There is nothing that this wee toddler likes more than this old, old, old rotary phone. It’s my grandmother’s from when she worked at the Ontario courts (I think that’s correct; she was a stenographer; I think). I’ve had it since university, and it’s been in every place I’ve lived since, and it still works. We’ve been through three different iPods, the phone still works. We’ve been through three televisions, the phone still works. The zombie apocalypse could happen and that damn phone would still work. That is, until the RRBB drops it on its head for the umpteenth time. And it’s not that he’s just obsessed with this phone — he’s obsessed with all phones. Fussy on the TTC: hand him my blackberry. Grumpy at home: RRHB gives him his phone. He holds them upside down and backwards and says, “Hi!” It’s hilarious.
And the gloriously happy look on his face does nothing to betray the hell we’ve been through over the past few days. I’m coughing like Doc Holliday in Tombstone, running a fever; my RRHB’s got a cold; and the baby has the stomach flu, complete with the, ahem, runs — for FIVE STRAIGHT DAYS now. He’s not dehydrated. He’s actually eating well. It’s just a lot of changing diapers and rinsing kibbles and bits off in the tub. So, it’s been another marathon. Just getting through the days. Worrying incessantly about him, about his health, about whether or not I should call the doctor, checking things online, reading different parenting sites, doing more worrying, and then I cough up a lung, my RRHB feels nauseous, and all three of us collapse into another day defined by whatever daycare plague has descended upon us.
It’s so funny. I used to be so flippant. I used to say such trite things: “Life never hands you more than you can handle.” Blah de freaking shut-the-flapjack-up you dope idiot. I mean, if you talk in platitudes, try to comfort other people without any real honest sense of yourself or what “hard” actually means, something is going to come back and bite you in the ass. I prided myself on being able to grin and bear a lot of crap. Oh, my mother’s in the hospital for 20-odd years. Check. Oh, I’ve got an auto-immune disease. Check. Oh, my appendix has ruptured; I need emergency surgery and then my stomach stops working. Check. I’ve been this-close to death on at least three separate occasions, all relating to the disease alone (and I’m not including the car crash I was in during high school because, thankfully, I was not injured). And nothing, nothing, has worn me down like the constant ever-churning sickness brought on by the daycare plague. It’s going to break me in half, chew me up, and spit me back out in pieces. I have been sick in some form since October. And then for a thirteen months before that — and it’s making me so frustrated that it’s almost impossible to see that there might be an end to it.
I just finished reading a great book by Augusten Burroughs that I’ll review properly outside of here, This is How, there’s a whole section on how to deal with illness, and he makes an interesting point, that it’s all okay once you’re in it. And it got me really thinking, that’s he’s not wrong, at all (in fact the entire book is full of shockingly good advice). Once you know what you’re dealing with, after the doctor’s have come in and told you that the bleeding in your lungs is, actually, life-threatening and they’ll do everything to save you and the baby, spending two weeks in the hospital really isn’t all that bad. Every day you get better. Once they tell you that the pain in your hip isn’t avascular necrosis but a broken pelvis, it’s actually a relief, because you know it’ll get better and you don’t have to have your hip replaced (that is a win!). See, it’s okay once you’re in it. Except, it’s not normal. It’s not anywhere approaching normal and when you, and by proxy, my RRHB, live this-close to death for so long that all you crave is a bit of normal. In the book, Burroughs says that while his loved one was in the last stages, tubes all over the place, all he wanted was to watch a movie. And it was okay because they were in it. But here’s the thing: I am tired of being in it. Chronic illness is hard because it’s never-ending. And that’s been the problem with so much of my life — there hasn’t been enough endings. It’s gotten better over the years. It’s been a blessing, actually, and I don’t want my own ending. I’m not saying that. I just need a break. Sometimes, I need someone to hold me up. RRHB does an excellent job of this. But sometimes, he needs someone to hold him up too. Sometimes, we all just need a break from being in it. Perhaps, it’s a vacation. Perhaps, it’s a few days off. Perhaps, it’s getting more sleep. Who knows. Whatever it is, it’s not happening for us now.
So, my point, and I’m rambling, terribly, is that, despite having a tortured, well, butt, this teeny tiny human got THIS MUCH joy from a phone. He’s laughing and clapping and singing to himself and babbling up a storm. He’s an utter delight (except when you’re trying to change him). And that’s okay. Because eventually, we will pass through the daycare plagues. The disease will, hopefully, quiet down. Exercise will, once again, become a part of our lives. And I keep saying these things over and over again. But maybe it’s worth repeating. It’s not going to be this bad always. I have done a lot of crying the last few days. As much as I’ve been coughing, actually, ha! Still, I’m getting stuff accomplished. Enjoying work. Having a date “afternoon,” which is much more manageable than an evening because, well, let’s face it, I’m bloody tired by 9 PM.
Parenting offers so much in terms of recognizing the bigger picture. Sure, it’s almost impossible to imagine a bigger picture when every single hour spent trying to take care of a toddler when you’ve got a fever feels like a year. When you’re in the tub for the umpteenth time that day cleaning up, ahem, a mess. When you’re bleary-eyed and exhausted. Still, we had a great afternoon. We read about a hundred stories. We watched a hundred cars go by. We learned new words. We wiggled like a crocodile to some fun music. We had a bath where we played and laughed and played some more. Then, we read more stories. We cuddle. We say, “nigh-nigh” and we head off into bed. And, it’s amazing because we’re in it. The bigger picture tells me that all I need to do is find my phone and hang on for dear life.