My 8-year-old had a bacterial infection that kept him out of school for 7 days. Just when it looked like he was getting better, his fever would shoot back up. He was sleeping downstairs in the family room on the chair-and-a-half, while I would sleep on the couch in case he needed me during the night. One of the nights he needed me, we ended up having a serious talk.
In typical 8-year-old fashion, he said, “I hate being sick.”
I told him that I hated when he was sick too. Then I told him that I’m glad I’m the one who has the sickness that won’t go away instead of him or his brother. His eyes grew wide. “Really?” he asked.
I nodded. “Really.” Then I told him about when he was a baby, and it was time for him to get his first vaccination. Here I was, someone who had gotten lots of shots, and who had even given herself a bunch, and I was crying because my baby was getting one. I was a basket case during that appointment – sure, I knew he had to have the vaccines, that I couldn’t risk him getting one of those awful diseases which would be so much worse than a little shot. But he was in pain, he was crying…and I couldn’t make it go away. I could just comfort and love him after it was over.
We talked about my hospitalization last year – I was in for a week due to a blood clot in my leg. I told him that even though I was very lonely in the hospital, I was so glad that Daddy had been home with them each night instead of being at the hospital with me. They needed him more than I did, and I felt better knowing that he was with them.
He finally went back to school today, to everyone’s delight. He’s sneezing a bit, but his fever and dreadful cough are gone. When I picked him and his brother up after school, they greeted me with smiles and hugs. I laughed with them while they read their homework books to me, and I cuddled with them as I read Prince Caspian to them before they went to sleep.
Every time I start to feel sorry for myself for having MS, I look at the faces of my beautiful boys. They are healthy, they are doing well in school, they have friends. They have a happy childhood with parents who adore them. Then I remind myself how blessed I am to be able to say those things. I know a family whose daughter is close to my son’s age, and the little girl has been battling leukemia for the past year. I know of families whose children suffer from terrible disabilities. I know families who’ve had to bury children – an agony I don’t even want to imagine. I ache for children who are caught in the cycle of abuse. And I know that there is one thing that I can say with absolute certainty:
I would much rather have MS than watch children suffer.
