Day 1 Morning
1:30 am: My husband is deeply asleep even though the sounds of “Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’ Down The River…” from the band at the lake party are coming through our closed bedroom windows. My ears are burning, but not from the music. My head feels like someone is punching me with a dart gun at random intervals. Nothing comes out when I try to blow my nose.
2:00 am: The heat of the night is higher than usual. I drink some apple cider vinegar; my insurance against the inevitable bronchitis that always comes with my colds… or allergies, or whatever this is. Sleep, please come. Fireworks are still going off… and so is the band.
9:30 am: Maybe if I got something into my stomach I’d feel better. I mix up some pancakes with ricotta cheese, canned pumpkin, flaxseeds and blackberries. My husband cooks them. Making tea is too much of an effort, and I don’t even give it a second thought.
12:00 noon: I make this amazing summer soup. Recipe to come. I can’t describe how soothing it feels to eat this warm, creamy soup — even in the heat.
3:00 pm: My husband is packing up his stuff to head back to work. I’ll see him again next weekend. Four hours are left before he leaves. I feel so miserable, so I pop a Benadryl so I can go by-by and sleep.
3:40 pm: The Benadryl had no impact on my burning ears, stuffed nose or head, or my sleep. If anything, I’m now wired. This place is a mess. Cleaning will clear my head so I can sleep tonight. I’m surprised to see how exhausted I am from running the sweeper.
5:00 pm: We’re running dangerously low on milk, eggs and bread. The thought of going to Wal-Mart is overwhelming. I send my husband to the high-price gas station for rations. They have no eggs. I’m worried about the kids having a high-protein breakfast. If I had known then, how sick I was going to be, I would have sent him to make the long trek to Wal-Mart, with the boys, to supply us with food for a week. But, I just didn’t see it coming, I guess.
7:00 pm: Husband is leaving. I’m in the bathroom and I just learn it’s that time of the month. Could things get any worse? No wonder I feel so weak.
7:30 pm: The kids are tired from late nights for the last four nights. I put the little ones to bed at 7:30, and they are out like lights. The older boys take care of the fishing boats, and then go fishing
9:00 pm: (Still bright daylight here.) A neighbor at the lake has left, and calls me to unlock her place (I have a key) and get the milk she left behind. She doesn’t want to be greeted by sour milk the next time she’s back.
9:10 pm: Inside her cottage, I pull the milk out of the fridge…what else is here that I could use? I take four eggs, two boxes of Mac and Cheese for the kids from her pantry, and paper plates to get me through dish-free for the next few days. It’s the least she would do for me, if she knew I was in this state, I think.
Day 2
1:00 am: I’m still awake. I’ve downed 4 or 5 tablespoons of vinegar, and the thought of taking more makes me want to retch. The sheets are twisted and my feet are tied up in the blankets at the foot of the bed. Am I cold? Why am I sweating?
9:30 am: I can’t believe they’re awake already; and I have to feed them. I hurt. I manage to find the strength to make more high-protein pancakes – praying this will hold them over until dinnertime. (It doesn’t. They want lunch.) I feel compelled to make cinnamon-toast Biscotti from the Sneak Chef cookbook. I have no energy for this, but I have all the ingredients, and I figure it’s full of protein to give the kids something to munch on. They don’t like it. The Biscotti is sitting in my freezer, wrapped in plastic.
10:30 am: I fall asleep while the boys play checkers and read books.
11:00 am: The lake is desolate. we haven ‘t seen another soul all day today — except for the fishing boats out in the water. 10-year old wants to pick more blackberries. He’s right, I think. I should get up and pick them; they’re here now, and they’ll be gone in 10 days. I take him while the little ones play Cowboys and Indians in the backyard. The boy leaves the blackberry bushes behind after picking about 12 berries. I stay and pick. The silence here is almost exhilarating. The picking becomes almost like a meditation for me, and I start to think.
I’m one of those people who think that sickness is really a metaphor for something else that’s happening in your life. Then, I realize just how hard it really is to be alone here, with four boys, at the lake. Isolating and lonely, and cut-off from the work I love so much. It has been weeks now since I’ve read a single email. My posts were written and scheduled weeks ago, and I don’t even know which one is up today. Everyone has left and is back at their desks, connected to e-mails, telephones, and the Internet. But I’m in Paradise. Yet when I’m the sole adult with the boys, things are hard. Editors could be sending me e-mails for work I would be thrilled to do. This is work that makes me feel good. I’m missing those emails, and those opportunities.
I look over at the boys, who have just found another toad, and a dragonfly; leaving to take the boys back to the city is really not an option I want. Still, I wish what is enough for them could be enough for me. It is really, I guess, it’s just the length of time, and the isolation. Normal, I guess, is how I feel.
Maybe not checking e-mail for 30 days isn’t a choice I can live with. Sure, the e-mails will be there when I get back, but sorting through 30 days worth of emails is overwhelming. Enough to make you sick just thinking about it. I know; I did it last year.
3:00 pm: Where are those boys? The sun is shinning, and they are sitting in the guest house watching DVDS?! The DVD player was a gift from friends; I thought it was a curse the moment we got it. No, No, No. They’re bored, they say. They want to go tubing. I’m too sick to drive the boat, and still, can I park the thing? I force them to go swimming. Breathing wears me out, and yet, I have no appetite. I decide to make some toast for myself, but then think, “I better save the bread for the boys.” Soon, I hear the boys laughing in the water.
4:45 pm: I understand why it is so important for a Mom to have something that’s her own – a job, a project, something. A mother needs something outside of her children to grounds her, giving her a solid footing from which to nurture her own children. Sometimes, a Mom needs an outside perspective.
5:30 pm: A lake neighbor stops by. He fixes my son’s braces. The brace that got pulled off while he was tubing over the weekend, and the resident “lake dentist” fixed them with pliers. However, the pliers weren’t officially dental pliers, and there was this hook hanging out over my son’s gums. My son had been stuffing it with paper napkins for the last two days. As soon as this neighbor heard about it, he fixed it in just a few seconds – with non-dental pliers. This relieves me of great stress. I’m proud that I am not a fussy Mom.
6:30 pm: I make dinner for the kids with the last bit of ham and bread and cheese. Thank God I still have some.
7:00 pm. It’s so hot, and I remember the snow cone maker. I bribe my kids: “Clean up the deck, the house, and then we’ll have snow cones.” While they’re busy, I start grinding the ice and putting it in Styrofoam cups. Except, I reserve no less than 6 cups of ice for myself. I’m craving ice, and maybe it will help me breathe, and help to cool me off. I hide my cups in the freezer from the kids. When they’re all in bed, I’ll indulge myself and eat the ice. I take a shower to cool off.
7:30 pm: My husband calls. He says I should come home. I explain that I’m just too weak to make the 3-hour-drive home.
8:30 pm: The boys are swimming again. Now there are five boys. A neighbor we haven’t seen all weekend has dropped by. His Mom stops over, and we share stories about our ”bored kids” even while there are turtles, frogs and toads to explore. She offers this, “Next time you’re sick, just put out a white flag on your deck, and we’ll come over and help.” Still, I prefer to suffer alone.
9:00 pm: I decide to let the boys swim in the twilight until they exhaust themselves. This will help them sleep longer in the morning, I think. By 10 p.m., the kids are all in bed. I’m tired from coughing.
11:15 pm: I still can’t breathe or sleep. I think the ice made me worse. I’m dangerously close to the end of my apple cider vinegar bottle – and it’s doing such a great job of keeping the congestion loose in my chest.
Day 3
6:30 am: I realize I have a bottle of Mucinex, and remember the doctor saying “You have to take this with lots of water for it to work.” I down three glasses, and the pill. I walk by the mirror… I scare myself I look so awful. Suddenly, I understand the power of water to clear your head.
7:00 am: I’m ready for more sleep… but the kids are up. I vow never to let them stay up late again. I heat up pancakes from yesterday for breakfast. Then, I take a nap. I have no appetite… I’m forcing myself to eat almonds for the protein, yet they take so much effort to chew. Nothing tastes right.
9:00 am: I load the kids in the car, and drive, hair a mess and all, to the closest wifi spot and check my e-mail. An editor is interested in an article I’ve submitted. Could I expand what I’ve sent? Excited, and jumping for joy, is what I would have done in my twenties – this would be an acceptance. In my forties, this message comes with a million cautions. I wonder if I’m wrong, or more right today than I was in my twenties. This daily collection of e-mail is my ritual: my refusal to put my life on standby. The whole process of checking and responding emails takes 30 minutes, and the boys gets restless in the car. I’ll have to get faster at this.
11:30 pm: It’s pouring down rain. I try to read to the kids, but I’m just too weak. They begin to entertain themselves, with bickering, and I collapse on my bed and sleep. Twenty minutes later, I hear nothing but silence. They’ve made their way to the DVD again. Too weak to fight it this time.
1:00 pm: I pick up Mothering Magazine to read. There is something about the “grace of motherhood” on every page. Not grace as in graceful – but grace as in Amazing Grace. The magazine evokes the subtle power that comes when mothers stand up to care for themselves.
2:00 pm: It’s been 30 hours since I did some yoga, but it feels like 80. My body aches from lying around. So gingerly, I pull myself away from my bed and into one of my familiar routines. I spare myself no mercy on skipping any pose, pushing myself to plow from one pose to the next. Where does all this energy come from? This is good for me. The word healing comes up in my head.
3:00 pm: I initiate my 10-year-old
