For the past three nights, I have called the hospital home.
I lay on the chair-bed that’s hard as stone and go to sleep to the sound of my baby’s oxygen mask. I wake up whenever the nurses come in to take his temperature, feed him his medicine or nebulise him. Inevitably, I will have to carry him to soothe him or, if he allows, nurse him.
Every evening, I bid farewell to my toddler and my husband. I know my son well – he says goodbye to me cheerily and kisses me. But once home, the notion that mama isn’t home with him sinks in and he cries for me. I so long to be there for him when he wakes, to kiss his sweaty forehead and say goodnight to him.
It’s so hard.
I miss my family, whole and healthy. I miss my home. I miss our daily routine, as mundane as it seems.
And yet I have to stay here so that my littlest can recover from that nasty virus.
It’s been a difficult, challenging month. Enough already, please?