By Kari McBride
It’s Thursday.
The alarm goes off at 7 a.m., and I am not ready to open my eyes yet.
But then I hear the quiet chattering of her voice down the hall. She’s already awake.
“Mom? Mom? Are you still sleeping?”
Maybe if I stay really quiet, I can sneak in a few more moments of sleep.
“I got dressed. Ate my breakfast. And fed the cat.”
Well, it seems like today has started without me.
She sounds happy. And she’s dressed and fed. This is a good start.
I wonder how early she got up today. Please don’t let the pain in her side have been the reason for the early start.
“How’s your side today? Are you ready for school?”
“It’s fiiiiine, Mom. I don’t need any medicine.”
I don’t think Mom believes me. But I really want to swim today. I have to be OK.
I hope that’s true. She does look OK, though.
Math. ELA. Social Studies. Coffee. Breakfast. Email. The rest of the morning passes by in a blur.
I wish I had slept better last night. My forehead is starting to throb, and the familiar feeling of nausea is creeping up. I know I have my migraine rescue meds around here somewhere, I just need to find them, and fast.
I can’t get comfortable.
This math question is too hard.
I hate when my side hurts. I just want it to go away.
Do her cheeks look red? Are her eyes tired? She’s sure fidgeting a lot.
“Do you need medicine? You look tired.”
“No, Mom, I said I’m fine.”
I don’t want her to know it’s getting big again.
With the laptop closed, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. We made it through another morning of school.
Then I see it. Her cheeks and nose are bright red. Her eyes are tired and glazed over. Her speech is loud and short. Before I have time to process, the meltdown is happening.
I hate this pain.
It’s never going to get better.
No one believes me.
“I DON’T LIKE MY SIDE. FIX IT. FIX IT RIGHT AWAY.”
We waited too long. She pushed too hard. I should have known. I should have seen it coming.
I can’t seem to find her medication fast enough. Between the screaming, crying, and throwing of objects, my own head is pulsing. If only I could find some way to help her.
“I AM NOT GOING TO TAKE A NAP. I WILL NOT CALM DOWN.”
“MAKE. THIS. PAIN. STOP.”
After what feels like an eternity, but is really just an hour, we are both exhausted. The screaming has stopped. The medication is starting to work. Her body is starting to settle.
This time, anyway.
She is insisting on food before nap. But I just want to sleep. We both need it right now.
Of course she’s hungry. Of course I have to feed her. Of course I am nauseous from my migraine. Of course, a sandwich gets made anyway.
“Why are you hiding under the pillows?”
How do I explain that my head has its own pulse, the light coming through the window hurts my eyes, and every sound feels entirely too loud?
“I have a headache.”
I wish Mom didn’t get her headaches. I don’t like it when her head hurts.
It’s naptime. Finally. I’ve been waiting for this all day.
She sleeps for 2 hours.
I sleep for 20 minutes.
My head is starting to hurt less. The fatigue isn’t.
So, as she settles onto the couch to watch TV, I crawl to my desk to log onto my computer.
She grabs a snack. I remember I should probably drink some water.
Her body is still recovering from the morning.
Mine is, too.
But I need to lead my support group in 20 minutes. And I need this almost as much as they do.
We talk about lots of things today. Pain. Parenting. Grief. Values. Identity.
We start talking about the things that matter most to us.
What does matter the most to me?
Then I hear that sweet voice whispering outside my door, and I remember.
“Mommy? Are you still in your meeting?”
“I really want to swim still.”
A mad dash around the house ensues. Swimsuits. Towels. Goggles. Everything gets dumped in the bag as we race out the door.
It’s only a quick drive across town. But I can’t stop checking the rear-view mirror.
I know she really wants to swim, but is it worth it?
“Are you excited for swim?”
I can’t tell her my side is hurting again. I want to swim in the big pool today.
“Yes! And my side only hurts a 5 right now.”
Deep breaths. A quick swim. Beautiful clouds.
For 30 minutes, I see my kid just being a kid. She’s learning new swim strokes. She’s diving to the bottom of the pool. Her face is full of laughter and snotty pool bubbles. She’s happy. And this is what makes it worth it.
Then it’s a quick shower. Pajamas. She’s asleep within minutes.
Now I slowly pick up the pieces of the day. School stuff from the morning. Wet swimsuits and towels. Pieces of uneaten snacks. Items thrown about during the meltdown.
My body is screaming out in pain. My brain is exhausted. I don’t know if I want a hug or a good cry. I probably need a shower.
But finally, the house is quiet.
“Mommy? My side is an 8. It really hurts.”
And this is just Thursday.
