At some point I realized I was sobbing. Not just crying, but good old-fashioned sobbing. As my grandmother would have said, "full-out boo-hooing." Gasping for air sobbing. Quietly sobbing as not to wake up the kid. Tears streaming and such.
Day two of the "fever of unknown origin (FUO)" proceeds. Marches on like Nazi troops into Iran. But, the liquid Tylenol is now being rejected so there might not be much relief tonight. That's the bad news. Worse news is that the back up plan calls for suppositories. Never pleasant.
But, this rejection might be good too because it means she's not just fighting the FUO, but she's just pissed enough to fight me. Fight Tylenol; fight the power. Fight the system as she's being groomed.
To see her you'd think she just washed up on the shore of Florida after floating on a 2 liter bottle from Cuba or some shit. She's beat, floppy, and way too hot. Hot to the touch. Hot like a, well, like a 105-degree light bulb. Hot enough to make the doctor shrug and say, "You just have to wait these things out." Hot enough to boil the sun. Hola, amigo. Ess thees America?
She's tough though. And I'm tough. I'm sick too. But, she's sicker. She's bad ass enough to try to take care of me. I'm bad ass enough to let her. We persist.
But, why am I crying? It's not because I'm necessarily frightened (which, honestly, as a parent, you always are). But I'm sobbing because as she finally put her heavy, fuzzy, hot, hot head down, she reached up and hugged me and said, "I love you, Daddy."
"This, I believe..." (thanks, Mark) is my reason to exist.
