The clock reads 3:37 a.m., and here I am, cradling my five-year-old in the dimly lit living room. He’s shivering, his small frame vulnerable in the cool air. When he gestures for “more” to my off-key rendition of Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” the sweet smile that breaks through the fever is enough to keep me from calling our pediatrician’s emergency line.
His bare feet tap against my legs, a rhythm born out of tremors rather than dance. “Please, God, not the flu,” I silently plead as he emits a deep, raspy cough that sounds far too grown-up for his age. Just a week prior, a local man, only 33, lost his life to the flu. If it can affect someone so strong, what chance does my fragile child — who has cerebral palsy and still puts everything in his mouth — have against it?
I pause my singing, feeling his hot little body against mine. He settles, sucking on the edge of his blanket, as my husband quietly enters from the kitchen with Motrin. Together, we prop him up as if we’re adjusting a wobbly chair. Fortunately, he takes the medicine and some water. Then we head to our bedroom; leaving him alone in his own bed feels unbearable, even with the baby monitor.
So far, there have been no signs of vomiting or diarrhea — symptoms commonly associated with the flu in kids. I say “I’ve read” because, naturally, I turned to Google the moment I noticed his tremors and heightened startle reflex while dressing him for bed. The news of the 33-year-old’s passing lingers in my mind. I can’t help but wonder how his young son is coping.
I remember scrolling through Facebook, where the anxiety surged. Comments from fellow parents played in my head like a constant stream:
- “Get him to the doctor ASAP for Tamiflu! It works best in the FIRST 24 HRS!”
- “Avoid Tamiflu! It made my daughter sick!”
- “We got sent home with antibiotics and a breathing treatment for type-A.”
- “All three of ours had their flu shots and still tested positive!”
- “Don’t wait too long; pneumonia could set in!”
- “Skip the doctor; they’ll just send you home!”
- “All local clinics are out of flu tests!”
- “If he struggles to breathe, rush to urgent care!”
The flood of information paralyzed me. Now, at 4:40 a.m. — long before the pediatrician’s office opens — I feel lost.
Yet, I’ve traveled this path before. We’ve been in ambulances, faced intubation, and undergone countless tests. It’s been three years since his last seizure, but even now, I find it hard to breathe or blink when he runs a fever. This is my norm.
Reflecting on the collective panic I now see in others — the urgent Facebook posts, the hand sanitizers tucked away in pockets, the endless Googling — it hits me: I’m not alone in my worry. Parents everywhere are anxiously watching their children, hoping to see that familiar glimmer of wellness return.
It’s harrowing to witness your child suffer from something you can only manage, not cure. The waiting is torture, and the uncertainty is almost unbearable. But as I check the clock for what feels like the hundredth time and press my lips to his warm forehead, I recognize that, for once, I’m part of a broader community of concerned parents, all hoping to see clear eyes again soon.
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