“Pinkeye.”
When I answer the phone that’s all Heather says. “Pinkeye.”
She lets me register the visual (crusty goop from some over-productive internal glue factory) before she explains which of my grandchildren has this particular ailment at this time.
I get these calls every few months.
“Roseola.”
“Croup.”
“Barfing.”
These are not complaints; they are reportage. Just the facts.
In the single word I see a hologram of my own maternal career. Staying up with a sick child. Worry. Exhaustion. Patience. This too shall pass… but what if it doesn’t?
Evenutally the symptoms evolve into an ordinary disease with a name, a short arc, and a happy ending. It’s just pinkeye, not the beginnings of a total-body staph infection. I can breathe again.
Until the next time.
That’s motherhood (and now grandmotherhood).
