Gifts of the Plague

It all started so innocently. I went to take a short nap after my boys had arrived home from school. I had been horizontal for a few moments when the boys came in (they still do not understand the concept that emergency means someone gushing blood or the house literally being on fire). "Lulu's tired and needs a nap." Good enough. Emmalouise comes in and snuggles up with me. I'm thinking, "Bonus!" Now I can get some extra sleep minutes as I will have to stay with my daughter to ensure she gets a good nap. Five minutes after she falls asleep, my father-in-law calls. He has just had the cows killed and I need to come pick up the livers and cheeks. Yea. Do I have to go now? Absolutely. OK. . . .

I let Lulu sleep for fifteen minutes (power napping is good even for 3 year old) and off we go. Cow pieces are loaded in the van and Lulu and I sit visiting with Grandma. Lulu won't get off my lap. She's feeling warmer and warmer; by golly, she has a fever! Grandma had open heart surgery four months ago. Time to go.

We head home and Emmalou doesn't want me to leave her -- not very conducive to getting dinner prepared. Suddenly, Quinn is feeling warmer . . . and warmer. Next thing I know, I am snuggled up with two feverish children who both desperately need Mom. Dinner was a hasty, Dad prepared meal of grilled cheese sandwiches. We administer ibuprofen all around and put the littles to bed. Whew. Sigh of relief. We are sure they will be markedly better by morning. Ah, it is good to have moments of blissful ignorance! Phase two hits: the croupy cough.

They hack all night long and by morning my 3 year old baby girl sounds like an alto-ranged, two packs-a-day, piano bar singer. We make it through the morning by the grace of ibuprofen administered at 6am. Then afternoon hits -- happily they nap, so peaceful. Who knew two hours could last only two seconds? They're awake and miserable. "Mommy, I need you." "I'll sit with you for two minutes." "Okay." "Alright, I need to go start dinner. Can I go now?" "No, not yet," says my girl. Again, Dad makes an ad-hoc dinner which is actually quite tasty (I highly recommend marrying a chef). Again with the ibuprofen. We put the kids to bed in my bed with lots of pillows hoping to have them sleeping at an angle to aide in breathing. I head off to Walmart for chicken noodle soup, cough suppressant and milk and bread. Get in the car after shopping and drive out of the parking lot only to realize that I've forgotten the milk and bread. Back to Walmart. Back to the car. Back to remembering something I've forgotten but decide, "To heck with it, I'm going home." I arrive home only to discover that my children are going ape and are having a great time running around now that their fevers have been artificially reduced and their sore throats aren't quite so sore. Why was ibuprofen a good idea?

They finally settle down and fall asleep. A few hours later I smoosh in between the two to catch my own zzz's. You'd think after being a mom for almost 9 years I would understand a few things. You'd think I would realize that sleeping with one sick child is difficult, therefore sleeping with two sick children is impossible. No. In my momentary insanity brought on by love for my children and concern with their well being (it's nerve racking when you hear them struggling to breathe), I throw all previous knowledge to the wind and sleep between my two sick children. Sleep here being as accurate a description as the word slumber in the phrase "slumber party." They hack and cough and twist and turn and kick and wake up and whine and cry ALL NIGHT LONG. They are thoughtful enough to do this in shifts so that I only have to deal with one child at a time. My only thought is of Thomas Paine: "These are the times that try men's souls." Most people think he was speaking of the Revolutionary War but I know he was actually discussing his own personal experiences with his sick children.

Friday passes fairly uneventfully. I am able to make dinner without being pulled at by octopus tentacles. Quinn and Lulu go to sleep, propped up in their own beds, slathered with Vicks Vaporub. Saturday moves along and I see the light at the end of the tunnel. By Sunday evening the quarantine has been lifted and we are no longer the house of death. Hooray!

Seriously, it does feel good to leave the house again. The first time I wondered out in the day light after four days of being sequestered I had a momentary feeling of disorientation. "Is this what the outside really looks like?" I wondered. It had been so long. It does feel good to no longer hear the breath rattling around in your child's chest and to hear a normal voice come from your three-year-old's mouth. (Although Lulu would have been better off keeping the cracking/whispering voice as Robert and I could hardly deny her anything when she used it; it was the perfect blend of patheticness and innocence.) And it does feel good to sleep all night long without interruptions from hacking coughs or children's whines.

In the middle of illness, whether it's a cold or the bubonic plague, it is amazing how important the simplest things become. Perhaps this is one of God's ways of reminding us of the myriad of blessing we take for granted. I breathe hundreds of times each day without a second thought, but the moment that breath becomes labored, I remember what a gift each breath is. My children fight, argue, disobey and exasperate me hundreds of times each day. But the moment their existence becomes a question, I realize how precious they are to me and how readily and happily I would relinquish countless nights of sleep for their continued well being. How grateful I am to my God for my three marvelous children and the gifts they bring me each day just by the fact they are alive.