I have been emotionally unpredictable lately, and it’s been driving me insane. Today, I cried more often than I didn’t cry. I wrote this to try and get some of my feelings out, so that maybe tomorrow I can wake up with dry eyes. I want to laugh, like Maddie laughed. Soon, I hope.
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Unlike many people, I couldn’t imagine myself in Heather’s shoes when Maddie passed away. Inherently, I knew that the mere thought would crush me to the ground, shatter my heart and rip me to shreds. I didn’t try to see from Heather’s perspective, because the view is hard enough from here. My mind built a brick wall between Maddie’s death and the mortality of my own children, because I refused to make that connection.
But last night, I caught a glimpse behind the wall and it has brought me to my knees. In my first-ever twitter drama, I challenged someone’s view on unvaccinated children. I pointed out that my girl Blythe is deathly allergic to most vaccines, and so we don’t vaccinate. We can’t vaccinate. What choice do we have?
And while I’m not angry and the person has since apologized and explained that her social-media persona is often insensitive, her response is burned into my eyelids:
define “deathly allergic” she’s clearly not dead.
No, clearly she’s not. Thank God and all that is Holy in the world. Thank Modern Medicine and Science and Geeks who spend their free time experimenting in the basement. Thank the Universe, Thank Karma, Thank Fate. Thank Timing and Mother’s Intuition and Doctors who will listen instead of judge. Thank My Lucky Stars, she’s clearly not.
Those seven words acted as a wrecking ball, and for the first time, that brick wall protecting my thoughts came crashing down. I woke up this morning feeling raw, and the first thing I saw was my baby girl’s face smiling up at me. With every laugh, every gentle touch, every word she spoke, the words burned into my mind: Thank God, she’s clearly not.
I held her to me and cried into her hair, wishing I could take her smell and bottle it, keep it in a vial at the hollow of my throat. What would I do without the feel of her soft hair against my cheek? How could I go on, knowing I could never hold her in my arms again? Thank God, she’s clearly not.
Most of the time, in our day-to-day life, I plan ahead for obstacles but keep my deep worries at bay. The thoughts of what might happen if someone got careless have to be put on the top shelf, out of reach, or I would never let her leave the house. I try to let her live as normally as possible, just as Heather and Mike did for Maddie. There’s no sense in trying to keep her in a bubble – what kind of life is that?
But today I look at her and I can’t help but think of all the what-ifs. I think of the near misses and the chances we take every day. I wonder what would happen if the one time I forgot her epi-pen at home turned out to be the one time we really needed it. Today, the wall is gone. Every time I look at my baby girl, I get a tiny glimpse of what it would be like to be in Heather’s shoes and it takes my breath away. Today, all the fears I’ve harbored about Blythe’s future are right there, laid out in front of me.
I think about how, if something were to happen and she had to be taken to the hospital, they may not have the right tools to help her. How many hospitals keep corn-free IV fluid in stock? How many keep pure pain meds on hand? Or pure antibiotics, or pure anything else? How many doctors would listen to a hysterical mother? Even if she’s trying to explain that ordinary medical products would most likely put her small child into anaphylactic shock?
I don’t want to see the view from Heather’s shoes. Not ever, ever, ever. I don’t want to think about how I would handle it. But today, I do think about it and I cry. I cry for Maddie and for all the what-ifs. I cry for Heather and Mike, and my admiration for them deepens by the second.
I watch my little girl go about her day, unware of the dangers around her, and I think to myself: Thank God, she’s clearly not.
