Although
Jonah has had a cold or two, he entered the realm of the real-deal sickness
during his seventh month.
I remember
it clearly:
We were
visiting my in-laws, the Beckmans, in Cincinnati
and, as usual, Jonah had his room and we had ours. He was sleeping about thirty feet from us,
right down the hall. I was asleep at
about 5am—which is my custom—and I heard a sound that scared me to my very
soul.
It was like
I was forced to listen to hours of speeches given by my high school football
coach: mostly loud noises punctuated
even louder noises. I opened my eyes and
concentrated on the sound.
It was a
seal barking.
The Beckmans had bought a seal, and I was standing in my underwear watching a circus inhabited only by orangutans and third graders. (I had fallen asleep and I quickly moved to “weird dream land”). I awoke again to the sound of the seal in the other room, and I realized that sound came from Jonah. I jumped out of bed, ran to his room where he coughed again, and I thought that he had caught something in his throat. I picked him up, forced his mouth open and searched for whatever was in there. Aside from my finger, I couldn’t find anything. There wasn’t really anything in his throat: he was making that noise all by his little self.
By the time
I had finished searching for the thing in his throat, Sunday staggered into the
room looking for the seal.
She asked,
“Was that Jonah?”
I said,
“Yep. I think he’s got a cold.”
She said,
“Sounds like he’s a little seal.”
I said,
“Don’t you mean a little horse?”
She said,
“No. Don’t you think he sounds like a
seal?”
Still
mostly asleep, I said, “Watch out for the third graders. They don’t get along with the orangutans.”
She said,
“What?”
I said,
“Never mind.”
We stood
there, waiting for him to cough again as we wondered how bad this thing really
was. We knew that his cough wasn’t
normal, but we had enough false alarms to know that not-every-terrible noise
coming from Jonah translated into a negative situation.
After a
little while listening to him breathe and cough and breathe again, we realized
we had no idea what was wrong with him.
We were clueless. We thought
about everything from the common cold, to bronchitis, to lung cancer. We didn’t know. Since we were away from home, we didn’t have
a doctor and we were helpless. And in
between all of our conversations, we heard the barking of our little boy.
By the time
I had gotten Jonah to fall back asleep, Sunday had made about 57 phone calls
and lined up a doctor’s appointment for Jonah that afternoon.
By the time
we got to the doctor’s office, we were worn out with the worrying and the
listening to his coughing and just wondering what was wrong with our son. Both Sunday and I looked much worse than
Jonah, and he was about to show us how good a little boy he can be.
The doctor
walked into the room, introduced himself, and took Jonah into his arms. He listened.
We were silent. Jonah barked. He listened.
“Sounds
like he has the croup.”
We didn’t
want him to be sick, and to our ears the croup sounded much worse than the cold
or lung cancer. The croup sounded like
some medieval torture device that uses a system of weights and pullies to
slowly pull out nose hairs one by one.
“Beware of
the awful power of the croup! Ye shall
never have furry nostrils again!”
Anyway, the
doctor explained that the croup wasn’t that big a deal, as long as the
medication is used. He said that Jonah
should be ok in a few days. Then Jonah
barked. We all felt terrible. We didn’t want him to go through all that
garbage and we thought he was feeling terrible like we were feeling.
We were
wrong. As we began our most intense
feelings of angst over our sick child, Jonah happened to look up at me and
smile.
I couldn’t
believe how great he was acting.
Then he
barked.
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