I look north out my window and see the dark blue silhouette of the mountains in the near horizon. The first thin hint of daylight is coming to their slope and as it does it will begin to paint them in greens and scattered earthy browns. The ebb of flow of light coming and going has gone on for eons and it’s pace is slow. Too slow.
At 5:09 in the morning I find myself looking out the window and hoping the light would just come quicker. This night has been long.
I’ve been a parent for about 7 years now and I still haven’t grown accustomed to dealing with the worry of my children’s illnesses. Every struggling breath or creeping notch higher on the thermometer is agonizing.
The second guessing comes at what I call the “judgement hour.” It’s that time of the night when it has deeply overtaken the day and its heavy black cloak has thoroughly unfurled. At this hour the majority of human activity has slowed to a crawl and a family finds itself on its own and with very little options.
I try not to wake them as I check their struggling bodies. Under the light of my cell phone I look at the quickness of their heaving chest, gauge the color of their lips, listen for his struggled-wheezing breadths or touch their forehead/arms while I crudely measure temperature.
I pace some more. I second guess and worry further.
“Should we go to Urgent Care now?” “NO, You’re overreacting.” “Why didn’t we go when he started to cough?” “You can’t go for every small cough” “Is his breathing normal?” “Did we breastfeed long enough?” “Shit, I shouldn’t have told him to play outside so long.” “How long until day light?
Then I check on them again and the pattern repeats.
It’s 5:31 now. I don’t see green on the mountains but the night is now loosing it’s control to the daylight and the drape of darkness is being removed.
It’s an hour and a half until the local medical facility opens and I can take my child for attention. That’s a long time from now.
I should probably go check in on him….
