There is almost nothing that makes you feel more absurd than getting a pedicure while your child is sick in the hospital. I am like one of those Mob Wives. I am a Real Housewife of Suburban Connecticut. I am getting a pedicure and blogging on my iPhone: Absurd!
My massage chair squeaks and a lovely, but somewhat aggressive Korean woman at my feet tells me I need “therapy” for my calloused feet. Therapy, indeed. I tell her “Yes please. Therapy, please. Callous eliminator please.”
I don’t feel guilt, don’t worry. Not for this, at least. I feel only mild discomfort as my toe skin is clipped and relief that I am not glued between a mechanical hospital bed and my hot, sweating, immunocompromised child.
We are in for the long haul, for sure. Her ANC has reached zero and there is no fighting off whatever bug she has now. Her fevers are up in the 104 range overnight and she wavers in the 101′s during the day. She’s stopped eating, but thankfully is happy to nurse all day long. We’re just watching and waiting and hoping this is not something scary. Thankfully, they are thinking it is a virus that will run it’s course, however slowly. John and I are also coughing, sore-throated, snot factories. We are not helping Elsa’s cause, but we have no choice but to be there with her. The hospital has confined us to our room because we are a danger to the other immunocompromised children on the floor. Staff wear plastic, blue, haz-mat uniforms and masks when they come in our room; Elsa is too zonked to raise an eyebrow at these giant plastic smurfs with stethoscopes.
There are some moments of sweetness though. She is a child who snuggles only on her own terms and defends her personal space aggressively when she feels invaded. I quietly sit by and encourage this as I think it will serve her well as a grown woman. John has to ask her for kisses these days as she is quite the roiling mass of grumpiness and lashes out if surprised with an unwanted snuggle. He asks her, “Can I kiss your hand?” and she responds with a nod and her outstretched, mottled little fist. He kisses her and she quietly accepts. John and I find this adorable every time.
[*This callous therapy is very intense.]
Yesterday, I felt like, surely, this would be impossible. We could not possibly survive the intense discomfort of being sick ourselves, sleepless, and taking care of our sick two-year old in a 12ftx12ft confined space for the indefinite future. Today, I’m feeling a little more able. I turn on my constant treadmill of thoughts: She is alive. She is with us. She is alive. She is with us. Time will move forward. Time is moving forward right now.
[* Certainly it moves forward more pleasantly as this man massages my calves. This man has replaced the woman at my feet; he is the massage expert. He tells me I look tired. I tell him I live in the hospital now. He asks me why and I tell him my daughter is sick. She has cancer. He is sorry. He tells me his father had brain damage and was in the hospital back in Korea. He tells me his father would wake at night, when the rest of the family was sleeping. It was awful, he says. I nod and tell him, Yes, elderly people often wake at night in the hospital. They get confused. He nods and we are silent for a while. I tell him I used to work with some Koreans back in Queens. I tell him that I love Korean food and we laugh about Korean appetizers. I tell him Koreans never tell American diners what the food actually is - you just have to eat it blindly. He finds this hilarious and then becomes serious. "Do you think Americans here would like Korean food? I want to open a Korean restaurant." Yes, I tell him. "I love Korean food." I am unsure if I can speak for all Americans, but I do so cavalierly. He continues to massage my calves and we sit in friendly silence.]
It’s 3:30. I will go back to he hospital in an hour and a half. Renewed, hopefully, by these Koreans, and by time moving forward. By cold air and walking with my new, smooth, callousless feet, in flip flops, in the snow. By interactions with humans who are not wrapped in blue plastic suits, talking through yellow masks. By a few moments spent not thinking about whether or not the pale, hot, 30 pound body in my arms is a ticking time bomb or just working through a simple virus that will take an easy course.
Ok. Back to business.
