My two youngest children have the swine flu. They're doing alright, though, hanging in there with the help of ibuprofen, DVR'd episodes of the Duggars, and lots of fluids.
(This momma is hanging in there with the help of all the Halloween candy I bought earlier in the week and then attempted to hide–from myself–in the garage. I rationalize by telling myself that when the flu finally hits me–as it surely will–I'll be so hopped up on the sugar I won't care.)
(Speaking of sugar-induced irrationality, can I just tell you that I crack up everytime I hear someone mispronounce Tamiflu? I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be TAM-uh-flu, but around here, I hear a lot of TAM-ee-flu. Tammy Flue. It sounds like a character on the Andy Griffith Show.)
My oldest patient, eight-year-old Joseph, has asthma, so I'm watching him especially closely. It occurred to me today how this is just like the old days, back when he was a newborn. Last night he slept in my room, and I concentrated on his breathing, certain that if I stopped concentrating, he would stop breathing–just like the baby days.
Just like the baby days, I stumbled through the kitchen in the middle of the night, when he needed a drink.
And just like the baby days, I cuddled him back to sleep, except these days his 72 pounds of boyishness fill up my arms a lot more substantially than the eight pounds of baby once did.
It occurred to me this morning that I'll probably never lose that sense of protective worry. When I'm in my 90's, and he's in 70's, I think a part me will still be tempted to place my hand on his back, to make sure he's still breathing as he sleeps.
We'd surely appreciate your prayers for rest and healing.