ANOTHER DAY OF CHILDHOOD | AMANDA FORD
“Do you need to take your pills now, Mommy?” I hear my son’s voice: sweet, high, clear.
His question jolts me out of my stupor. I’m sitting on the couch, staring out the window but not really seeing anything, just sort of lost, like I often get in the evenings. My brain sits in a fog of sickness and side effects. His question finds me.
“What, sweetie?” He has never asked me this question before, and my brain is slow today, so I need a repeat.
“It’s 7 o’clock Mommy. Do you need me to bring you your first round of pills?”
I turn to face my son. He is standing right in front of me, like he knows he’s supposed to do to get my attention. (Sideways voices often startle and disorient me.) Hair mussed and face bright, he seems to be all legs, growing longer by the day. I try to remember what it was like to live in a body that changes so much so fast.
I want so badly to parent this stage well. He’s ten, and I know I have limited time where he’ll still listen to me. But I feel like I am constantly failing. I am so sick, so much of the time. I hate that he’s growing up, like I did, with a sick mom. I hate all the events and milestones I’ve outright missed, plus the ones I’ve attended but was too distracted to fully engage with. I hate how much of his normal kid behavior I’ve already asked him to modify, like the standing in front thing, and how easily he has complied.
Fundamentally, I do not know how much to protect him, how much to expose him to, how much to let him help me. Bringing me those pills may make him feel empowered, capable; it may give him at least a perceived feeling of control over an illness that has affected his life at least as much as mine. But it could also make him feel overwhelmed, responsible for things too big for his small shoulders. I don’t know where the line is, and I’m too tired to figure it out.
The truth is I do want someone to bring me my pills. It takes so much energy to get up and get them. Some nights I feel suctioned to the couch, my energy budget deeply overdrawn from the day’s practicalities, my body’s demands, near-constant pain, and the very pills in question. But I manage to muster a “no, thank you sweetie, I’m okay.”
He frowns. He’s not sure what to do. He tries again: “It’s just that Daddy brings them to you after dinner. You’re supposed to take them now.”
He’s never said this before, never given any indication he noticed the routine. From the child who I constantly nag to “pay attention,” I often forget that he pays perfect attention to things he cares about, for better and for worse. Apparently, he knows when I’m to take them, he knows they’re still on top of the cabinet (the giant pill case is hard to miss; it’s almost as big as a laptop), and he knows I struggle when Daddy travels.
“That’s very kind, sweetie. But I’m okay. I’ll get them later.” And then, to head off the objections I imagine are coming, I say, “right now I’d like a cuddle though.”
That does it. He smiles, his eyes lose their heaviness. He yells “of course, Mommy!” and hops into my outstretched arms. He is all jagged knees and elbows, flesh stretched tight against his growing skeleton. He fits neatly under my arm, wriggling under the thick cotton quilt I’ve pulled over us.
His skin is soft and warm, except for his hands. Red jagged hangnails ring his fingers, our best lotions no match for all the hand washing and sanitizer at school. I kiss his hair and cheek, still slightly metallic from the thick sunscreen I’ve asked him to wear at recess. I ask him how school was, he demurs and we decide to just cuddle.
“Are you going to tickle me?” he asks, his eyes wide, expectant. It’s less a question and more of a request.
“Maybe,” I say, as my fingers start stroking his armpit. “Prolly not.” He starts jerking wildly as I tickle his arms, legs, feet. “Mommy is waaaay too tired to tickle you,” I have to yell because he is squealing now. “Definitely no tickling!” I insist as I attack his stomach, behind his knees, under his chin. Eventually he gasps and begs for mercy, smiling, delighted.
I send him to the shower as my phone pings a reminder. No, phone, I haven’t been able to get them yet, I think. Alone, I inhale, hoist myself off the couch, pause as the blood rushes to my head. I will myself not to fall. Slowly I make my way to the cabinet, my gait unsteady. I wrestle with the series of latches on the pill container, confirm I have opened the bin for the right day and time. I curse as I realize my water is all the way in the kitchen. I debate waiting for Ivan to get out of the shower. He’d be happy to bring me a cup of water, he’d feel important. It would cost him nothing physically, he has the boundless energy known only to children right before bedtime. But he doesn’t yet know that feeling useful can quickly turn into feeling used, burdened. I decide for today I can spare him that, can give him another day of childhood. I breathe in deep and head towards the kitchen.
Amanda Ford is a writer and scientist living in Northern California. She trained as an astrophysicist; her work on galaxy formation and evolution has appeared in Science, The Astrophysical Journal, and Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society. She works as a data scientist for the San Francisco Mayor’s Office; using statistics, modeling, and analysis to improve the City’s response to the homelessness crisis. Ford, a survivor of cancer and brain injury, is learning how to live well with severe Lyme disease.