The Story of That Time

Did I ever tell you about the time I thought Zoey had cancer? No? Are you sure? 'Cause I think you might remember if I had. It was the time I shit my pants quite literally at the hospital and stayed the night there just like that because what did it matter if I had shit smeared along the back of my jeans when my child might be dying.

I'm not even kidding here even though the bit about the shit might make it comical. Even I see that. It happened when Zoey was 5 months old. I had just gone back to work and felt horribly tragically terrible about leaving her in daycare. Then one day her daycare called and said she had a strange rash, a bruised looking thing all over her legs and arms. And it was my fault, I knew, for leaving her somehow. It was my fault and I drove to her daycare and saw the rash and it was strange and my fault, I knew that. I called the advice nurse who asked if the markings blanched when I pushed on them, so I sat there pushing my finger into the butter of Zoey's legs as if I were frantically making a phone call. No one answered and the rash did not blanch so the nurse told me to come in right away.

Maybe I told you about how I drove across the bridge at 75mph? About how Zoey's eyes were drooping heavy with sleep and sick there in her car seat so I kept screaming a high-pitched terrified scream because I was afraid of her falling asleep? No? Then did I tell you about how later the doctor said they were going to admit her into the hospital and run some bloodwork to look at her white cell count. And me being me--I knew just enough about medical matters to ask if, I don't know, god, I mean, what? It's not like she has cancer. Right? And the doctor, he said I don't know, but that's what we want to rule out, as if this were a perfectly acceptable answer in a perfectly practical situation, as if all of it made sense when nothing did and the air was suddenly devoid of oxygen.
But I did just tell you how I shit my pants. Surely you did not forget that detail. Because when the doctor said those words and the nurse looked at me like that, somehow both sorry and detached at the very same time, when all of this happened and the world shifted I somehow knew that down the street a stranger had the gall to order a foot long MeatLover's sandwich from Subway as if nothing had happened and yet I could not feel my hands; I could not breathe. There was Zoey grumpy on the crinkly exam table and I ran to the bathroom, fight or flight. I shit so I could fight, that's what a mother does, right? Has terrible diarrhea in the hospital restroom knowing then that it's not all her fault, that she has nothing to do with this anyway? That please and god and I promise and no mean nothing to white blood cells?
When I called Bryan I asked him to bring me a change of clothes but of course he forgot, going at his own 75mph to get to our new world of ruling out. And then the nurses came in to insert an IV into Zoey's hand, first one then another, soon the whole nurses station gathered around because no one could get the fucking needle into my baby's vein and she was screaming crying confused and scared while three adults held her down. I smelled like shit and held on to that--it was real, I stank and nothing else was.

Of course you know the ending to this story, even if I never told you before. You read this blog so you know: Zoey was fine, is fine. At 4am a nurse came in to tell us that Zoey's bloodwork had come back fine, that the bruises that would not blanch was just one of those things! One of life's mysteries, like why the ocean is blue or what happens to all those missing socks! And we were released to the joy of the hospital staff who probably didn't want to smell me any longer. A week later I craved Subway and got a 6 inch Veggie; now this is just a story of that time I thought Zoey had cancer and shit my pants. I'm surprised I hadn't told you before.

But the thing that gets me, really truly makes me feel that same void of oxygen, is that this is not the ending for so many families. That maybe another mother did that same 75mph drive to the hospital, maybe she also shit her pants when the nurse looked at her both with sympathy and detachment, but because of what came next hers is not a story to laugh at. Hers is a story to avoid. To read or to hear and then to shake off with a shiver. To retell and discuss not knowing the words. god. can you imagine? ...sentences that drop off, big sighs and, i mean, just god, right? jesus.

I don't know why we were so lucky, why we continue to be so. Much like the parents of those not so lucky don't know why they have no control, either. The ocean is blue because of the absorption of wavelengths; because it reflects the sky. Who gets cancer and who doesn't: that is the big mystery. And children's cancer? That's a mystery wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a fuck. Who cares what happens to missing socks?

Last week an anonymous commenter heckled me about philanthropy: volunteering, etc. And let me just be clear: I still think that anonymous commenter is a bully jackass buttfart. But the whole thing made me think about what is important to me outside of my family. And what I can do about it. Already I donate money when I can to the Children's Cancer Association, and it is my hope that if you can you will think about donating, too. Or any of the various organizations that support research and help families who are dealing with childhood cancers. Anonymous--if you are reading--you are more than welcome to donate money in my name :)

Happy Friday my friends,

xo,

Susannah