It was a manic month. We couldn’t count the times we changed soiled sheets, washed hands, disinfected toys. We used up a full supply of sterile face masks and boxes of tissue paper. We were repeatedly woken up at night. We felt like new parents all over again, except we haven’t got the stamina that often came with it.
For an entire month we were ill. Our entire family. The three kids in the house (including the overgrown child of a dad) took turns contributing to the symphony of coughs. Each of a different pitch and tone. Some a string of staccatos, others a legato. Some allegro, some adagio. We burned holes in our pockets for the buffet of medication we got for them.
It happens to all, you tell yourself. But when it hits everything goes to the dump.
Amos drenched his mask. Joel had solitary confinement. The mask straps gave me sores over my auricles for wearing them almost 24/7. Mummy hibernated in bed.
The help from mum-in-law was a God-sent.
Then Joel got well. Mummy came next, and Amos was a close third. I’m still on antibiotics as I write. Amos recovered and went back to school. Then he fell ill again and stayed home. It happened twice. In all that chubby sprog missed 2 full weeks of school.
Finally he seemed well enough. He returned to school, sang and danced with his friends and teachers. At the end of it they settled down in a half-circle. His teacher told a story. The children listened. Amos listened.
And without warning his nose decided to bleed gloriously and scare the living daylights out of the entire class.
Yes, the entire class.
His teacher sent a distress call for me to go pick him up. Then she received numerous queries from worried parents asking if Amos was all right. Guess who spilled the beans?
We’re really heartened by their concern. But we’re also distressed. We didn’t want Amos contracting pneumonia again. The last bout landed him in hospital and got him started on the nasal-gastro tube. The memory of him being on oxygen and being tube-fed was fresh in our heads like steaming bread.
It came to a point when we wanted to keep him home so he’d stay healthy. We wanted to restrict contact, to quarantine him, to put him in a clean room, a box. It didn’t matter if he learned his ABCs or not, or if he sang or danced or if he interacted at all or made any friends.
We wanted to pull him out of school.
It was ridiculous. But it made real good sense when we’re in the dumps. It became nonsense only when everything blew over and we were given the equanimity to think about it.
We felt acutely the spell of blindness that the struggle had cast upon us. We experienced the importance of gritting through it first and then reflecting upon it after—when we were calmer, more rational—when there was clarity.
It felt almost like the spark of restraint before we decide to liberate our rage. And we’re glad we checked it.
But we aren’t seeing the end of it. It will recur and we’d have to check ourselves many times over. Until Amos’ body matures and toughens, and by God’s grace it will. He’s gotten through one trial after another and it’s our job to help him get there.
I started writing this a week ago. It isn't over because two days ago Amos had gotten another round of infection and is now back on medication, just as I am, still.
So we're at it again. But we were reminded that what he’s getting isn’t that much different from what he’d get if he didn’t have Down syndrome. Any child with a compromised immunity would’ve experienced the same. And Down syndrome isn’t going to be a convenient excuse.
Thankfully Amos is now much better. And with the doctor’s blessing we’re sending him back to school for all the stuff he enjoys too much to be taken away from him.
It’s all part of growing up.
Photo credit: OrangeCounty_Girl via Foter.com