by Darla Carmichael

I was going through my facebook photo albums yesterday, reminiscing about when my five-year-old was still a baby/toddler. There are no pictures from the hospital when he was born and only a couple quick, fuzzy snap shots from the subsequent year that was such a mix of turmoil and chaos for us. But, slowly, there are more and more pictures. From him spinning around on a stool at Waffle House to him running circles around me at the wave pool one summer to the pictures of him in the hospital hooked up to IV’s before his surgery to correct an infected lymph node.

Those are perhaps the hardest ones for me to look at. I felt so helpless as he sat in the hospital bed, playing listlessly with Thomas the Train. For a week and a half they pumped him full of antibiotics as the lump on his neck grew to the size of a softball. I sat, lay and paced in his hospital room – in isolation on the children’s oncology floor, since they had no idea what was causing the growth. I refused to leave the room, not that there were any other options. It was just me and the kid.

My parents had agreed to take him to the doctor for me while I was at work, early on the day he got admitted. I just thought he had the flu. It was no big deal. Just a little fever.

I was just leaving work to come get him, when my mom called me in a panic. They were rushing him to the children’s hospital nearby. The doctor had almost called an ambulance to get him there quickly, but the kid was scared enough as it was. I met them at the ER, where the kid was immediately rushed back.

That was the point that I called my ex-mother in law and my ex-husband. It was shortly before we broke off all contact, but it was still a very rocky relationship at that point. They came up briefly, not really understanding what the big deal was. They promised to come back the next day and bring food and clothes for me, but I didn’t see them after that until the kiddo was released from the hospital.

My parents came up a couple times, but only stayed long enough for me to take a quick shower in the hospital room’s kid-size shower and then promptly left. I tried not to cry. I tried not to worry. But, as the growth on his neck grew and grew, I worried. His fever just kept climbing and it was a constant battle to keep the monitors and IV in. Even with how sick he was, he was still trying to do the occasional cartwheel off the bed and trying to make me laugh.

On the fourth day, I noticed that the floor was soaking wet. The IV antibiotics were leaking everywhere and had been for quite a while. It took them another day and half to finally replace the line. But, at that point, a nurse came in and told us we were going home. I was shocked. I never thought I would do this, but I fought hard for my son to stay in the hospital. The antibiotics were not working and the lump was continuing to grow.

Finally, a surgeon walked in – a week after he had been admitted.  Within an hour, the kid was prepped for surgery. I tried to distract myself by reading, but ended up pacing back and forth waiting. I never thought my son, at 2 ½-years-old, would be going through anything like this. But, no one ever does.

He came out of surgery fine. His lymph node had been cleaned out and he had packing inside that hung out like a straggling shoelace from an opening in his neck. The next day, as he still recovered, one of my bosses stopped by the hospital with a care package. I hadn’t eaten more than a few bites in the last week, so the bags of apples, oranges, sandwiches and all sorts of goodies I was truly grateful for. When the boss walked in – this staunch, reserved man leaned over and gave me a hug as I sat utterly deflated in the rocking chair next to the bed. He looked around shocked, expecting to see me surrounded by family and friends – but we were completely alone. At that point, he said something that struck me, “I thought you were just being the worried, overly-concerned mother. I had no idea… that things were like… this.”

In this moment, I think my boss saw more of what my life was than either of us had expected. It was just me and the kid, taking care of each other. Neither me nor the kid had anyone, except one another. And, right then, things were bad.

The kid got out the hospital a couple days later – only to immediately have to go back when, in a fit of itchiness, he pulled his stitches, the packing, and his entire incision open within minutes of getting to our house. He got fixed up and we stayed at home for another week – recovering.

Things could have been a lot worse. I’m still getting calls from bill collectors for the hospital. He still occasionally scratches at the little scar on his neck. But, all in all, we were ok. And, we can get through anything.

Yesterday, a woman in my office made an off-hand comment about how she understood how hard it is to be a single mom since her husband was out of town for a few days. I held back from yelling, and just remembered – no, it’s moments like this with my son in the hospital and knowing that it’s the two of you against the world and propping each other up, that really are what it means to be a single mom in this world.