A Darker Shade of Worry

My daughter woke up crying last night. I went to stroke her hair and was surprised to find her hair damp and her skin burning. She'd complained of being cold before going to bed, but I'd figured it was because of the incessant air conditioning. We checked her temperature: 101.1. Not serious, but enough of a concern.

Sickness carries with it varying degrees of worry. When it's me, I'm not that concerned. I just need to stick it out long enough for whatever it is to go away. When it's my wife I worry some: I'm anxious for her, but know that she can take care of herself. When its one of my kids worry gnaws on me constantly.

Children seem so fragile you want to protect them from everything. When they get sick it's hard not to take it personally: where did I fail? Illness is also more pronounced in kids, I think. They're normally so bright and energetic that illness makes them seem like hollow shells by comparison. You worry that they'll never get their spark back.

They're also so honest. They don't--and can't--hide their suffering. It's a constant reminder of just how helpless we parents really are. Yes, there are things we can do to make them more comfortable, to help them recover faster, but ultimately we're not in charge. They're in the grip of Time at best, Fate at worst.

I don't like it. As ornery as she can be, I want my little girl back. And perhaps that's the point. Perhaps it's God's way of reminding us to maintain pespective. Yes, a child who fights with her sibling, asks incessant questions, and sulks over trivial setbacks may be annoying, but if she's not healthy, the rest suddenly becomes unimportant.

She was markedly improved this morning. But that doesn't keep me from worrying. It's in the genes. It's in the job description. And, I suspect, it's just the tip of the iceberg.