Queen Kelley

Surely I’m not the only parent who engages in an internal wrestling match with myself when trying to decide whether a kid’s symptoms warrant a doctor trip. Just this morning, the match went like this:

- Butterfly’s cough sounds worse this morning.
- It sounds the same as it’s sounded for the past two weeks.
- Two weeks? Has it been that long?
- Yes, and you took her to the doctor for something else and asked about the cough. The doc cleared her and said she has allergies.
- But that was two weeks ago. The cough seems “juicer.” And is that snot coming from her nose?
- The cough has barely changed. She doesn’t cough at night. She says her throat itches, not hurts. She has no fever.
- But her preschool teacher gave me the LOOK on Monday. When Butterfly went out the door, she coughed hard and Mrs. Teacher looked at me.
- You told her Butterfly saw the doctor, and the teacher herself then guessed, “It’s just allergies, isn’t it?”
- Yes, I guess so. Still, maybe I should take her back to the doctor just to be sure. The cold might have moved into her chest.
- You really want to go to the doctor? There are people there. In the waiting room. And they breathe in. What’s worse, they breathe out. Do you want your kid to catch swine flu before she even sees the doctor?
- Swine flu! Oh no. One of the symptoms is a persistent cough. Two weeks is persistent. And now her nose is running a little. And she’s whiny this morning.
- Fever?
- No, no fever.
- Body aches?
- Not that she’s mentioned.
- Flat on her back and feeling as though she will die?
- Not at this point.
- Then it’s not swine flu.
- Okay, I’ll send her to school.
- But you already told her she was staying home today.
- She’ll want to go. It’s show and tell this morning.
- Don’t be so sure.

Unfortunately, idiot mom that I am, I had indeed told Butterfly that she’d probably see the doctor this morning instead of attending school. For some reason, she seemed excited about this idea, though she loves 4K. Then, her Disney princess computer game had the audacity to freeze in the middle of her playing time. A fit commenced. I consoled. The fit continued. I spoke firmly. The fit escalated. We both screamed. She shut herself in her room. I finally told her she was going to school after all, and the fit began anew, though this time in soft, whiny protests.

By the time we dropped off Ladybug and reached Butterfly’s classroom door, she seemed happy to go and ready to share her beautiful Barbie that we recently found at a yard sale. As Mrs. Teacher smiled a warm welcome, Butterfly turned back to me and said, “I want to stay with you.”

I took her aside and we performed our secret kiss (each of us tells the other what kind of delicious kiss we’d like–we both chose peanut butter chocolate this morning–and then we blow the kisses at each other), and she hesitantly entered her room.

At home now, my internal battle continues.

- She’s probably coughing her head off and freaking everybody out. I bet her nose has started running in earnest.
- She seemed fine most of the morning, aside from her fit.
- But she was emotionally compromised. I should have followed through with my earlier statement. I should have kept her home.
- You’re a terrible mother, you know that?
- And this afternoon, I’ve got to take them both to get their flu shots.
- To the doctor’s office?
- Yes.
- With all the breathing people?
- Where else?
- You’re sinister.
- But I’m going to take them for ice cream afterward.
- I’m sure the employees spit into the ice cream bins. Maybe you should just stay home. Always.
- Sigh. Maybe you’re right.

Over the years, my Butterfly has given me several boosts of self-confidence. You may recall the time she told me my black bra looked like it belonged to a certain sea witch. Once she narrowed her eyes at the wrinkles in my forehead—which appear ONLY when I raise my eyebrows, mind you!—and delightfully pointed out my “rainbows.” Later, she drew several pictures of me with colorful rainbow foreheads. On another occasion, as I did my business in a public toilet, she exclaimed, “Good job, Mama! You tee-teed!” I can still hear the snickers from surrounding stalls. On Monday after school, she happily told my friend that I don’t wear a shirt when I work out at home. She neglected to mention my sports bra. A few moments later, as I turned to buckle her into her car seat, she told me about studying “Mr. T” in class. This is not the man of A-team fame, but an inflatable letter person who apparently has tall teeth. She watched me respond to her, looking closely at my mouth. “Mama,” she said, “did you know your top teeth are much bigger than your bottom teeth?” I nodded and explained that when her baby teeth fall out, her grown-up teeth will look different too. Then she proceeded to inform me, with a completely serious expression, “You kinda look like a goat or a beaver or something.” What does a mama say to that? With only a hint of sarcasm in my voice, I answered, “Why, thank you, sweetie. How very nice!”

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, a month set aside to inform the general public that childhood cancer is a serious disease in our country (CureSearch says it’s “the most common disease-related cause of death for ages one to twenty”). At any given moment, parents and their children face the ever-present nightmare of pain, tests, treatments, separation, isolation, fear, and uncertainty. At any given moment, parents and other loved ones deeply miss a child whom cancer took from them.

I often mention my friend Jenny, whose daughter Catie died of brain tumor complications at age 4. There are hundreds and even thousands of others. Joshua passed away a few weeks ago. Kate is 5, just a little older than my Butterfly, and endures terrible stomach pain from brain tumor treatment. JB, age 8, and his mother live at St. Jude miles away from the rest of their family while he undergoes cancer treatment. (Click on the links to read about them.) These children should run, play, attend school, and have fun. In most cases, they can’t.

No one likes to think about childhood cancer. I certainly don’t. But I do. I am ever mindful that life can change in a moment. If you wish, see Curesearch.org for information on the Virtual Walk for 12,500. You can contribute money. You can give your time at Ronald McDonald Houses and similar places around the country. You can pray for peace, direction, and comfort as families cling to hope, doctors treat these children, and researchers work tirelessly for a cure. I am always hoping for a brighter future for these families and little ones.