Reminded

My job as a parent is not to shelter my children from the harsh realities of life. My job as a parent is to prepare them for those realities. Doing my job correctly and consistently means that my children will deal with sorrow, conflict, fear, and failure in ways just as appropriate as the ways they deal with joy, abundance, and success. It's a very difficult job, because it means that I have to allow them to be hurt. I have to allow them to fail. I have to allow them to face their fears and conquer them, no matter how many times it takes. I have to allow them to know the truth. And I have to answer unbelievably difficult questions, wipe away tears of shame and sorrow, tend to cuts, abrasions, contusions, broken bones, and head trauma, and bite my tongue completely after the magic words "Use your best judgment" have already left my mouth.

Recent blog discussions have reminded me about the day I knew that I didn't have to "parent" my eldest any more.

In September of 2001, I became really, really ill. It started with back pain and the next day blossomed into a shuddering fever. MSU was traveling that week - to Florida, if memory serves - and I had a Internal Affairs investigation going on at work and really couldn't take time off. I figured I must have hurt my back somehow, and didn't think much of it until I came home from work that second day and fell into a sleep akin to coma without even a second thought for my children (then 11 and 3 - my eldest was already living on her own at that time and my son was staying with his mother), who were left on their own recognizance for the entire evening. The next day, at about noon, I realized that I could no longer understand what people were saying to me. I could see their mouths moving and hear their voices, but I couldn't comprehend what it all meant. That was when I realized I was really sick.

I don't remember driving to the Emergency Room, but I did. I don't remember if I had to wait in the waiting room for the prerequisite three hours before being taken back to a bed. I do remember laying on the bed and shivering uncontrollably. The corpsman assigned to me kept piliing on warm blankets, but I couldn't get warm. I remember that the blankets were so heavy on top of me that I could barely move. People kept coming in and out, looking at the clipboard with my information on it, and muttering. Men and women in khaki uniforms kept trying to make me touch my chin to my chest (I couldn't without excruciating pain that cannot be described. I've had babies, y'all, and childbirth can't touch this on the pain scale). I remember being rolled onto my side and being held down by several people, then a bizarre radiating sensation in my back (lumbar puncture, I found out later). All of these memories are somewhat obliterated by the encompassing confusion and pain that was the status quo for this day and several thereafter.

A Captain came in to see me, which confused me even more. The Naval Medical Center San Diego is a teaching hospital, and it's rare to receive care from anyone above the rank of Lieutenant. She began giving instructions to the small battalion of people who were in my little space, and I was concentrating very hard on her. I remember she said, "Quarantine."

She came to my bedside (which had turned into the E-ticket ride due to my uncontrollable shaking) and told me (several times, until I understood) that I had meningitis. She told me that I could not be allowed to leave. And suddenly my brain worked just fine, because I had kids that needed to be picked up from school and daycare and I couldn't be quarantined. I told her so.

And I will NEVER, EVER forget what happened next. In that haze of sickness and confusion, the next few moments were crystal clear and happening in slow motion. The Captain turned to a nurse and said, "Look at the records and get the address. We'll have to call HHSA to have someone take the kids to Polinsky."

And I was out from under my 17 blankets in a heartbeat, staggering toward the door. People were restraining me (not too difficult, given my condition), and I was screaming, "Give me a phone! Give me a phone or I swear to God I'm walking out of here!" In retrospect, this day represents the pinnacle of my murderous potential - can you imagine? Of course, they would have been justified in using force to stop me, which again wouldn't have been very difficult. But the fact is, MY KIDS AREN'T GOING TO POLINSKY. Over my dead body, y'all.

They brought me a phone, and I managed to dial my eldest daughter's number, but was unable to speak coherently to her. I gave the phone to the most trustworthy-looking corpsman that was restraining me. I trusted in him and in all Higher Power. I had to.

Of course, I don't know the course of events after that except by hearsay. What I do know is that Sandra picked up the kids, rearranged her schedule so she could care for them and for our animals, found a way to get in touch with John even though she had NO IDEA where he was or why, contacted my mother, and made time to bring the kids to the hospital everyday to see me. She laughed and smiled and made fun of me with the kids while I was trapped in the "baby koala room" (quarantine), held the family and the house together for two days until John was able to get home, and parlayed as my advocate with medical personnel. Somewhere in the middle of this she made arrangements for someone to substitute for her class, take care of her home and animals, and rearrange all of her priorities. All this at the tender age of 21.

What I didn't know at the time is that the corpsman I trusted to give her the information about the kids told her that I was dying, and in fact only had hours to live.

She didn't wallow in fear and grief. She didn't cry - well, not until much later - or dither about in confusion. She took quick, decisive action, notified the appropriate people, and stepped up to the plate to help any way she could while enlisting others to fill in the gaps. She did it by herself, with no parental guidance whatsoever, because MSU and I were both incommunicado for those first days. She did it without lying to her younger siblings, and managed to tell the truth without scaring them.

It wasn't during those five days in the hospital that I knew, because I was pretty much incapable of knowing anything. But I remember my relief when she picked up the phone, because I knew that one way or another, she'd take care of it. And when I found out later that she had taken care of it under the strain of believing that I was dying right in front of her eyes, I knew.

With Sandra, at least, I've done my job.