Dear Martin,

 

It is 2:30 a.m. on a Tuesday, and I know we won’t be going to bed again. Once more, you are having problems breathing. It’s one of the bad ones this time. Your fingers are blue, and so is your tongue, from a lack of oxygen. Your eyes are filled with fear. You’re tensing your muscles so much that air can’t make its way into your lungs to help. You are looking at me, terrified, your eyes saying: Can’t you do something more, I can’t breathe.

We have been through these ”attacks” many times before. Your fever rises, and your breathing doesn’t return to normal until your temperature is up there where it needs to be around 102-106°F.

You’re hyperventilating, and I imagine that you’re in pain. You’re getting oxygen now, and that usually helps.

I can’t allow myself to become frightened or distressed. I put my own emotions aside, so that I can help you as best I can. I need to leave the room; I can feel my own breathing getting more and more superficial and my stomach muscles tightening. I am scared, distraught, frustrated about not being able to do more for you. It occurs to me that this is when I normally head for the refrigerator—but not this time. I can hear you struggling to breathe, even though you are still getting oxygen. I am not going to eat, I say aloud. Dear God, help me through this crisis. I go in to you again and hold your hand. You relax a little. Your nails are now pink again, but that’s because of the oxygen.

I look at as I hold your hand. Is it me who is keeping you alive? Am I holding on to you without knowing it? You are still frightened. I reduce the oxygen a little. It’s senseless to give you too much. Many others in my situation would probably think: Why don’t I call for a doctor or an ambulance. But what can they do that I am not already doing? Give you oxygen and wait it out. They would just offer to hospitalize you, and then I would still be the one monitoring you. I can better do that at home, where you are more at ease.

Your body has reached the boiling point, yet your fingers and feet are ice cold. Typical signs of a fever. That’s good; you are almost there. You have red splotches on your body, because it’s working so hard. You’re still having trouble getting your breathing back to normal. You are still coughing up a lot of mucous. Sometimes it’s as if you are going to drown in all that mucous.

When have you ever been able to breathe without all that mucous? When you were in my womb. Such a long time ago. You’ll soon be 14. From your very first day on this earth, your lungs have been filled with mucous. Many times—so many that I’ve lost count—that mucous nearly cost you your life. But here you are. Is it your own will, or God’s—or maybe mine? It’s hard for me to let go of you, because you are my entire identity. I’m good at keeping you alive. Am I too much of a caregiver by keeping you alive, or is it my role as a mother, that is keeping you going? Where does one end and the other begin?  When do I stop being a mother to just be a caregiver? Or when does my role as a caregiver stop, and my role as a mother take over?

I can hear your breathing is more relaxed now. Your temperature is up; I don’t have to take it. My hands tell me 103.6. You need fluids. I have the advantage of knowing precisely how much fluid you get. I don’t have to force you like ”normal” mothers do to get their children to drink enough. You are tube-fed; I know exactly what you get. I also know how much you need every hour, so your body can keep up. Is it the caregiver or the well-informed mother in me that knows this?

I think a lot about my mission in life. I know that you came to me for a reason. Not so long ago, I had words to describe that mission. I am here on earth to serve God. We all are, and we all have our way of doing so. Not everyone thinks of it in that way, but you and I do. I just didn’t know how I was to serve. Big or small. Then it suddenly occurred to me that you, too, are here to serve God. I have always known that you had a mission here in life, I just haven’t been able to describe it until now: it's what you have taught me. We have been through so much together so that I could gain this insight. You have watched me through the years, and you knew that I just didn’t get it. I didn’t understand how. I think you had a talk with God so He could guide me to better understanding.   Now I know my mission. You have served well, and you deserve to be free.

I know that you’ve been the key to my love. Had I never had you, I would never have discovered that profound love inside me. Perhaps that love has been too destructive at times. I have held back things that I really should have set free. I can’t hold water or cage a wild bird, but that’s exactly what I have done. I know that we don’t die but just change form—still… My love has been too stifling. Is it possible to be loved too much? Yes, if that love is destructive. Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware that my strong love for you has often been ”too much.” It’s not something I do consciously. I do the best I can.

It’s through my role as a mother that I gain all my wisdom, but I quickly revert to my role as caregiver. Perhaps I see myself as a caregiver because it’s too painful, for me as a mother, to subject you, my child, to all that I do. I have never thought of it that way before. I know that much of my wisdom comes to me at night, when it is still.

We’ve been through a lot, you and I. Mostly you, but it has often been difficult for me just to stand on the sideline with my hands tied and watch you endure it all. If I could, I would take the pain myself. But I can’t. That has often made me feel helpless and frustrated. Why can’t I make you better? Isn’t that what a mother is supposed to do? I guess everything about us is backwards. A mother’s job is to prepare her child for an independent life, but in our case, it is you who teach me. I know that I have often been slow to learn, and that has frustrated you.

It has been difficult for me to witness all those times you have struggled with something that the rest of us take for granted. Breathing. All those times I have seen fear in your eyes. It has hurt me so deeply. Why couldn’t I take the fear away from you.

You have taught me what love is. You brought an end to my family’s ”bad” habits: offering money and material things instead of love. But the only thing I could give you is me. When you were a baby, just sitting with you, holding you was a wonderful feeling. I took to it quickly, for I had plenty of time. No child comes with a manual, so I had to learn as I went along.

I was good at giving, but I forgot myself in the process, for I had never learned to give to myself. You taught me that, too.

I hope you think I have been a good mother. Know that I did my best.