Motherhood

No one prepares you for this.

Every minute, every second of my day, I wonder when the other shoe will drop. They say motherhood is the hardest job there is, but this isn’t hard. This is a nightmare. This is forever. This is…sickle cell disease.

Every day starts the same. In the early morning, my oldest, Olivia, stands on the street corner waiting for the bus. Mia, seven days old, is in my arms as I wave her off to school.

“Have a good day. I love you.” I shout as Olivia climbs the steps. I keep my gaze on her, hoping she doesn’t fall.

Standing at the kitchen counter, I carefully measure the medicine before pouring it into the bottle. Mia drinks it morning and night. I cradle her in my arms as she swallows the medicine; I know it’s not a cure. There isn’t a cure.

I mindlessly drive home when I’m told what to expect with this disease. It’s a combination of fear for her and fear that I will be inadequate.

Two weeks later, she has a fever. She has to go to the emergency room for IV antibiotics.

I don’t know why she has a fever, but it doesn’t matter. She has to receive antibiotics.

The room is cold.

I step back and let the nurses work.

Nurses lay her tiny body on a cold table and surround her. The nurses struggle to get the IV into her hand. Mia’s lungs use all the air they need to push out piercing screams. Her body is red with fury. After a few tries, the needle goes in.

I walk over to my baby.

She is already asleep.

Standing beside her, I lose control of my breath. It is no longer a soft, shallow, steady beat. My breathing is loud. It consumes the room. Its rhythm now matches an irregular heartbeat. A mother’s heart in pain.

This is only the beginning of her life.

Years go by. I know my way around the hospital too well.

Mia knows the nurses. The nurses know her.

Five years later, and the hospital has become our second home. We even have our favorite rooms. We can’t change our situation. But she has the best doctors in town.

Any day could be the day. I prepare a bag that stays in my closet. A bag full of clothes, pajamas, and toothpaste.

On this day, I need that bag. She wakes up in pain. Mia can hardly walk. I have to carry her to the car and toss the bag in the trunk.

In the hospital, we learn she has pneumonia. We’ve been doing this for years. She isn’t feeling well, but she always gets better. Her doctors do their best. I unpack my bag, ready for what comes, knowing everything will be fine.

I get comfortable in my spot next to her. No need to make friends. We are already friends with everyone here.

I walk the halls.

As I pace by the room next door, I see a mother sitting in the chair. I don’t know who she is, but I imagine I can relate on some level.

She is not wearing a smile. I know where she is looking. I can’t follow her gaze. I don’t need to follow it. She is looking at her child in the bed. I don’t know if her child is a boy or a girl. I don’t know why her child is there. But I can see the love on her face. And worse, I can see the worry on her face.

On my way back, I try not to look, but the door is open. She is still there. I don’t know who she is, but I pray for her. I pray for her child. We are both mothers.

No one prepares us for this.

After two days, I have a routine. The mother in the next room never leaves. Neither do I. We both sit with our children. We never leave their side.

Although Mia is not showing any signs of improvement, she is still happy and playful. We blow bubbles together. I hope and pray that something will help clear her lungs.

Before my eyes close, I say a prayer for the mother in the room next door. There is only one wall between us. I don’t know their situation. No one prepares us for this.

Alarms ringing loudly, I jump to my feet. Nurses stand around Mia.

In a panic, I shout, “What’s happening?”

“Her oxygen level dropped. We are trying to fix it.” The nurses reply.

They give Mia oxygen and other treatments throughout the night. It’s a long night as alarms continue to go off.

As I watch the sunrise from the room, I wipe the sleep from my eyes and reflect on the difficult night. The doctors will make their rounds soon. We can make adjustments, and things will turn around.

The doctor walks in.

Relief washes over me.

“After looking at the recent scans, it’s gotten worse,” the doctor says, his tone intense. “Fluid is now almost completely in both lungs. I can give her one more antibiotic, but if that doesn’t work, I’m not sure what we will do.”

My entire world freezes.

I can’t think. I need to think. Why can’t I think? Is this normal? I thought they could fix anything. What do they mean by “they aren’t sure what they will do?”

I’m still staring at Mia when I think, if they can’t fix it, what does that—that means she dies.

I’m numb.

Say something.

“Okay. It should work, though, right?”

“Yes,” the doctor replies.

I sit.

I wait.

I pray.

Only time will tell if the medicine works.

I take a walk.

The mother next door is still here, too.

I sigh to myself.

I’m here often, and there aren’t many times that I see someone here this long.

After a day, Mia is showing signs of improvement. The fluid is clearing. The medicine is working. She is going to be okay. It feels so good to know that. Our only concern now is wondering when we get to go home.

The day is here. I pack the bag. Only now are we bringing it home.

We sit and wait for the discharge papers.

Then I hear it, and I freeze.

It sounds like a scream. It sounds like a sob. But it’s neither. This is a guttural, feral cry.

It’s the sound of a mother losing her child.

The mother in the next room, whom I walk past every day, lost her child. I don’t know why, but I hold my breath.

Maybe I’m scared I’m next.

Or it could be me.

Will it ever be me?

God, I hope it will never be me.

Cries fill every room of the floor; panic sets in. Shoes squeak as nurses dash through the halls.

I see Mia. She smacks her lips while licking her cherry lollipop. It’s as though she didn’t hear a thing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she swings her legs.

My heart is filled with love at the sight of Mia, but my eyes bubble with tears at the sound of a childless mother’s cries.

I savor such a sweet, seemingly unmemorable moment.

I won’t forget.

It’s a cherry lollipop, I tell myself, lost in thought as the cries proceed.

“What’s wrong, mamma?” She says, crawling to the end of the bed, closer to me.

“Nothing, baby.” I squeeze her in a tight hug.

A nurse walks in. “It’s going to take longer than expected for those papers.”

I turn around and get out. “It’s fine.” I wipe a tear that escapes. When she leaves, I stare out of the window. A hitched, breathy cry sneaks out of my lungs for a second, but I push it back down.

I can’t hear what they are saying, but there are too many people out there to only be nurses. Many people are lining the walls. Family and friends.

They watch us.

I watch them.

We wait with our bags ready to leave.

“It’s time to leave,” our nurse says as she enters the room.

I look up at a woman in the hallway, and my heart pounds.

My legs feel heavy.

I can’t move.

I don’t want to move.

A week’s stay in the hospital, and I don’t want to leave.

I will walk past the mother who is crying over her child.

I will walk away from the mother who cries over her child.

I will leave the mother who cries over her child.

I will leave with my child.

What will she leave with? Does she have a bag prepared for the hospital?

No one prepares you for this.