If a book makes you cry, it must be good, right?
I'm reading a book Lift
When Phoebe was young, about a year old, she had a very, very high fever. At one point, it was over 106°. We took her to Children's Hospital of Oakland the first night. They were very worried she had meningitis. The only way to be sure is to do a lumbar puncture. We resisted that, wanting to be sure before we put her through such a difficult procedure. We spent hours there, Phoebe was wailing in a way that only a really, really sick child can wail, tearing at our hearts. What was worse though, was when she was quiet, when she was just so spent, so tired, so overwhelmed that she was quiet. They pumped her full of antibiotics and sent us home. By the time we left her fever was down around 100°.
The next night, same drill. This time they really pushed us for the lumbar puncture, but we'd been through this before, and, after more drugs, and another decrease in her fever, they sent us home.
She got better after that. No more trips to the ER.
What does that have to do with "Lift"? On pages 33-34, the author's child is getting a lumbar puncture. At Oakland's Children's Hospital. She writes,
With your feet in one hand and your forearms in the other, Jeff rounded you out. After swabbing your back with yellow iodine, Dr. Benjamin pushed a long needle between two of you lower vertebrae, "past some dura mater." Your razory screams tormented me. I crossed my arms and bit down on my lips and rocked back and forth in a soothing motion, like I'd accidentally driven into a bad neighborhood and was assuring myself that somehow I'd find my way out. I didn't look at Dad. I couldn't spare the emotion.
Dr. Benjamin pulled the needle back slowly, calmly, despite your awful shrieeking. "That's all we need. We'll take this to the lab and start the evaluation." He stood and handed you to me. You were hot and wimpering. I held you, heart to heart, your hands around my neck. Although I'd betrayed you, although I'd stood by while people spread and bent and stabbed you, you still wanted me most of all.
And I'm crying again.
One of the things I didn't say above was Phoebe did need to get chest x-rays. They strapped her down, and Betsy and I stood nearby, listening to, as Corrigan said, her "razory screams tormented me." It got worse, though. The straps couldn't hold her down. Phoebe pulled and thrashed. I had to put on a lead suit, walk over, and hold her down.
I held her there for what seemed like forever. She kept trying to pull away from this ultimate indignity and I stood there, holding her down. She looked at me with those perfect beautiful blue eyes and I held her down.
When it was done, the tech came over and took the straps off, Betsy came and scooped her up and she wailed and wailed and wailed while Betsy held her and swayed in that Momma/baby rhythm that only they know.
This book reminded me of this, something I'd put away, not to be touched because it makes me so sad, and I cried. And I'm crying.
I don't know if you'd be moved the way I am if you hadn't been there, in those flickering lights, on that night, frightened, knowing you did the right thing, but feeling like you betrayed your child, but I suspect every parent has at least one moment like that, one time where they felt what I felt, what Corrigan felt. It takes a good writer to remind us, though, of just how overwhelming it is.