A Long Night of Anguish

Those dehydrated, painful, gasping coughs carry on as I search for his little sippy cup kept on the bedside. In the gloom of his sickness and mine too, my hands nervously hit beyond what seemed a zillion bits of paraphernalia on the table kept by the bed. Tylenol , Ibuprofen, Vicks, Napkins, Humidifier - My armaments against the battle on my son’s ill health. I’d noticed the indications timely and promptly and tried my best to strengthen the barricades, excavate channels, and fortify the guard. Alas! It was of no use. My son’s resistances survive little chance compared to these painful plunderers so pervasive to his gentle age. I feel kids put up a great combat but are unfortunately the first to get knockout. Like a soldier without his armed forces.

Drier, excruciating coughing follows. The spell lasts 3 minutes this time with more howling. Its 2am at night and with an anxiously helpless mind, I look at his face as he looks on to me, seeking help. His face is distressed, despairing, fatigued. My sleep-deprived mind yells atrocities. Irrational, unreasonable squalls of fury focused at nothing particularly; best restricted within the curbs of my brain for fear that they tangibly damage something or somebody. My fury against the sickness, is making me call it names- but its in vain, because it goes on desolating my son’s health, taunting at my vulnerability. My incapacity to slit my son’s pain out of him is making me more miserable. I wish I could cut a part of myself, if that meant to ease his pain in some way. Sadly, these are meager imaginations. His anguish isn’t. This is actual.

More coughing. More crying follows. His petite, tender body staggers, tugged from its condition of respite by an invisible power. He climbs on my chest, close to be to breathe better. I hold him tightly; assuring I sooth his back whenever the cough spells strike again. He finally gets 5 minutes of breather. That’s almost like 30 minutes of relief to me.

As I hold him close to me, on my chest, he is still hot. I begin singing him his favorite lullaby with shaky voice and teary eyes. His warm arms were spread out around my neck tenderly. For a moment, he held his head up high to look at me, as if he is saying “Mamma, this is toughest thing I have done in my life. Can’t you make it all okay for me?” and then — in one instant, vivid gesture — he rested his head again on my chest softly.

That painful warmness of his complete body seemed like holding an enormous hot water bottle; the absolute dependency he had on me in that instant; and my heart just shattered into pieces.

I understand that I possibly can’t stop my son from getting ill. I can’t avert his growing up and going through the pain himself. But what I can do is - when he needs me at 4 am in the morning, I can pat him until he falls asleep again, and softly whisper in his ear – “it’s okay, Betu. It will be fine soon. Your mamma is here with you.”

Keep Reading!

Auteur