Please Don't Leave Me

Jonathan has the croup. Full-blown, body-consuming-cough croup. He's barked like a seal for the better part of the yesterday, but it got truly horrific last night. Strider kicked in, which is the near-closing of your child's larynx, resulting in an evil sounding wheezing to go with the dry barking cough. Strider can lead to real respiratory distress, so after hoping and praying that it would go away, I ended up packing my little buddy into the car and racing for Scottish Rite. We ended up being admitted for the night, with Jon getting specialized breathing treatments for his croup.

We were released at lunch today, and so far, things seem okay.

But last night, I was an emotional wreck.

I get that way whenever the kids get sick, and usually it's Ella that raises my anxiety so high. Jon normally gets whiny and clingy, his nose a little runny, but last night was the first time that he developed a cough that wouldn't go away. And the fact that it seemed to be unstoppable, and possibly quite painful, created a wave of panic inside.

So lying there in the hospital bed last night, Jon's small hand wrapped around my neck, his face buried into my shoulder, my mind spun. It was only Monday or Tuesday that I announced I was giving up Facebook to deal with my issues with God connected to Ruthanne's death, and there I was, just two or three days later, having to face those fears head on.

It was a struggle. Especially since I could only think of an episode between Jon and I before we went to the hospital. It kept spinning through my mind and asking the question, "What does it mean to really trust God?"

Here's what I wrote last night, during a down moment before I decided to take Jon to the hospital. These are the words that were so much on my mind while the two of us were at Scottish Rite.

*****

One of the main things that they tell you to do when your kid is coughing is to go outside in the cool night air for ten or fifteen minutes. Well, it doesn't get much cooler than the air tonight, so I bundled my little buddy up and took him outside, hoping to alleviate some of his discomfort. We were quite the pair - me in my jeans and peacoat, him in his puppy dog print footed pajamas and hoodie. I walked him down the driveway and turned to head back to the house when Jon's little voice piped up.

"No, daddy. Let's go for walk. I wanna see da moon."

So I turned to my right, heading up the street, the moon in front of us. He turned his head to look at it and pointed to the near-full orb.

"Dat da moon," he said.

"Yeah it is, bubba," I said. Jon's been fascinated by the moon since birth, it seems. He's always wanting to go outside, into the night so he can see the moon in all of its glory. I usually oblige him for a few minutes, then bring him inside. Jon always begs for more time.

Tonight, I was happy to give it to him.

He stared at the moon for a long time, waving his hand around as if trying to trace its blurry edges, racing his little monster truck across the lunar surface. Then he went quiet, laying his head on my shoulder. His breathing sounded terrible, but he seemed to be at peace. That's when he lifted a tiny hand and pointed to the moon again.

"I wan go up der."

I followed the line of his hand with my eyes. "To the moon?"

"Yeah. To da moon. I wan ged la-der and clime up to da moon."

"Why?"

"I wan go home."

In the butterscotch light of the street lamp, I saw my breath disappear even as I felt my heart skip. There was an acute pain - a familiar, deep pain, accompanied by a blistering anxiety. My eyes stung in the cold, and I felt my throat close up.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I wan go up der. I wan go home."

"To the moon?" The tears flowed.

"Yah. Up der."

I sobbed. Holding my son, still very much alive, even if very much sick, I sobbed like a baby. There, beneath the street light, my fears and frustrations and anxieties made there way into the open air, their ugliness on display for all to see.

Jon raised his head and looked at me.

"Whas wrong, daddy?"

"I'm sad, Jon," I said. I couldn't bring myself to lie. Not about this.

"Why?"

"Because you want to go up there, to the moon, and I want you to stay here with me."

"Why?"

"Because I love you," I said, tears pouring. "I love you and I don't want you to go. Please don't leave me, Jon."

He smiled and grabbed my nose. "Okay," he said. "I not go."

We stood there a little bit longer, my fears, my anger, all of the things that I've been needing to take before God and work out just bubbling up in the open night air. I couldn't help it. I kept on sobbing, grabbing Jon by the back of the head and pulling him down to my chest as if somehow that would protect him from all of the uncertainty of human life. I held my son like a sacred treasure, as if my arms would protect his very life, and I cried at the thought of losing him, like losing a piece of my self.

Jon leaned up again. "Daddy."

I wiped my eyes, but let my nose run. "Yes?"

"I wan go home."

"Where, Jon? Which home do you want to go to? The moon?" Even saying it hurt. But I needed to know.

"No," he said, shaking his little head. "I wan go hom where mommy sleepin'. I wan go to my house."

I pulled him in tightly once again and kissed his head. "Okay, buddy. We'll go home."

Turning on my heels, I started for the house, his little head bobbing up and down against my shoulder. As we walked up the driveway, he kissed me on the cheek.

"Do you love me, son?" I asked.

"Yesh," he said.

"Are you going to be okay?" I asked.

"I be fine," he said. "I not leave."

*****

My son was true to his word. He didn't leave me last night. In fact, even in the midst of his sickness, Jon kept reminding me that he loved me so much that he couldn't bear to leave my side. He would only let me administer his breathing treatments, or take his temperature, or hold him while the doctors took their vital signs or listened to his chest. I can honestly say that from 11:15 last night until 9:45 this morning, my son did not leave my arms. He simply refused to.

I can't even put into words the things that I threw out before God. So many fears, so much anger, so much hurt and feelings of betrayal. And yet through it all, the still small voice of His spoke through my son's need for me. I'm not leaving. I'm here. Just as you hold your son, I am holding you.

I cried in madness over the injustice of my son being so sick so suddenly. God reminded me of the injustice His Son suffered. I questioned where God was in my time of need, where the miracle was when I needed it most. God reminded me that the miracle was completed at the cross.

I don't know what else to write, to be honest. I just needed to process. I can hear him crying for me now.

I won't leave him.