Meredith’s Musings: My Mother’s Intuition

by Meredith McKinnie

When I was only eight weeks old, I contracted vicoli e coli. I had only been at the nursery for two weeks. A little boy there was a carrier but showed no symptoms. My mom knew something was wrong; my coloring was off; and the doctors insisted it was Mom’s little poodle, Heidi, and to get rid of her. Mom’s intuition said no; this was something else, something bigger. She was crying at work one day when her boss asked her the problem. After one call, she got in to see the man who would become my pediatrician. His partner took one look at my blue, limp body, and asked my Mom one question, “Do you have good insurance?” It’s sad that is even a concern in a life or death situation, but it is. Luckily, my parents did. The doctor insisted she go right up to the fourth floor of the hospital; and don’t even bother checking in. What she saw was that serious, and it had nothing to do with Mom’s poodle.

It was controversial even beyond the diagnosis. My dad never liked the idea of daycare, and assumed Mom would stay home with me. In an era where communication wasn’t emphasized, you can imagine my mom’s shock at his expectation. She wasn’t built to be a stay-at-home mom. I don’t even think she’ll be a stay-at-home retiree, but for anyone who knows her, that is understood. But she stood her ground, and at six weeks, back to work she went. So, two weeks in to the daycare stay that my dad never wanted, I contracted a deadly illness, it served only to confirm his hesitation. Sadly, he worked away, and found out about my hospitalization via a note left by my mom in the kitchen.

The problem was my body wouldn’t digest milk. The virus attacked my small intestine, and anything I took in came right back up again. Within a few weeks, however, I was back to my birth weight. I’ve heard these stories all my life… how I could recognize the nurses’ white uniforms and would scream as they approached me, how I knew the poke of a needle was soon to follow. A wind-up pillow that would play nursery music was left in my crib. The nurses would wind it right before they stuck me; it did the opposite of soothe. My Dad, who is now 70 years old, still tears up when he remembers the IVs stuck to my head. When he tells people the story, he recounts the moment I finally drank one ounce of milk on my own. He holds up his chubby hand with his thumb and forefinger exposing only a half-inch gap as tears run down his face. I can see the fear he felt 36 years ago. How lucky I am to be here; how lucky I am to have parents who care; doctors who knew; and nurses who would stick me as I screamed. I benefited from a system my parents could afford.

When I came home from the hospital, I was still too sickly and small to return to daycare. Besides, the one where I contracted the deadly virus had been shut down. It wasn’t their fault, but in those days, no one knew. So, my dad took off for the summer; and he was forced into taking time with me I bet he’d never give back. I know this because I see him with my daughter now, how he holds her close, worries when her feet are bare, insists she stay warm enough. His worry for me comes out with her. He’s content just holding her. She doesn’t have to be awake; he just marvels at her face. With her being the first grandchild. He’s got to spend this much time with, it makes my heart happy. I get to see how my dad might have been with me, at a time I can’t remember, at a time too somber for photos. And as a result, as I returned to work, with a need for something beyond parenthood, much like my mother, I could rest easy. My retired father and flexible-working mother kept my daughter, in our home, and this makes my need for outside stimulation so much easier. I would take it regardless, but still, so much easier. I’m entrusting my darling to the people who took care of me at my weakest, who insisted I stay alive. Baby Wilder couldn’t be in better hands, and for them, for theirs, I’m grateful.