Afraid for Life
I implore all of the other parents out there in the blogosphere — will this embedded daily fear that one day you will wake up and your child will be gone or dead ever leave or am I stuck with it for the next 18+ years? If so, I’m going to need a LOT more Tums and/or whiskey. Some days with him are so real — this usually involves massive amounts of poopy — but sometimes it is like if I wake from this dream, all this will be gone, gone. I can’t stand the thought, and yet it is there.
It’s not that Keston has done anything particularly stupid or risky, nor has he had poor health, a bad prognosis, or anything of the sort. It’s more of the mere fact that this wonderful little gurgling baby boy is spending vast amounts of time in my house, we’ve bonded on so many levels I forgot to keep counting, and he’s nestled his way into my heart in a way that can never leave me lest it rip it apart and leave great shreds blowing in the breeze.
I have all sorts of thoughts that zip through my head when we’re together — how beautiful he is, how his features look like me, or his mother, or just himself, the cuteness of his expressions, the wiseness of his eyes, the purity and simplicity of his joy. At the same time that these positive things are making themselves known, the shadows creep forward and darken my outlook with the plague of “what ifs” — what if he gets hurt, what if he gets hurt bad, what if his little heart stops beating right here and now and I can’t do a thing to stop it.
I don’t think it’s so much the idea of such a tragedy happening but what it would do to me if it did that scares and haunts me. That sort of loss can’t be quantified by any previous experience I’ve had before; it would open all sorts of new gateways and sluices into my emotional tanks and result in a cascade of hopelessness and anguish that I can only mentally glance upon in speculation lest it cripple me where I stand. (Employers do not take kindly to workers dropping to their knees and weeping in the middle of the day.)
Before he was born, we worried about his progress within the womb, listening at every non-stress test for that thumpity-thump of his little heart, knowing that a steady rhythm was key to knowing that he was fine. After birth, we had to wring our hands over SIDS, choking on his own spit-up, smothering in a blanket, or any other number of baby maladies. Some of those still worry us today, even though he’s grown tons and had great progress with no sign of issues, they linger in your mind and your senses.
Obviously, having this fear within our hearts is the sidekick to the vast amounts of love and happiness we feel for having him in our lives, but it is always there and creeps forward at the least opportune times, making me halt in my own breathing as the weight of agony briefly presses down on my chest and I have to remind myself that these are only projections of my mind and not reality. Unlike other fears that abate with time, I don’t
know
as though
this will ever
leave me.I don’t know as though this will ever leave me.
Given this, I try to spend all the time I can in the business of life to stop and take some time to really observe my son, to look at every inch of his wonderfulness, observe his movements and faces and listen to his noises, trying to store away as much of this little person that I can in my mental databanks. There are projects that I am far behind on in this house and my life in general simply because I’m opting to stop and giggle with him for a few minutes rather than do dishes, to hold him while he naps instead of cleaning the living room, to give Eskimo kisses and watch his eyes twinkle in lieu of organizing the basement. I figure as long as these dark areas lurk in my mind, there’s nothing quite like the joy of my boy to chase them away with every grin, giggle, and coo.
I hope I never regret what I’ve chosen. Somehow I don’t think I will.
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