Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine

 

Mothering at Midnight
by Judith Hannan

The barking cough a few minutes after midnight snaps me awake. I race into Max’s room, the sound of his raspy breathing meeting me halfway. He sits—head drooping, mouth open, panting.  I swallow my own gasp, resist the impulse to scoop my 4-year-old son into my arms and cry.  Instead, I move with brisk efficiency as I prepare the nebulizer that will open Max’s airways.
    
“It’s OK, little man, you’ll be alright.”
    
Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. Maybe it never occurred to him that he wouldn’t be fine. 
    
My husband, slower to wake, enters the scene. His nervousness tries to cling to my leg like another child for whom I have no time. “Is he OK?  What’s wrong with him?”
    
“He’ll be fine,” I say.
    
“I don’t understand how you can be so calm. Why aren’t you calling the doctor?"
    
Why aren’t you? “I thought I should start treating him first, but why don’t you hold the nebulizer while I call.” 
    
“Am I going to die?” Max asks.
    
There, see what your panic did? I try to contain my anger in some pocket to be emptied later.
    
“Of course not, sweetie,” I say. “We’re going to take good care of you.”
    
Maybe it’s only the croup, I think. But it could be asthma. I still can’t tell the difference. 
    
The nebulizer isn’t helping. The answering service connects me to the doctor. He’s sure it’s the croup. 
    
I go through the drill. First the steamy bathroom. Rock Max in my arms, sing “Dona, Dona,” draw funny faces in the foggy mirror. Next, bundle him in a blanket, carry him outside into a night I wish were colder to shock Max’s lungs into breathing more efficiently. Count stars, wonder why there are so many lights on in New York this late at night, do anything but notice the labored inhales and exhales.
    
Max is restless. “When can we stop doing this?” Isn’t whining a sign of recovery? But still the strain in Max’s neck, the punching in and out of his abdomen as his diaphragm labors to do its job.
    
“Let’s check with the doctor,” I say, trying to make it sound as if we always call him at one o’clock in the morning.
    
Max wheezes over the phone. “Better bring him to the emergency room,” is the reply.
    
Max in my arms again, my husband calmer now. He has a role. Call the elevator. Get a taxi. Pay the fare. Track down the triage nurse. Now a feeling of foolishness creeps up on me as I notice that Max is breathing more easily. 
    
It’s the croup. No real crisis this time. Not so those other times—the first asthma attack that landed Max in intensive care, the episodes of peanut induced anaphylaxis, the reaction to a sulfa drug that turned Max’s skin so red I thought it would singe my fingers. At first the emergency room was a sacred place, I a grateful plebeian among the white-coated emperors. Now, familiarity reveals a tarnished scene—the crud in the corners that the mop never reaches, the stained lab coats, the indecision of young residents a mirror of my own. 
    
I watch Max, who has bloomed into full impish glory, as festive as if we had woken him at midnight for hot fudge sundaes. I respond with joy and pride and some spit to ward off the evil eye. But his happiness in this place of crisis increases the urgency I feel to get him out of here.  My signature on the release form is a hastily drawn dash.
    
It’s 3:45 a.m. Madison Avenue is quiet, the first cars of the morning rush still hours away. I take deep breaths, curiosity joining the air in my lungs, wondering what it feels like to be Max.
    
We have the leisure now to walk the eight blocks home. I carry Max. Suddenly, he swivels in my arms, hugging me and his dad together. “I really love you guys,” he says. And for a moment I want to tell him, “No, don’t. I, at least, am not deserving; I am not strong enough to trust with the weight of your love.”
    
At home, I make a bed on the floor next to Max. While he fidgets and squirms I try to mimic sleep in the hope that real slumber will come. Finally, I hear Max’s steady breathing, but I remain on alert listening for any ominous catch. If I stay here, I will fall into a sticky pit of sorrow and fear; I get up.
    
Max has two sisters whom we had left at home with a babysitter always willing to respond to our midnight call. One of my daughters, having discovered the absence of half her family, has crawled into bed with her. The other is still asleep, innocent to the night’s drama. In caring for Max, I have betrayed them.
    
The sound of my husband’s snores comes from our bedroom. Empty of a task and a child to hold, I recognize a far deeper isolation rooted in fear—fear that I might fail Max, fear that he will die, fear that my fear will leak out for others to see and that I will be weakened like Samson after losing his hair, fear that I will be unable to hold the souls of my family until daybreak. If only I had that kind of power.
    

I go back to watch Max. He no longer needs me to help him breathe; it is I who need him—I who need to draw energy from the emotional umbilical cord that binds us. I will replenish his supply in the morning.

 

 

Judith Hannan, a former music teacher and fund-raiser, began exploring creative writing 15 years ago. Her work has appeared in such publications as Woman’s Day, Twins Magazine, Big Apple Parent’s Paper, and Martha’s Vineyard’s Vineyard Gazette. She recently completed a book based upon the experience of caring for her daughter during her treatment for and recovery from cancer. Ms. Hannan conducts writing workshops for at-risk teens and homeless single mothers. She lives in New York City with her husband and has three children.