Sick Visit
“Babies are like origami.”
I watched as our pediatrician began to fold and bend our newborn daughter like a jaundiced accordion. “No kneecaps until they are two, they are pretty much all cartilage. See that spot on her head, the soft spot? Watch for it being concave or swollen. Protect her head, always, but otherwise—you can’t break a baby, we are born to survive.”
I chose this pediatrician because several mom friends said he was highly recommended, and I was too sleep deprived and emotional after our old pediatrician fired us, to look for a new one diligently—so the popular vote won. He listened to parents, he was old school, and he didn’t scare easily. He had a scraggly salt and pepper ponytail that was held back by a glittered green scrunchy—I wondered if it was a conversation starter or if he wanted to make his young patients giggle. He wore bells on his crocs, reminding me with each step that it was almost Christmas.
I drove frantically all over town while calling any pediatrician office that would answer.
I’d been a mother for about eight days, and the little boy with big brown eyes who fell asleep on my chest every night since he’d been home—couldn’t breathe. His little eyes were swollen, and I couldn’t tell where the congestion started and stopped. With each breath he was wheezing, couldn’t swallow, and I had to get him well. Every office that answered barely said hello, “Last name and date of birth, please.”
“Hi, we aren’t current patients, I just need a little help...”
“For new patients our wait time is about four weeks. What insurance do you have?”
“My son..he…well, he isn’t on our insurance yet.”
“Cash pay is an option, but expensive.”
“I will pay it. He is just miserable, and I need to get him seen today.”
“We still have a wait time, ma’am. You could try…”
This conversation happened with at least three clinics as I drove around waiting for a sign from God or for a maternal instinct to kick in. I called the next office on my list and by now, I was crying, panicked, and so overwhelmed. No one would help me, and I didn’t know where to go for help. Helpless.
I knew how to love him. I loved him instantly—but the casual rapport with a doctor’s office where someone could squeeze you in because they knew you—I didn’t know I had to have a finesse to get a sick baby into an office last minute. I didn’t know where to go. What medicine could I give him? Was this a virus or bacterial? This corner of motherhood— I hadn’t prepared for this part. Being an overnight mama didn’t come without bruises for us all.
The next one answered.
“Hi, we aren’t patients, but I really need to get in somewhere as soon as possible.”
The same lecture blared through the phone of cash pays, insurance accepted and wait times.
“Ma’am can I just ask you something?”
“I just need to know what to do. Can you recommend an over the counter or an old remedy to relieve him until we can be seen?”
“No, I can’t tell you anything like that over the phone. I could lose my license and plus my kids never got sick.”
If you are into weighted vests or prefer the challenge of something sitting heavy on you all day, I can’t recommend shame enough. Shame clings to my shoulders and makes me feel like I’m treading through wet sand all the way up to knees.
And the heaviest of sensations come from off-handed remarks from other women.
Her kids never got sick. How, I wondered?
Sometimes while I’m folding laundry, I watch old interviews on YouTube. A habit I picked up in college while studying communication and journalism. Most celebrity interviews are fascinating from a public relations standpoint. Celebrities have the most media training and just enough narcissism to draw you in to hang on every word—but I watch for the conversations. The cadence of a question asked, and a question answered, and the surprise stories that come up in between. It’s a dance in the form of communication. And if I’m feeling extra lonely that day, I answer them myself.
“What’s the best job you’ve ever had?” Being a mom.
“What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?” Being a mom.
Charlize Theron sat across from another star that I can’t remember, and they discussed odd jobs they had before they struck gold. I think she worked at a Baskin Robbins—and they tossed around answers and stories from their best and worst jobs.
My answer was the same for best and worst. And shame tried to hush my honesty on the matter.
Most nights after we put the kids to bed, I will get in the bathtub and Kyle will talk to me through our closet door as he irons his shirts. And then begins my nightly ritual of beating myself up on how I screwed up our kids that day. I will interrupt my berating with podcast ideas for Kyle to listen to, or scripture to show Sam, or just thinking of overall ways I absolutely blew it as being a mom that day. The only job I have right now, the only job I ever wanted, and I have no annual performance review. I just have to cling to Jesus and pray no one curses in public.
I’ve found that mom guilt comes in waves and spurts. You show yourself more grace over some issues on some days. But the guilt that is evergreen, that will always sting—is the sadness that you couldn’t give your first child the strength, courage, and confidence of a more seasoned second, third, or fourth-time mom. I didn’t know I could’ve been different for him. We had to learn together. All of our firsts at once.
Over Christmas break I went to a women’s event at church. I needed a message but more so, I just needed rest with other moms. There is an energy in the room when women of all ages cry out in praise for God that I can’t explain—and yet, Heaven will be better than that. I saw a mom friend and not so gracefully launched into a public hearing of my mom crimes for the day.
I yelled.
I rushed.
I threatened.
I compared.
I *almost* said a bad word.
My son actually said a bad word.
She nodded her head and agreed that kids, somehow, these days must be harder to raise. Maybe it’s all the radiation in the air from the cell towers? Maybe it is the food? Or maybe it’s not? Maybe it is that no one warns a mother of how she will be molded inside motherhood.
We gently prepare each other on sleepless nights, colic, food allergies, teething, attitudes, tantrums and so on—but never, not once was I mentored on the chipping away of me. The pieces of Bailey that I would be forced to lay down day after day, after day. Little pieces of my former beliefs, the pride that I carried on being right all the time, the notion that I just knew my kids will listen to me, oh yes they will. The strongest ideals that were the fiber of my bones, and the slow burn of every one of them losing their flame. No one ever gently gazed into my eyes and said, “Remember to say goodbye to yourself and everything you once knew.”
The woman who lies ahead is greater than the version of myself I’ve left behind. No going back, no regrets—but my god, the transformation is grueling. Refining. I guess seasoned moms forget to mention lack of time for…well, everything, and the humbling act of daily negotiations on protein intake.
“I will never force my kid to sit at the table until their plate is empty. Never.”
I will see your never and raise you a big slice of humble pie, because no one told me I would spend so much of my late thirties talking about protein.
I quietly wondered how our pediatrician new that Anne Rollins was our first baby-baby. Our first newborn. Did I tell him that? Was it in a chart? Could he see it in my eyes? Was there a stamp on my forehead that said Newbie Trainwreck?
He handed my five-pound preemie girl back to me. “You can feed her and get her dressed now.” I gently and delicately placed her on the table and tucked her into the doll sized onesie that swallowed her, despite the origami lecture— as he started talking about pneumonia, flu season, and Covid. I listened as he explained saline solution and burping techniques that loosened phlegm. I could feel my chest getting tight where my anxiety usually sits, but this was just a reminder I had a date with my breast pump. He asked if I had any questions for him, not rushing me at all as I studied his odd demeanor further. I told him no and he smiled at our daughter, calling her beautiful.
“But remember, Mama. Babies are flexible. Don’t worry.”
Yes doctor, babies are flexible, but their mothers take some warming up.
