Beds hurriedly fashioned from sofa cushions, cough elixirs measured by nightlight, pillows propped up, sheets changed, humidifiers refilled. We are in Cold Country. We take turns bringing the virus home, being sick the longest, the shortest, or having the most severe symptoms. I listen to the 2 a.m. coughing. Is it sleep-coughing or awake-coughing? It ramps up. “Mom? Mommmm?” My son’s fully alert now. I scurry down the hall before he rouses my husband and daughter. Outside, bare tree limbs whistle in the wind. In two trips I try to settle him down. On the third, I know he won’t get back to sleep on his own. I fumble around in the dark for rocking chair cushions and extra blankets, and cobble together a mattress. For the next twenty minutes he coughs and looks at me. I can see his eyes blink in the dark. He whispers questions that betray his racing mind. “Mom, how big are electrons? …..Can we invite Aiden and David over to play?… ” My answer is always the same: “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Tomorrow arrives early in Cold Country. The children can’t resettle themselves after their 5 a.m. light sleep cycle. I reach over and turn off the near-empty humidifier, and pause the lullabies on repeat. My hips and shoulders ache from the gaps in the makeshift mattress . “Shhhhh,” I say as we tiptoe down the stairs. I feel lightheaded and grab the railing. This means I’m next. In the kitchen, I open the shades so we can watch the sun rise over the Southwest Mountains. The children say “no thank you” to their morning milk, but I fill their cups anyway. I need the comfort of routine.
This too shall pass. And you will remember it as one of the best nights ever. Funny, unbelievable and true.