I rolled over yesterday morning to C. cuddled up beside me in bed, ready to wake her for her first day back to school after Spring Break. I tapped her gently on the shoulder, wanting to wake her slowly. No sooner did her eyes flutter open did she immediately start thrashing and crying. Rough morning, I thought, and I tried to soothe her, which only made her more agitated. She sat bolt upright in bed and flopped over backwards towards the foot of the bed, and when I asked her what was wrong, she could only wail, “I don’t know.” She suddenly jumped out of bed and ran around to my side, still crying, wailing, and distraught, and she sobbed that her stomach hurt and that she was so thirsty and wanted milk. At this point, I was worried. I’d never seen her act like this, and I scooped her up in my arms to hold her. I held her close, rocked her like a baby, and I reassured her that everything would be okay and she could have some milk. Then I realized that she had gone completely limp in my arms. I looked down and her eyes were closed. Her skin was pale, and I could see beads of perspiration along her hairline, which was soaked. I touched her face, and her skin was clammy and cool to the touch. She didn’t respond to my touch. It only took a split second for these details to register, for the fear and panic to well up…Oh, god, what’s going on? What’s wrong with her? What if…?
I shook her and said her name loudly, sharply. She eyes slowly eased open. “Mama, maybe we can get some milk now?” “Yes, baby, of course.” “Mama, my tummy hurts.” “I know, baby; I’m so sorry. Can I pick you up like this?” I asked, reaching under her armpits.
“Nooo!” she wailed, “Rock me, please!” “Shhh, okay, no problem,” I reassured her, pulling her close again, squeezing her tight, and rocking her. Then I felt her go limp in my arms again. I couldn’t help it; fear got the best of me, and I tumbled headlong into the abyss of what ifs. At this moment, R. walked into the room after having taken the dogs out, took one look at my wide, petrified eyes, and asked if everything was okay. “No. No, everything is not okay.” He and I both rubbed her face and said her name, and she awoke again, slowly, weakly. I was moments away from rushing her to the hospital, but I decided to give her food and drink as she once more requested. She ate; she wanted to be held; her hands were shaky, but seemed to grow stronger as time passed. I told her she needed to go back to bed, and she requested that I snuggle with her. We snuggled, and she slept, and all the while the what ifs continued. What if she has e. coli? That can be deadly in children. What if she has some other kind of food poisoning? Also deadly. What if it’s something worse? What if she’s really sick? What if I’m doing the wrong thing? What if she has to go to the hospital? What if we lose her? My god, what if..?
She awoke four and a half hours later, smiling and perfectly normal, and she immediately asked if it was time for lunch. We spent a quiet, happy afternoon together, both of us still in our jammies, and she went to bed without fuss. But I couldn’t, I still can’t, shake the lump in the pit of my stomach, and the fear that gripped me when I stood face-to-face with the tiniest shred of a possibility of losing my child. It’s silly, right? She’s fine. What am I worried about? Get a grip, woman. Parents deal with REAL illness and REAL loss every day. I’m being hysterical. But instead of feeling reassured, I’ve simply stopped asking “What if she IS,” and I’ve started asking “What if she WAS” and “What if she SOMEDAY DOES” and it makes me weak and nauseous and so deeply afraid. Surely you know the feeling? I get a small dose of it when I turn around in a store and don’t immediately see her beside me. I get another small dose when we have a close call while in the car. But this time I allowed my mind the tiniest liberty to fully imagine a world in which she was no longer with us, and it’s proven difficult to shake the dread, the fear, and the anxiety my imagination produced.
As I write this, I realize with gratitude and tremendous sadness how fortunate we are. Our daughter is healthy and happy, and in all likelihood, she will remain that way. She is very much here with us, and we are grateful. So when I follow the news coverage of Trayvon Martin’s senseless killing, and when I see the pictures of his parents, I grieve with them. The mere thought of losing my child brought me to my knees. What must they be feeling? How can they get up and face each day without him? How can we possibly live in a country where this is a real and constant worry for some, and only some, parents? Why should having a son with dark skin mean that both he and his parents should fear for his safety more than others? Why is the fear and hatred of difference still so goddamn pervasive in our culture? And what am I doing, what are any of us doing, to change that?
Truth be told, I didn’t want to write this post. Not because I didn’t want to say something about Trayvon Martin; I don’t have a problem calling out racism and racial inequality when I see it. I didn’t want to write this post because I didn’t want to give my fear any more ground than it had already gained in my mind by thinking about it long enough to write the post. But that’s a luxury I have, isn’t it? And it’s certainly a luxury Sybrina Fulton doesn’t share. My daughter lives a relatively safe life, and most of the time I don’t genuinely have to worry for her well-being. I don’t have a black teenaged son whose every move in public is scrutinized. Ms. Fulton’s what ifs sound completely different than mine. What if he looks suspicious to someone with a gun? What if someone decides they don’t like his clothes? What if he wears a goddamn hoodie and winds up dead? I will never have to ask those questions, and mothers of black boys shouldn’t have to either.
So again, what am I going to do about this? I’m going to hit “publish” on this post to publicly show my support for Sybrina Fulton, a mother who has sadly become the public symbol for what all the rest of us hope and pray we will never have to live through. And after that, I’m going to keep talking about racism when I see it, and I’m not going to accept excuses for racist behavior. And after that I’m going make sure my daughter understands why none of this is acceptable. Maybe nobody will read this post. Maybe it won’t make the tiniest difference in the world. But I can’t sit by and not say anything. I will not stand for it. How about you?
Please note that I’m very aware that having a child who is Latino, Asian, female, Muslim, Jewish, gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, or disabled means that you also worry more than normal because their difference may elicit a violent response from someone. This is also abhorrent and is part of the larger problem, and we need to work to make sure that changes, too.
© 2012, OneShoeOff. All rights reserved.
