A Mother's Fight
I sat on the living room floor and put a cotton swab up my five month-old Poppy’s nose. She bounced quietly in her rocker while I did the mini science experiment required to see if she had Covid. I put the eyedropper liquid on the paper and a line appeared immediately. Then I burst into tears. “FUCK” I muttered under my breath.
I stomped from the living room into the kitchen to show Sal. “She got Covid.” I waved the plastic applicator in front of his face. I burned with rage.
I couldn’t help but feel betrayed. Covid had entered our house and come for our kids for the second time this month. Ginny and I had it in May and now it seemed it was Sal and Poppy’s turn.
That night, Poppy had a fever of a hundred and three degrees. She was shivering, and restless. Her bubbly personality was replaced with a quiet whining and moaning that lasted all night. Sal and I took turns sleeping on her bedroom floor to soothe her. In the morning, her fever broke and she was in better spirits. I called the pediatrician and they reassured me that she would be fine with some rest at home, that children weren’t hospitalized for Covid.
The timeline feels blurry now but over the next few days Poppy’s energy levels seemed ok. The fever never came back but her breathing started to become labored. The heaviness of it would wax and wane throughout the day. But then it seemed more consistent, more painful, more prominent. When I called the pediatrician to have them listen to it over the phone they told me to take her straight to the emergency room. My heart lept inside my throat.
I threw her bottles, diapers, and miscellaneous items into her diaper bag, said goodbye to Sal and Ginny and drove straight to the ER where they proceeded to usher me through the doors and into a room of three doctors and nurses. I knew immediately this wasn’t a good sign. I held my little girl tightly, tried to answer their questions accurately and I prayed.
I’m not a person who prays, but facing a room full of doctors and a baby who can’t breathe has a way of dropping you spiritually to your knees. I asked help from my spirit guides; my Aunt Karen, my Papa, and my Nanny. I asked them to keep her safe and keep me calm.
Then I immediately thought about what a miracle it was that I got pregnant with a polyp blocking my cervix. How sick I had been during my pregnancy and how lucky it was that I didn’t miscarry. I’ve always felt like it was such a blessing to go full term and have a healthy baby, but maybe she wasn’t mine forever. Maybe our time was just for now.
I thought of HIllary Clinton during the Benghazi hearings, as I often do in moments of pure stress and started to box breathe deeply.
Breathe in for four seconds, hold your breath for four seconds, breathe out for four seconds, hold your breath for four seconds.
There I was. Trying to imitate the micro-meditations Hillary did after dozens of hours of answering questions and being present under pressure.
Poppy in the Emergency Room.
I made a pact with myself that I wouldn’t fall apart. That whatever happened on this journey I’d take with grace. That Poppy had trusted me to be her mom and it was my job to do everything in my power to fight for her and keep her safe.
—
We had only been in the ER a little while but the doctors were acting fast and moved around us quickly. They stabilized Poppy with two nebulizer treatments and her breathing started to improve.
Sal had Covid and wasn’t allowed in the hospital so my mom came and stayed with me for support.
The doctors x-rayed Poppy’s throat to make sure it was clear, then gave her a steroid treatment. They felt confident this was just a one-time fluke, something inflated by Covid and that she would be fine. They sent us home.
The following morning, Poppy’s labored breathing had returned. I called the pediatrician and after listening to her breathing they sent us back to the ER. We spent the afternoon there- more breath treatments, another steroid. To be safe, they admitted us to Children’s Hospital for overnight observation.
In the morning, when Poppy sounded better they sent us home. The doctors thought this was just another Covid moment that needed a little extra treatment. They felt confident she would get better. That she just needed to rest.
The first thing I did when we got home was pack a real hospital bag. Socks, baby toys, makeup wipes. I instinctively knew whatever was happening wasn’t over and I would be ready at a moment’s notice to take her back. The scary thing about having little ones who can’t talk is they can’t tell you how they feel- they show you how they feel. So it was my job to just watch and wait to see what would happen next.
The following morning Poppy’s labored breathing returned, with a wicked cough that left her out of breath. We had an appointment with the pediatrician to get a follow-up checkup but when we went in to see our doctor Poppy’s cough seemed uncontrollable and it was causing her to gasp for air after each coughing fit. The doctor sent us to go back to the hospital. Poppy wasn’t getting better, it seemed she was only getting temporary care for a bigger problem.
When we went back to the ER for the third time I knew we weren’t going to leave until I was one thousand percent confident she was going to be okay. My steadfast energy was wavering as I had to explain to the nurses and doctors what felt like the hundredth time what happened, why we were there and what was going on.
More box breathing.
More hospital coffee.
More waiting.
More watching Poppy.
When they finally moved us from the ER and admitted us upstairs to the hospital it was the same room we had been in two nights before. We were back. A tall metal crib sat at the center of the room, while doctors covered in protective gear checked-in on Poppy every few hours.
My dad Jim pushing Poppy around her room.
While my parents filtered in and out of the hospital during the daytime, I was at Poppy’s side 24 hours a day. It felt like a privilege to be there- to be able to be at every doctor’s round, to confirm symptoms, and make sure I felt like we were moving forward in the right direction with her care. I made notes, set alarm alerts for medications on my phone, and was doing my best to stay on top of everything.
—
At night, Poppy’s symptoms would lighten after a full day of treatment, and by the morning she would be struggling to breathe again. It seemed like we were locked into this endless cycle. Each long day at the hospital felt like a week, and because she was Covid-positive she couldn’t leave her hospital room. I spent hours pushing her stroller in circles, the beeping of her heart monitor trilling in the background.
Stuck inside the hospital with her I felt out of my body. When I would briefly leave the room to get coffee, do a load of laundry, or heat up a bottle it felt surreal to see other families and kids in the hospital. How could we be here?
Although I was frustrated with the back and forth of being readmitted to the hospital, I also felt relieved we were there now. Poppy and I surrounded by a team of support if things got worse. I didn’t feel that intense panic like I did the first day her breathing started to labor. Everything was being monitored and under control. We just had to keep waiting on test results to give us a clearer idea of what was happening.
On day four of being admitted at Children’s Hospital (and day six of being in and out of the ER) Poppy’s energy levels returned and she started smiling and cooing. She was rolling around in her hospital crib and even playing with some toys. A wave of relief washed over me. Seeing her acting like herself let me know she was finally starting to feel better. The doctors agreed all her vitals looked good and said if she was still doing well that afternoon they would feel comfortable letting us go home.
I said absolutely not. I wasn’t leaving until we had a firm diagnosis of what happened. I argued with the attending physician about running some other tests and let him feel my full frustration of this situation. I didn’t want to go home and have to come back again. I wanted to be sure.
But as the afternoon went on it was clear Poppy was feeling better. She started drinking more ounces in her bottle and seemed like her normal, joyful self. I wasn’t ready to go home yet but Poppy was. She needed sunshine, her own bed, and to get that damn IV out of her arm. Sal was finally out of his quarantine and able to visit the hospital and after talking it through with him we both agreed it was time to take her home and pack her up.
We loaded her stroller with all the laundry, baby gear, and bags I’d accumulated over the couple of days we were there. Then I strapped Poppy to my body in the baby carrier. I held her close to me. I wanted to hold her little hand as we walked down the hallway, down the elevator, and out the door home.
When Sal and I arrived home Poppy fell asleep in her stroller outside in the warm afternoon air. Ginny was at daycare for a few more hours so Sal and I ordered tacos and sat on our back patio under the sun.
Everything was quiet.
The anxiety I was carrying and the stress of the week started to slowly melt away in the sunshine. We were finally safe at home.
—
Poppy and I one month after her hospital stay.
I just returned from Poppy’s six-month well visit and I’m so relieved to share that she’s fully recovered. She’s a little chunk full of smiles.
I’m so grateful I got the opportunity to care for her, that Sal’s office gave him time off so he could care for Ginny, and that while I was sharing our experience on Instagram I received hundreds of messages and notes of support.
It’s moments like this that remind me how fragile the world is. How important community is, and how vital access to healthcare is. Which is why I’m feeling particularly confused and devastated by the Supreme Court’s recent decision to overturn Roe v. Wade.
The republican party talks about being pro-life but dismisses the gun violence epidemic, emergency funding for the formula shortage, and the essential health care of abortions. Nothing has made me more pro-choice than being a parent. Of knowing the full energy and heart it takes to raise a child. This isn’t something that should ever be forced. This is something that should be chosen through the love and the desire of wanting to be a parent.
As I look at my girls I wonder what kind of rights they will have as they grow up, what kind of country they will live in. Ginny has already started doing shooter drills in her Pre-K 3 class. She doesn’t yet know what they mean, or why she is doing them but someday she will. Someday she will ask questions that I won’t have the answers for.
And that someday I’ll do my best to tell my girls about the feminist role models that remind me even in challenging moments that we can be powerful, we can make a difference, and we can find the courage to be optimistic.
There was a moment when Poppy was in the hospital that I’ll never forget. It was during one of the doctors rounds when she was being examined by a slew of doctors, nurses, and attending physicians. They surrounded her while she was laying quietly in the metal hospital crib and her eyes started darting around. Nervous about all the sudden attention Poppy skimmed the room until her eyes landed on me.
“I’m here” my eyes told her and she gave me a little smile.
I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. As a mother, it’s my job to protect my girls.
And I’ll continue to fight for their rights and the rights of women, girls, and all child-bearing people across the country so they can have the right to decide what is best for them. We all deserve access to the health care we need to live safe, healthy, and joy-filled lives.
Xx,
Erin
PS- Click here to learn more about Plan C, the abortion pill by mail that’s legal in all 50 states.
