28 jan 2003
Cough Cough
by Nanci Olesen
There is a cough cough. Stillness. Cough
cough. Stillness. Cough Cough. It comes
from our daughters' room. The older one
is nine and she sleeps soundly through the
cough cough. The 7 year old is the cough
cough. Stillness. Cough cough. Stillness.
Cough cough. She's sleeping too, and the
cough cough doesnt wake her. But it wakes
me. It's just when we have laid down our
weary heads and fallen into a deep winter
sleep that it begins.
The first night of the cough cough I went
up into the cold dark attic and rooted around
'til I found the humidifier. As I filled
it with water in the bathroom, I could hear
and feel the many nights of performing this
ritual. In the early 2- 3 -4 year old years.
Filling the humidifier. Taking a temperature
under the armpit. Administering some Tylenol.
Holding a hot little body close to mine
in the dark dark night and mentally reworking
the next day's schedule to accommodate the
needs of a sick child. Labeling each person's
water glass and changing the hand towels.
Trying to keep one child from infecting
the other. Loading up on echinacea and vitamin
C. Eating raw garlic cloves in the middle
of the night.
I plug in the humidifier and lean over
the cough cough girl. She sits up sleepily
and drinks some water. I try to prop her
up a little higher to stop the cough cough.
I stroke her forehead. I don't quite want
her to wake up because then she will want
me to sleep with her, which of course I
would. But those half nights scrunched in
her twin bed with her cough cough in my
ear, oh I know so well what they will bring...if
I have to have a cough cough night right
in bed with her, I wake in the morning with
that surreal headache and body crinkle that
translates into inaccuracy... my voice feels
thin and my temperament is wan. All day
I can hardly make sense of myself.
But I would do it again of course. For
the cough cough girl. If she needs me, I'm
there.
But, AHHH, this time she settles back into
her sleep. I creep back into our bedroom
and slide into bed next to my husband. I
cover my head with the blanket so that I
don't hear the last little bouts of cough
cough. The worries of war start to rustle
around me and my to do list for tomorrow
tries to make me pay attention to it. I
think of the little things like the way
the cupboards in the kitchen need to be
washed down. I think of the big things like
the state budget deficit. I think of my
own little life and what needs to happen
and I have strange memories from conversations
20 years ago. The last cough cough, and
I seem to be fading away too, into another
too short night of deep sleep.
I wake, desiring to be stronger than I
am. Raising the shades on the window, I
speak gently: "Time to get up, everybody."
There is new snow on the ground.
—Nanci Olesen
producer and host, MOMbo: 1990-2007 |
