Nothing can make me feel more helpless than my child collapsing in bed, holding her head, large, dark bags looming beneath her once bright eyes. Push fluids. Cool compress. Get her to rest. Digging deep in my mom arsenal of cure-all remedies, I brought what I know to be the only thing that made me feel better when I was a kid. Gently, I eased her fiery hot shoulders toward me while I cradled her wet forehead against my shoulder. Poor thing is on fire, lost in the depths of rippling pain and fear.
“Shhhhhh… Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright,” I whispered faintly, as if the words would fall like an avalanche on her already pounding head. Without noticing I found myself rocking her softly, her eyes falling back into the sockets before falling like a heavy curtain to the stage floor. And she was gone.
Hours passed while I watched her shallow breath. There lies my joy, I thought. Everything I hold most dear. The rest of the world simply melts away.