By Lisa Cianci
In the fog of the hours after I gave birth to my son more than 16 years ago, I don’t remember much — except joy and fatigue. But an image that has stayed in my mind is my husband sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed, carefully holding our precious little boy.
“Now,” he said, “the worrying will never end.”
He was right.
Being a parent means worrying. For some more than others, perhaps, but it is always there. The joy and pride is there, too. But the worrying ...
We got our latest taste this month when my son got a cough. We weren’t too concerned, until he sprung a high fever. The doctor thought it was pneumonia, but an Xray showed his lungs were clear. So he got a prescription for antibiotics, and we thought we were good to go. And we were — for a couple of days. Then the fever came back. And the chills, sweats and a headache. My son was really sick, and miserable. On a Friday night, his fever jumped up again, so we headed to the emergency room.
Their diagnosis: Bronchitis. Steroids and nebulizer treatments (in addition to the antibiotics he was still on) would knock it right out, the doctor said.
It didn’t help. On Monday morning, we were back at the doctor. More tests: flu, strep, mono, pertussis — all negative. The doctor declared it a “super bug” and gave my son even stronger antibiotics.
That was a week ago, and it did the job (or the virus ran its course). Now, he’s fine.
The other day, my husband shared with our son the story of holding him as a newborn and realizing that the worrying never ends.
My son laughed, thinking it was a joke. We could laugh, too, now that he was OK.