Rabbit Holes and Carnival Rides

I'm in the midst of letting my mind go down rabbit holes, giving in to my imagination, trying to grasp that elusive nugget of truth I feel I'm on the cusp of getting.

All the while, I have an ear open, anticipating a cry-out from my medically complex child.

At the very moment I become aware that I'm listening for him, the rabbit hole caves in on itself, the potential revelation buried.

This can be a source of frustration and resentment if I'm not careful. I envy the rabbit hole chasers that don't have any distractions.

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He's gagging, trying to swallow; his eyes water, his nose runs. As he coughs, his body convulses into full spasms. He's gasping for air, yet at the same time inhaling and aspirating fluids into his lungs.

I am moving as quickly and calmly as I can, trying to save him once again from drowning in his own secretions, acutely aware that I might bridge the gap between life and death.

This is our ritual every morning when he is sick or if it's allergy season. This week it happens to be allergy season. He wakes with a stuffy nose full of snot and post nasal drip. He tries to swallow the thick goo like any of us would, but finds his body doesn't know how. So he continues to try until he is choking and coughing uncontrollably. He fights for his life while I suction, give nasal drops to thin things, and mop up the occasional gag turned vomit.

We are finally done.

He's exhausted. I'm exhausted.

He's smiling. I'm questioning our entire existence.

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I'm reading angry, hate filled tweets and comments. Not directed at me. I still have too much fear to dip my toe into that raging rapid. 

But I get immersed in what others write. People with many followers. People with influence and authority on both sides and from different groups. People with no followers and just an opinion.

There is so much despair. And anger. And fear. And despair again.

So many theories. So many accusations. So many excuses.

So many offended. So many offending.

So much obvious injustice. So much manufactured injustice. 

So much blame.

Usually a little truth mixed with fiction on all sides with no way to truly discern at a glance what to believe.

As an empath, I probably shouldn't even have an account. It can be too much. Yet, the draw is there of wanting to know, a dangerous precipice for those like me with a penchant for the melancholy.

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When my oldest was little, I took him to the local carnival. I convinced him to ride a rotating, spinning, spider-looking ride. We were the only ones on it. We were spinning and spinning. I watched my son turn green. I felt green.

I yelled and waved at the operator to make it stop. I was sure one of us would puke. He ignored us. We were forced to finish to the end.

I feel like I'm on that ride again.

*********

I'm jumping to my feet from where I sit near his day bed. He's seizing and one arm is repeatedly hitting the bed rail. I put my arm between his arm and the rail. He hits my arm instead. 

He's wild eyed and his breath is ragged. His heart beats rapidly against my hand when I put it on his chest. I speak to him calmly as he's obviously in distress.

As the seizure retreats, I hug him and ask him if he's ok. His non-verbal answer is to try to push me out of the way, looking past me to see his iPad video. 

"I'm so sorry," I whisper to him helplessly.

Image by David Mark from Pixabay