On Fear

It probably is not surprising to hear that parents whose children die often become fearful for their surviving children. Some parents don't let their surviving children out of their sight. Some drag them to the doctor constantly.

Caroline and I spend our days together, and I purposely don't schedule many activities for several reasons. I don't want us to be too busy. I want us to have time and energy to enjoy each other and be spontaneous. On a typical weekday, she and I are together constantly, with the exception of my hour-long workout. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm not afraid to leave Caroline; we simply enjoy each other's company. I'm surprised that I generally haven't felt this paralyzing fear for her health and safety since Weston died like so many other parents do. I let her climb WAY high up the climbing wall at the playground when I'm not standing there to catch her. We keep dairy in the house, even though she's highly allergic. She uses public restrooms. We drive her partway up really steep mountain roads. We don't call the pediatrician every time she gets sick.

But, now I'm afraid. She is going to see her pediatrician next week for her annual checkup. Besides one visit to her allergist and one to the dentist, it's been a full year. So, next week I'll learn everything that's been going on with her medically. She has had some minor symptoms lately that might point to a food sensitivity, and I'm a little concerned about that.

To make matters worse, then someone posted their daughter's height/weight stats on Facebook. And here is the monologue that went through my head: "Whoa. That kid is a full year younger than Caroline, and they weigh the same!...Yeah, she's always hiking up those shorts, and I don't think she used to. She's been essentially the same weight for almost a year. And she eats ALL THE TIME. She doesn't drink or pee much. She always says she wants to go to bed because she's tired. She totally has cancer."

This is ridiculous, I know. Kids have weird poop all the time. (Sorry for that mental picture.) They forget to eat or drink. Maybe those shorts just seem saggy because there used to be a diaper under them. She says she's tired but then sings and talks in bed for half an hour.

But I can't shake this. I have spent the last two days crying. That's more than usual these days. No rationalizing will take the fear away. I watched my son suffer. I saw him grimace when he was turned over. I saw him cry out in pain at yet another heel prick. I saw him tug at his breathing tube. I saw him toss and turn and resist the oscillator so vigorously that the neonatal team had to sedate him. And I just had to stand there. Who could ever rationalize the act, or non-act, of standing by helplessly watching your child suffer? My experience with Weston bleeds over into everything else.

With Caroline, I can, at least, explain my fear. I have this daughter I love indescribably, and I'm afraid she could die. That makes a little bit of sense.

But, on top of all that, I'm becoming agoraphobic or something. Tonight was the first night of a pretty big weekly church activity for Caroline. I just had to register her, find her room, and drop her off. No big deal.

I was mistaken. There were SO MANY PEOPLE. It's a big church, and this is a very big activity, so I shouldn't have been surprised to see all the people who have ever existed on this earth there. There were registration lines, forms to fill out, rooms to find, teachers to meet, etc.

I was fine until I got to the registration room. As an aside, never underestimate the power of a warm smile and a big hug. But I grew increasingly panicky. By the time we found the correct room, all I could do was walk up to the teacher and babble, "That's Caroline. She's allergic to dairy. Etc., etc." She was very nice and then introduced herself. Yeah, that would have been a much better way to start the conversation with the woman who is going to supervise my child every Wednesday night for the next nine months.

She told us there was a 15-minute meeting for parents at the end of the evening. Holy crap, will it ever END? I ran out of there with my head down and didn't quite make it to the car before the tears started. Thankfully, Shannon was with me, so he could field the friendly questions asked of us as we were leaving.

So then we did what all good non-volunteering Christians do after they drop off their kid at church: we went to our favorite neighborhood bar. Then Shannon took me home before he went to pick up Caroline, who then burst into the house yelling, "MOMMY! I'M GOING TO LEARN ABOUT CUBBIES! Sit down! I am the teacher!" I think, maybe, she had fun.

I have to suck it up and do these horrible scary things for her.

Why is drop-off in a big group so horrible and scary? Who knows? I can't begin to explain it. It's very hard seeing other babies and pregnant bellies, but it goes deeper than that. Tonight, the anxiety started long before I saw the first baby. Apparently, it's not uncommon to experience agoraphobia after the death of a loved one. This was not agoraphobia, but it was extremely upsetting.

Year One was about learning what I can and can't handle. Apparently, I have much to learn in Year Two, and there is still a whole lot I can't handle. Yay for self-awareness.

These all-consuming fears defy reason, which drives my analytical self crazy. On the other hand, there is nothing reasonable or rational about babies dying, about parents outliving their children. I can't explain Weston's death, so maybe I shouldn't bother trying to explain away these irrational fears. Like living without my son, I just have to get used to them.