Not Isolated

Of course, I write a blog, and then something happens that I don’t want to forget. I wish it didn’t happen, but I don’t want it fade, even if it hurts.

My son is freshly ten-years-old.

He’s homeschooled, and I know part of that is hard on him. His father is adamant about homeschooling. Before the Great Illness, he was religious about a school schedule and curriculum. He picked out everything, each book carefully evaluated before purchasing, thrilled to be educating the next generation. We’ve discussed the possibility of public school (we can’t afford private), but he insists on keeping things at home. Our son insists, as well. He doesn’t want to be separated from his father in any way.

But the Great Illness was traumatic and exhausting for more than just me. Yes, my body felt it and fought it, but they had to watch me.

My husband had to see all I usually do around the house fall undone. You may be able to avoid dishes by buying paper plates, but what about the laundry? Bathrooms? Casserole dishes and soup pots? What about chickens and dog walking and outings? Suddenly, he was all alone even with me in the house. I only had enough “spoons” (what chronically ill folks call “energy”) to get through my work tasks and doctor appointments. So, now, he had to learn to cook and manage all the chores I usually handled or assisted with. For over a year.

And, then, he had to receive that phone call one morning, “Mr. Bocchino, I’m your wife’s nurse. I just want to let you know that she’s struggling to breathe and we’re going to take care of her. You should come to the hospital.”

He had to arrive to see medical staff hovering around my body and hear the words, “It’s too soon to tell.”

And then go home to our child. And feed the chickens. And clean the dishes. And manage meals. And make it through the day. For months.

Schooling seemed to be of little importance when you’re waiting for your spouse to wake up from a medically-induced coma. Even once your spouse is home, schoolwork takes a backseat while you’re managing her recovery and your own. Your trauma and hers. A matching set. We should have them monogrammed. His and Her Trauma. Gotta keep that romance alive, right? Show the world we belong together.

ALL THAT TO SAY … As I’ve continued to recover, I have taken over a portion of the schoolwork. I don’t want him to fall behind, and he’s a smart kid. It’s time to stretch him and expand his mind more than usual. Plus, his handwriting isn’t great.

So, to work on spelling, handwriting, and grammar beyond the workbooks, I have him write a daily journal entry. Sometimes, they’re silly (“What animal would you be and why?”), and other times they’re more practical (“Tell me what you did yesterday”). Today, I blurted out, “Write about something that was hard that you persevered through.”

I’m thinking about “hard” in the perspective of a ten-year-old. I had a “hard” level in a video game and I beat it. I had to unload the dishwasher. My dad took me on a hike, and I thought I would hate it, but it was fun. You know … simple things.

My child.

My child starts drafting his paragraph. He starts out with how he has to do school even though he doesn’t like it (ha). Then he begins to write, “My mom nearly died.”

My mom nearly died.

He erases it quickly and says, “NOPE! Not going to write about that. I can’t.”

And replaces it with how he had to drive with his Nana to Nashville to pick me up from the hospital, but he hates long drives.

My mom nearly died.

Not going to talk about it.

My mom nearly died.

We’ve tried not to give him the details. But he knows. He may have gotten used to staying overnight at Nana’s while his dad and I are away for hospital stays. He may have gotten used to not going out much because his mom is too sick and his father too exhausted to leave the house. He may have gotten used to the isolation and the loneliness. He may have gotten used to the vague explanations of what’s wrong with his mom and why she’s in the hospital again.

But he knows.

My mom nearly died.

I wanted so badly to avoid giving my child trauma. I know that all kids grow up and eventually need therapy because of something their parents did (well-intentioned though they may be). I didn’t want it to be THIS kind of trauma.

My mom nearly died.

My dad became exhausted.

And we all escaped into video games to cope. We all isolated because the world was too exhausting. We entered survival mode, and it was lonely, and it was hard, and it was scary.

My mom nearly died.

He doesn’t want to talk about it yet. But it breaks my heart that’s what he thought of.

He’s a strong kid. He’s a good kid. I thank God for him every day.

And I hate that this happened to him, too. That the Great Illness touched them all, even if they stayed healthy. No man is an island. No trauma is isolated and lonely. It spiders out. It touches all the people who have to see you suffer.

My mom nearly died.

I can’t talk about it.