Here is what is hard: to express oneself or create something new when the child who is coming into this life as the nearest and most profound recipient of one's love is ill.
Over six weeks, the baby has slowly descended into diarrhea. Then came his illness. Even though he's no longer ill, the poop situation is worse than before. He is drained. And so part of me is drained. There is the constant nursing--he eats more from Cafe Mom now than he did two months ago. But more depleting is the worry: the low-level ache that something is wrong; the problem-solving head on addressing of the issue, again and again; the flicker of fear when the pediatrician says she's out of ideas; the whipping flames of terror when I realize he doesn't eat, he's dehydrated, his poops are completely watery, he's losing weight, he isn't his sparkly curious self, and there's no explanation why.
A renowned ND has been called. Some remedies have been ingested. The effluent may be firming up; it is less frequent for sure. We are waiting for a cancellation. In the meantime a tub of baby diarrhea sits in the fridge, ready for delivery to the lab tomorrow.
Meanwhile, I hold him and look into his eyes as he nurses. You are here with us, I tell him. Papa and I will always take care of you.
I have taken special care to make sure his naps are regular, his fluid intake is ample, his days filled with both security and stimulation. Every once in a while a bloggable idea overtakes me, but it just isn't important. There is nothing as important as this child's health.
Today he ate a bit: chicken bits and applesauce and some nutrient-loaded muffins I concocted in his honor. Things are looking up, and it is on that thread of hope that I find the strength to write.
Muffins for a Sick Baby Who Still Loves Baked Goods
1. Preheat oven to 350F
2. Combine:
3 c. whole wheat flour
1/2 c. wheat germ
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp spices
3. Blend thoroughly:
2 eggs
1/4 c. olive oil
1/2 maple syrup
1/3 c. tahini
1.5 cup mashed sweet potato (or pumpkin puree, or applesauce)
1 c. rice milk
1 c. grated carrot
1/2 c. grated golden beet
4. Pour wet ingredients into dry ingredients. Mix until just blended. Fill greased muffin cups just to the top.
5. Bake 350F for 35 minutes. Makes 18 full-size muffins.
6. Break into little bits and put in baby's mouth. Give him some bits to hold. Say "Umm!" along with him.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Quiet Ill
After three days pain, some relief from the flu. There has been chaos every which way.
Then the baby’s turn begins
with a cry, a little head standing by my pillow.
I pick him up, and something silky and warm
wets my shoulder, his neck, the pillow,
the towels, the cloth diapers laid down. Over and over
through the dark night, he vomits out
complete composure and an uncomplaining sweetness.
I think of my own groaning and feverish thrash.
How much was refusing to be there, just there, as trusting and open as this little boy?
Then the baby’s turn begins
with a cry, a little head standing by my pillow.
I pick him up, and something silky and warm
wets my shoulder, his neck, the pillow,
the towels, the cloth diapers laid down. Over and over
through the dark night, he vomits out
complete composure and an uncomplaining sweetness.
I think of my own groaning and feverish thrash.
How much was refusing to be there, just there, as trusting and open as this little boy?
Saturday, February 07, 2009
Where the Treasure Lies
It’s a lazy weekend, and my sister in law comes over to visit us and play with the baby. She has been to banks all over town looking for the safe deposit box where her mother’s jewelry was kept. She was relieved to find all the pieces she remembered. Thank goodness her mom hadn’t hidden it around the house, where it might be missed by those going through the dead woman’s effects.
My sister in law opens an unusually heavy little box full of tangled chains. One by one, she takes out necklaces, bracelets, and earrings to see if I want them.
As we talk, my chest feels funny and my voice doesn’t sound quite right. Apparently I’m not accustomed to being offered gold in bulk. On one hand, it’s quite enticing to be faced with so much yellow metal. Perhaps because of that, my more conscious self is worried about looking greedy in the wake of my mother-in-law’s death.
Ought I to accept any of this? My sister in law regards me steadily. It can remain a family asset, she assures me. If I’ll enjoy it, I should take it and have the use of it.
You could say the same of any material thing, couldn’t you? When you die, you leave everything behind. What we call ownership is really a long-term rental, a guarantee of rights to use something while you can.
Before I know it, I am the guardian of three high-karat necklace chains and a jade Hotei pendant. The baby scoots around wearing a pair of gold jingle-bell anklets handed down from his cousins. His every move makes an infuriating din. He picks at the metal, puzzled.
I have gold. And it gives me a rueful feeling in my heart. Like guilt, perhaps.
My mother in law worked so hard, and had no luxury in her life. She never wore her jewelry until right before the end, when her body was swollen with illness. The last time I saw her, she wore a beautiful gold chain over an old sweatshirt. She fingered the pendant as we talked. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it; I knew it meant something. At the time I didn’t know, but I think she intuited how few days actually remained.
This gold of hers is about more than just adornment. There are numerous items from the safe-deposit box that my mother in law surely never planned to wear. She had no use for the heavy men’s chain bracelets or, as a Buddhist, for the gold crucifix. These are a legacy of the old days in her country, when inflation and violence meant you needed to have your wealth close at hand. A gold bracelet might buy a bag of rice; a bag of rice might buy a gold bracelet. From the stories I hear, it did.
By the time my husband’s family came to the US, their gold had all been redeemed to buy something more precious. This current trove of rings and necklaces was gathered in this country, in spite of the FDIC’s guarantee on bank deposits—and more tellingly, in spite the social stability that most of us take for granted. The majority of us have never lived in a collapsing society, or run for our lives. For those who have, a pile of gold means a hope security.
In the end, though, we are actually all running for our lives, in a race we cannot win, on a course whose end rapidly approaches. In reality, there is no true security in gold or any other possesion. None of this metal changes how my mother in law’s time came; none of it redeems our lost future with her.
What is left now, beyond the end? Rather than security, this gold now holds a memory. It is a small token from a life of little beauty and much hard, hard work.
In the evening, I slowly put one of the chains around my neck. I have to fumble for a while to put it on. The bright yellow 24 karat gold is so pure and soft that it deforms easily. The clasp is different: you must bend it open and bend it back closed. You cannot just take these Asian-style chains on and off at whim; wearing them involves a commitment. You wear the chain, and it wears you.
That night, and into the next day, I am bathed in the gold’s marvelous warmth. I feel a tremendous love for my baby and for my husband. The world seems complete, beautiful, and totally sufficient just as it is. When I look in the mirror I see an impossibly yellow, radiant, bright, ornate blessing around my neck. Like the ring on my finger, it symbolizes a bond to the family I have joined; a bond to the heritage that my son carries mixed with my own, in his veins. My heart feels larger than my chest can contain. The heavy links around my neck have enriched my blood, and made the whole world golden.
Perhaps this light, and this blessing, is her final gift to us.
My sister in law opens an unusually heavy little box full of tangled chains. One by one, she takes out necklaces, bracelets, and earrings to see if I want them.
As we talk, my chest feels funny and my voice doesn’t sound quite right. Apparently I’m not accustomed to being offered gold in bulk. On one hand, it’s quite enticing to be faced with so much yellow metal. Perhaps because of that, my more conscious self is worried about looking greedy in the wake of my mother-in-law’s death.
Ought I to accept any of this? My sister in law regards me steadily. It can remain a family asset, she assures me. If I’ll enjoy it, I should take it and have the use of it.
You could say the same of any material thing, couldn’t you? When you die, you leave everything behind. What we call ownership is really a long-term rental, a guarantee of rights to use something while you can.
Before I know it, I am the guardian of three high-karat necklace chains and a jade Hotei pendant. The baby scoots around wearing a pair of gold jingle-bell anklets handed down from his cousins. His every move makes an infuriating din. He picks at the metal, puzzled.
I have gold. And it gives me a rueful feeling in my heart. Like guilt, perhaps.
My mother in law worked so hard, and had no luxury in her life. She never wore her jewelry until right before the end, when her body was swollen with illness. The last time I saw her, she wore a beautiful gold chain over an old sweatshirt. She fingered the pendant as we talked. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it; I knew it meant something. At the time I didn’t know, but I think she intuited how few days actually remained.
This gold of hers is about more than just adornment. There are numerous items from the safe-deposit box that my mother in law surely never planned to wear. She had no use for the heavy men’s chain bracelets or, as a Buddhist, for the gold crucifix. These are a legacy of the old days in her country, when inflation and violence meant you needed to have your wealth close at hand. A gold bracelet might buy a bag of rice; a bag of rice might buy a gold bracelet. From the stories I hear, it did.
By the time my husband’s family came to the US, their gold had all been redeemed to buy something more precious. This current trove of rings and necklaces was gathered in this country, in spite of the FDIC’s guarantee on bank deposits—and more tellingly, in spite the social stability that most of us take for granted. The majority of us have never lived in a collapsing society, or run for our lives. For those who have, a pile of gold means a hope security.
In the end, though, we are actually all running for our lives, in a race we cannot win, on a course whose end rapidly approaches. In reality, there is no true security in gold or any other possesion. None of this metal changes how my mother in law’s time came; none of it redeems our lost future with her.
What is left now, beyond the end? Rather than security, this gold now holds a memory. It is a small token from a life of little beauty and much hard, hard work.
In the evening, I slowly put one of the chains around my neck. I have to fumble for a while to put it on. The bright yellow 24 karat gold is so pure and soft that it deforms easily. The clasp is different: you must bend it open and bend it back closed. You cannot just take these Asian-style chains on and off at whim; wearing them involves a commitment. You wear the chain, and it wears you.
That night, and into the next day, I am bathed in the gold’s marvelous warmth. I feel a tremendous love for my baby and for my husband. The world seems complete, beautiful, and totally sufficient just as it is. When I look in the mirror I see an impossibly yellow, radiant, bright, ornate blessing around my neck. Like the ring on my finger, it symbolizes a bond to the family I have joined; a bond to the heritage that my son carries mixed with my own, in his veins. My heart feels larger than my chest can contain. The heavy links around my neck have enriched my blood, and made the whole world golden.
Perhaps this light, and this blessing, is her final gift to us.
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