The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Trillium

My wee one put herself back to bed this afternoon before I'd had a chance to give her lunch or dress her. I'd slept in late, still recovering from my own bout of whatever-the-hell-virus, and had been in a fog all morning as a result. I'd left her to watch her favourite shows on television, and M. hid in his world of computer generated aircraft. A quiet, cold February morning, one which hinges the promise of green to the steel grey of winter. I woke to the realization that today would have been my nineteen year anniversary with R. I would have received nineteen roses from him today, had things turned out differently. He usually chose red for our anniversary, and different colours for Valentine's Day. Our anniversary was always more important, he'd said. I wondered momentarily if he remembered too, but swiftly decided that he didn't. I suspect he would have blacked out the memory long ago. He never enjoyed rumination as much as I clearly do.

So, the wee one snored softly next to a window which was letting in the early afternoon light. She was snoring, flinching in her dream world, and I went into M's office to mention it. He nodded and said that she's probably bored, that he's caught her putting herself to bed a couple times this week, and that she might be a little depressed. She's four!, I exclaimed, wide-eyed. So, he shrugged his shoulders, she's been sick for a week and stuck in the house the whole time. She can only watch so much television before she gets bored of it. I considered what he said and then I got nervous. I didn't really know what depression felt like until my late twenties, and the idea of my child ever feeling it nearly had me dissolve into a puddle on the floor. Is she learning it from me? Is it in her DNA? Is there a way to kill the seed before it germinates? I barged into her room and pulled her from the bed, bringing her into me, mothering her with worry and stern love. She was not impressed, kept trying to push me away with her insistence that she was tired, which I countered with 'no, you're bored, that's all!'. After fifteen minutes of my pesky questionning (are you okay? are you sad? are you happy?), she fumbled toward the bathroom behind me where I washed her face and brushed her hair before dressing her. Eventually, she began to wake and brighten, and I took her downstairs where I made a plate of sliced apples, carrot sticks and baked potato wedges. I sat at her tiny table with her, accepting the apple and carrot she would offer me, making silly conversation about unicorns and princesses, and I felt a bit of helplessness knowing that talking about these things in the future will not be enough to keep her tethered to clarity. I knew I was probably over-thinking the whole thing, but as my life has been ravaged by insecurity and sadness in the past eight years, I can't bear the thought of someone I love so purely enduring the same thing. By the time the plate was emptied, she was running around the house in circles, kicking up invisible dust and creating a draft, declaring 'I have energy! I have energy! The carrots gave me energy!'. Soon after, M.took her for a walk to the local candy shop where she got two lollipops, M. bought a wedge of maple fudge and they chose a bag of sour Jelly Belly jelly beans for me. Right now, sugar cures all.

I know I'm projecting, which is never good in this kind of situation. I worry too much about damaging her with what I consider to be my shortcomings. My anxiety and subsequent dark moods are things I try to conceal from her, never discussing it with her in the room or when she's able to hear me. That said, children are not stupid and they have the ability to pick up on their mother's cues. The way I spend so much time writing or reading, the way I only go out if I have somewhere specific to go, surely she has figured out that this is a limited way to exist and she may not like it. I need to find a way to rise above my bizarre behavioural patterns and put her needs before my own. I need to get her more involved in things, to encourage her to take part in things I never would when I was a child. I need to push her toward a life so that when she's older, she won't need her hand held to cross the street.

When they got back from their walk, carrying the brightly coloured confections, M. decided to check the mailbox even though it is not a day for delivery. Inside was an envelope with Katriona's name on it, a hand-delivered letter with Tinkerbell stickers plastered all over it. She was delighted, and ripped into it before she'd taken off her pink Winnie the Pooh snowboots. It was an invitation to a birthday party for a little girl in her class who lives around the corner whose name is Gaëlle. I've known about her since September as I met her at the bus stop on the wee one's first day of school (back when she actually wanted to take the bus, that is). I didn't immediately notice that she was hairless under her deep red bucket hat. At that time, she was just a normal little girl who was trying to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk as she skipped along it. Her mother is French, and spoke quickly and animatedly to M. who conversed back with multi-linguistic ease. I smiled, catching bits and pieces and feeling foolish for not understanding better, and shifted my gaze back to the little girl. Cancer. It isn't hard to spot.

It turned out that the little girl was meant to be in the same class as my wee one, but due to her illness, could not start the school year with the other kids. 'Soon,' her mother smiled hopefully, taking on English for my benefit. Here it is the end of February,and Gaëlle has only attended one day of school so far. Complications over Christmas, something about an operation on her leg. My wee one is keenly aware of the little girl's situation as her teacher has them pray for Gaëlle frequently. She's sick, she tells me seriously, she has a bad sickness, but she'll get better soon!. Though she is aware that her classmate is unwell, she has no idea what cancer is or that it is potentially fatal. She knows enough, though, that she can't go to school when she is unwell because if Gaëlle happens to be present, it could be extremely harmful to her. I don't want to make her even more sick. She's already been sick for so long,, the wee one told me last week. I turned away, teary-eyed.

The invitation was specific about not bringing a gift, asking for donations to a local camp for cancer-stricken children instead. I had to leave the room after reading this to M. who is far more philosophical about this kind of thing than I am. I didn't weep, but I felt a strong pull to. A child of four should not have to suffer like this. She should not have to wear a kerchief to hide her bald little head. She shouldn't have to miss playing with others because their sniffling and coughing might kill her. I was weak from the sadness of it, and I found myself worried for my own girl and what this could mean to her should this little girl not make it to the birthday after this one. I know there are lessons in everything, including loss, but for the life of me I can't see any kind of value in a child's suffering or death. I don't want to know. I just don't want to know.

Aside from this, M. has arranged a play date with her for later this upcoming week. Either she will come here, or the wee one will go there, but I took him aside and asked if we should consider the possible effects of a close friendship between them if something were to happen. He said that he doesn't think we should worry about it, that children are resilient and that it would be unfair to deny them the chance to be friends just because of the little girl's illness. I know he's right, but I worry still.

My friend A., when she was tangled with her alter-ego, the sexual carnivore Anaïs, looked for redemption by way of taking a sick little boy, a classmate of her own children, for his weekly appointments at the children's hospital when his own mother didn't have the means to take him herself. She would come and collect them both for the appointments, sit in the waiting room or shop in the nearby stores until they were ready to leave and then take them home. He was always so weak afterward, she'd said quietly when we talked about it last week. Eventually, though, the little boy passed away. I asked her how her kids handled it, if they were permanently damaged by the loss. No, she'd said instantly, they were so young that it didn't really penetrate. But I have to admit, I'm still affected by it. I'm not as strong as them. She then went on to tell me that I shouldn't deprive my wee one of a friendship just because the other child is sick. Everyone dies. Maybe now is the right age to develop a healthy perspective on it. God knows I have trouble with it now, but maybe if I was exposed to it when I was a kid, taught that it was part of the natural cycle of things, I'd be less affected by it now.

I can't imagine it ever feeling logical or natural. It always feels like a punishment, for the ones who go as well as the ones left behind.