Sophie was feeling under the weather, that was clear. The other week, she’d had bronchitis. This week, it began with high fevers and long-jump vomit. Gold medal!
At the doc’s, the doctor quickly shoved an extra-long Q-tip up one of her nostrils. (To his great credit, he never pretends something is going to be simple or painless. He’d said, ‘Yeah, this is the snotty swab. Doesn’t feel good. Hurts for a sec. But I’ll make it fast.’)
Her panic reflex rightly kicked in, horribly, in that second. She began clawing at his hands until I took her hands in mine. It was over. She cried for two seconds, took a deep breath, calmed herself.
I felt tears somewhere way, way back behind my eyes. Because in that moment of panic, her flailing was just the flailing she did as an infant whenever she was panicked or hurt.
And because now, she’s learning she must deal with her own discomfort, her own pain.
We went back to the waiting room, where my baby smiled at all the other babies and commented on their cuteness. Then she read. I cannot get her out of a book, even when sick. Fifteen minutes later, we had the diagnosis: official flu, nothing we could do except fluids, Tylenol (which made her puke, so scratch that), and sleep.
Slept seven hours a day, ten at night. Burning with fever. Throwing up.
Four days later, she has just emerged from her bed-cocoon.
Curled up in my bed, sipping juice, we had a talk about honesty and lies. She said she was frustrated with the lack of stories in her life. She felt boring, she said. I told her the only safe place for lies was books. There, I said, they get transformed into something good. I told her I lied a lot as a kid, and I didn’t have many friends. I told her I thought the two were related. I told her I understood the need to feel special, but that lying wasn’t worth it and she should take it from me. That she was a great kid, and soon she would have more stories than she could even remember. She looked skeptical. But she’s considering the concept, I can tell.
Paper white, with brown circles under her eyes, she got up, thinking. And she did some writing. The beginning of a book.
She is now watching TV.
Now I’m going to make her some toast, fetch her some more juice. Her dad is coming over to visit with her and her sister.
The kid may be worn out, but she even handles flu gracefully.
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