Voldemom
My mostly happy, privileged family has been under the weather. A month ago, my husband brought home what was probably a strain of the A H1N1 flu and we all got it, one by one. I was in bed for a week, and then our daughter ran a high fever for five days straight before it finally reached our son. By the time Oli started feeling poorly, it didn’t even occur to me to take him to the doctor. I knew exactly what has going to happen: fever, congestion, aches and pains, and a cough to wake the dead. We had all been through it and survived. Oli plays soccer and basketball every day of the week, and he tends to be heartier than the rest of us.
As I tended to him, I took solace in the fact that soon everyone would be back at school, and I would catch up on work and life outside of our bedroom (where the kids automatically retreat when things go awry).
But just as Oli started getting better, he began complaining about severe pain in his legs. I assumed that he was dehydrated and had cramps after sitting in bed for days. Surprisingly, he insisted on going to the ER, where he was admitted for Acute Benign Childhood Myositis. Myositis is one of those relatively common, yet mostly unheard of, pathologies; a virus (usually a strain of flu) attacks the musculature of the calves and when the tissue begins to break down, an enzyme (CPK) is released into the blood stream. If enough CPK accumulates, the patient’s kidneys can fail. The only treatment is bedrest and IV fluids.
There are plenty of unimportant details about our hospital stay that made it challenging and comforting in equal measures: the pain and clumsiness of sleeping and eating with an IV, the view of the convent gardens next door, Oli’s mortification at having to pee in a portable urinal, and the jokey pediatrician who greeted him with high fives. And although we knew that Oli’s condition wasn’t serious (unlike some of the children on the same floor who were battling major infections or leukemia), there is something soul sapping and abject about sitting in a vinyl chair while your kid is tied to a tube and confined to a bed. Even in those best of possible circumstances like ours, any parent loses a base measure of vitality inside the tedium and fear of any child’s hospital stay; there’s the other sibling who wants to be nice but really feels neglected, the constant whatsapp stream of well wishes and earnest questions, and the bathroom mirror that reveals just how bad you look. But we were lucky and went home after four days with orders to rest and hydrate in the comfort of our home, a place so much more forgiving and familiar than room 411 of the Clínica Zabala.
All in all, I did ok, considering that I come from a long line of intense worriers (particularly about health and disease). My pulse didn’t race and I never even called our pediatrician once we were admitted. I only cried once as I walked down the street amidst strangers. The night we came home, we all eased into bed, the four of us so relieved to sleep under the same roof for the first time in days. That is, until the next morning when I woke my daughter for school and realized that she had a fever.
It was in that moment that I felt the urgent desire to burn down the house, change my name and call a cab. I didn’t feel sorry for my daughter, my son or my husband. I only felt the rage of a creature fighting for survival.
I did not act on these (entirely reasonable) urges. Instead, I sent several self-pitying texts to friends, was rude to my husband and meditated for twenty irate minutes. Then I fed my daughter some Ibuprofen, gave my son a glass of water and stomped to Starbucks in the rain. I knew I had two hours of childcare while our housekeeper cleaned. No one would die before I got home, I figured, except maybe for me.
Over the next two days, I administered more doses of Ibuprofen, glasses of water and attempts to remove everyone from screens — while I tried unsuccessfully to work on mine. I remembered the narcissistic desperation of having small babies, the feeling that every tiny texture of my self was being rubbed smooth, while masculine prerogative kept my husband’s outline entirely distinct. I remained irritable and passive aggressive (or mostly aggressive) while I blended smoothies, carried trays and emitted occasional bursts of actual loving care. When Oli gets sick, he is prone to night terrors and when his sister runs a fever, she comes to our bed. So it was that I slept each night between two thrashing children and woke feeling bruised from the inside out.
Yesterday, my husband finally lost his patience with my ferocity and asked what in God’s name he could do to improve my mood, I remembered the prophecy about Harry Potter and Voldemort: Neither can live while the other survives.
“Just go!” My husband shouted as I lurched around the kitchen in misery, but I couldn’t leave. I knew that my daughter hadn’t had any breakfast (and that there wasn’t any food because I hadn’t been to the supermarket), that my son hadn’t had a bath for two days and that they both had guitar class in an hour (not to mention their unbrushed teeth). I was reminded of a friend whose ex-husband travels often and how she complains about the disparity in their time with the kids. She bristles when I suggest that her ex should sort out the childcare during his trips; she resents being with her kids, but she also can’t abide their being with a nanny for a week.
This is the catch 22 of motherhood and of mothers. Our freedom as humans, as beings, is often predicated on what doesn’t feel right. We want to run away, but if we do, the kids will eat cookies for breakfast, forget to practice the guitar and never bathe. They will probably survive, but not in the micro-managed climate we design. Even when they are out of our reach, we can feel like hearts beating, their bodies moving, their minds experiencing. Our children, it turns out, are the horcruxes we did intend to make. We split our souls when the chromosomes begin to separate and replicate and we, like Voldemort, are never whole again. Unlike the Dark Lord, however, we pine for our former inviolate state and simultaneously can’t comprehend life without these treasures in which we have hidden the essence of our selves.
Unfortunately, there is no solution for this dilemma, no Dumbledore to sort us out. We can pray, however, that our children will be brave enough (like Harry) to excise the parts of us that invade their own hearts. Perhaps one day they will be able to love us without the daily machinations of control, approval, permission and judgement that we exert constantly on their lives. Motherhood is so tender, so transformative and expansive, but it also reminds us of the deepest cruelties and conditional demands that we impose on those we love the most. I hope that I will learn from lesson 29 million that I have so much left to learn, that I cling to the sacred border of my own ego as if it were a life raft (instead of barbed wire) and that my children don’t need another smoothie but rather generosity of spirit. Lily Potter turned her son into the wizarding world’s greatest warrior through the gift of unconditional love. But after this week of feeling more like Voldemort than Lily, it occurs to me that we mothers could look to a different role model: Severus Snape. He both resents and loves Harry; he does everything in his power to protect this child of his heart, though their relationship is founded on ambiguity and doubt. Sometimes motherhood is the very definition of dark magic and reveals the real consequences of splitting the soul in pieces. Harry is probably much like the child Snape dreamed of having with Lily, though Harry is maddening nonetheless. He has the uncanny knack of revealing Snape’s most painful memories, his cruelty and weaknesses. Snape keeps his love for Harry secret, under wraps until the very end. But he loves him. Always.
Today is mother’s day in Argentina. My husband booked us a hotel room as a surprise and now I am back in a bed with both kids while Juan sleeps on the pull-out. We have eaten and bathed and watched TV all in one room, almost as intimately as we were in the hospital, but this time we have chosen to be together. We have gathered here in celebration, and I am cozily tucked between each child as we listen to an audio recording of The Philosopher’s Stone. We can never get enough of Harry Potter, its drama, complexity and wonder. Tonight, my son suggested that we start back at the beginning of the whole saga. And after these days of being Voldemom, I am glad for such an opportunity.
