I was sitting in a chair, wondering how many sick people had sat in it before me. That’s what I always thought when I sat at Urgent Care. Chairs were never wiped down. I didn’t think this in a way where I was judging the staff. It was clear by the number of patients checking in, the hospital was clearly busy. Wiping down a chair and its arm rests were hardly a priority. They did the best they could. Every time I visited the hospital the last two-three years. They always did their best for my family. For everyone.
My husband was sitting in the chair next to me with our son in his lap. They were reading a book. God, I love how much our son loves books. Like, to the point where it makes me feel a little crazy. Like there’s some kind of spark there that could lead into a strange parental obsession (yes, I’m afraid of becoming my father). When we get our reading list for the summer when our now toddler is old enough for elementary school, will I be the mom who asks why he didn’t read his pages as he sits innocently enjoying a video game or godforbid a TV show? I hope I let him finish the episode of Avatar the Last Airbender before I yank him back into reality.
A couple walked in and sat across from us in the waiting area. It was an old man and an old woman. She spoke. Where is the front desk? Are you feeling okay? Glad we didn’t forget your hat this time. The man didn’t speak. He only grunted. They had been married a long time, I assumed. She wore makeup in a way that made her look more than put together. She looked rich, I decided, as she clutched a little purse in her hands. I don’t know brand names enough to know how much her bag cost, but the way her nails were done…I just knew.
Her eyes lit up when she saw our son reading.
“He is such a beautiful boy!” she exclaimed. We thanked her. Whenever I thank someone for telling me how beautiful my boy is, I have to go through this process where I pretend to be sort of (?) humble. When someone tells me he’s beautiful, it feels much more like stating a fact. As if the woman leaned forward and said, “I’m 78 years old!” or “We use our lungs to breathe.” She was stating a fact. And it was hard for me sometimes to remember that I should thank her for stating a fact. This was not just a fact, I had to tell myself. It’s a compliment, and it should be received with a thank you. So I would say thank you, when really I probably wanted to say, “Yes. Yes, he is.”
All this to say that becoming a mother has gone to my head a bit.
The older woman then proceeded to share that she had many children, more grandchildren, and even a large, hearty handful of great grandchildren.
“Okay, then. Any advice for us? He’s our first.” I said. I feigned that I was joking, but my ears pricked in anticipation. I could use some advice. Handsome boy aside, I often found myself at 6:30 on a Thursday so tired I might not be able to fight my way out of a wet paper bag.
“Oh, no advice!” she said. As if I asked her if the Earth was flat. As if I had asked a ridiculous question that needn’t be answered. “Just love them,” she said. “Just love them.”
Something swelled in my stomach. My heart. My throat. It took everything in me to not break down in tears.
Was it that we were in urgent care because we suspected our son had an ear infection and hadn’t slept well the last couple of nights?
Was it the fact that her response seemed to make more sense than anything I had heard since I had wrestled with the title, “Mother”?
Was it the fact that yesterday, I had confirmed my fourth miscarriage?
Did it feel like she was speaking to me not only about my living son, but the four I had lost in early pregnancy?
What advice can be given to me, a woman who was still bleeding out the loss of a child the day after her son’s second birthday?
…Is the world flat?
No. The shape of the world doesn’t matter under these circumstances. All that matters is that you just love them. All of them. Always.
