So back a few entries ago, when I was all tucked in my hospital bed for a third admission...
Being in the hospital was by no means enjoyable, but to be honest, I was so relieved to be able to be sick under the watchful eye of several physicians and nurses instead of at home. After a miserable five days of high fevers and tremendous pain, I was finally getting the help and medications that I needed. And if I'm being really honest?... I was happy to have the remote to myself and someone to change my sheets every day. I didn't even need to get my own ice water. Heck, I had a pitcher, refilled at the touch of a call light. Sure, I only got a few hours of sleep a night, between medications, assessments, peeing every hour from diuretics, doctors rounding, more doctors rounding, food service, environmental services to clean the room, someone else to come change a light bulb, nurses coming in that weren't mine walking in accidentally...the hospital is the last place you want to be to get rest. But at home, I'd be up every 2-3 hours with Charlie anyway, and here, well, I didn't need to take care of someone else in addition to myself. Which at first was a great relief.
But time passed, and I began to ache for my sons. I wondered how much Charlie would have changed in the past day, and worried about missing our opportunities for attachment and bonding. I worried about my relationship with Oliver; for two weeks, all he had seen was me hardly moving, or falling asleep or crying, or telling him I couldn't pick him up because Mommy had an owie in her tummy. Oliver and Charlie were in fantastic hands, I knew, between Michael and my sister Karen who was staying with us for the month; both of our families helped out every day, and Oliver continued to go to daycare to maintain a sense of normalcy. But I missed them fiercely, and cried every day that they weren't in my arms.
After a couple of days inpatient, I got a text from our daycare provider, saying that Oliver had been crying for a very long time and wanted to talk to his Mommy. My heart broke in a million pieces. I nervously made the call, praying that I wouldn't hear Oliver crying when the phone was answered. He wasn't, and we had a ten-minute conversation about his day, the ABC's, what he would do when he got home, and what was for dinner ("cake," he replied.) I hung up the phone in a puddle of helplessness.
Karen brought Oliver to visit the next day, with plans to bring him regularly while I was in the hospital. She rehearsed with him on their drive over: Daddy was at work; baby Charlie was with Grandpa; Mommy was in the "hoppital," as Oliver called it. He peered around the door to my room, then ran to my bed: "Mommmmmyyyy!!!!" I cried and cried, and he smiled and smiled. Towards the end of his visit, my nurse had given me a medication in my IV with a syringe. Oliver walked over to see what she was doing, and she gave him the empty syringe. "Oliver," I explained, "that syringe gave Mommy medicine to make my tummy feel better." "Feel better?!" Oliver exclaimed with joy. "Yes," I told him, "Mommy is getting better," though there was a part of me that worried I wasn't. Before he left, all bundled in his winter gear, he turned around and walked over to me one more time, and held the syringe up to my belly. He wanted to make his Mommy feel better. I just about lost it.
Once home, I worked on modifications to playing with Oliver: sitting on the floor so he could sit in my lap, having him crawl up on the couch next to me, and making everyone else do the diaper changes (pretty smart, I am). I was so tired, and still so sore; there were times that I had to take a nap into the evenings and missed playing with Oliver. And I hate saying it, but when I wasn't awake for the whole time he was home, part of me was a little relieved because I was scared to be in pain from playing with him. And I didn't like that he was seeing me like this. I hated telling him "Mommy can't pick you up because she has an owie," or "be gentle, please sit over here instead because of Mommy's owie." The poor kid not only had to get used to having a new baby brother, but he also lost a part of his Mommy to being sick, at least for a little while.
Oliver coped like a champ, but did have the occasional tantrum issues at daycare and at church. One Sunday, when attending church with Michael, Oliver threw a fit in the sanctuary, and then refused to play in the nursery. He screamed and cried, hollering, "Mommy's sick, Mommy's sick!" Hearing about that hurt more than any procedure I had been through, and it wasn't the last of it. Even after I had been home for a couple of weeks, Oliver told our daycare provider, "Mommy's in the hoppital." She tried to tell him that no, Mommy's at home now, but he insisted I was there. One day Michael had a migraine, and I told Oliver that Daddy was sleeping because he had an owie in his head. He got the most crestfallen look on his face and asked quietly, "Daddy's sick?" I knew he was worried that Michael would be going away like I did. Just two days ago, when I dropped Oliver off at daycare, he walked to Charlie's side of the car and reached to open the door. "No honey," I said, "baby Charlie will be home with Mommy." Again, the look: "Charlie sick?"
I doubt Oliver will remember any of this down the road, but it makes me feel so sad to know he's still thinking about it now. It's certainly not every day, but if someone is not feeling well, he seems to worry about what that means: will we be going away, unable to play with him or pick him up for a very long time? Which is why, now that I am finally able to start picking him up, I am kissing and hugging and holding him as much as I can, positive that now I am home for good. And if the kid says he's having cake for dinner? Then that's what we're having.
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