to meet my newborn, only to hear the words, “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”
“You don’t understand!” I cried.
“Understand what?”
“It’s just like her. Every time the kids get sick, I’m transported back to when we left the hospital without her. Every. Single. Time. I don’t want to fail again. Do you have any idea how hard it is to prove to the world that I can keep my children alive?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. She got sick,” he reassured me, pulling me into his arms as I broke down in tears.
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 felt the symptoms that indicated the deadly infection silently taking over her body. She left this world while inside of me.
And that’s why I worry so much.
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Summary:
This article explores the overwhelming anxiety experienced by a mother when her child falls ill, shaped by past trauma from losing a baby. The narrative illustrates the deep emotional scars left by such experiences and highlights the complexities of parenting while managing fear and worry.
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