Under my bare feet, the balcony deck is surprisingly just-coolish for December, especially for 2:20 in the morning. Little Natalie stands up close to my side as I stoop with my arms wrapped around her. She is bundled in her coat, furry hood up, crocs, and a blanket.
“Breathe baby. Don’t cry, just breathe. Try and breathe deeply.”
*****
My feet had hit the floor before my eyes were even open, instinct driven after 22 years of sick kids. I dodged around Christmas boxes, down from the attic two days now and still waiting to be hung, to reach her bed.
“She can’t breathe, Mom”, Jonah announced in a froggy voice, him, just on the other side of his battle with croup two nights before.
Natalie sat forward, a look of terror on her face, her sobs choked by barking coughs and harsh, hollow gasps for air. I sat on the edge of her toddler bed, and took her shoulders in my hands. It had come on suddenly. It usually does.
“Listen to mama. You can’t cry. You have to think about breathing. If you cry, you can’t breathe.”
I’m swept back 18 years to another night, holding a then just two-year-old Adam in my arms. He’s racked with gasps and sobs.
“Adam, you must listen to me,” I tell him kindly but firmly. “If you cry, but you can’t breathe. You have to stop crying.” I’m not even sure it will help, and I know I am asking a lot, but he such a smart little boy, and this is important.
“Okay, Mama,” he croaks, and instantly stops crying. Just like that. Tears paused halfway down his red cheeks, he focuses all of his attention on breathing. It was the first of what would be many nights developing our midnight routine. In winter, it would mean standing outside in the starlight at three in the morning, both of us bundled and watching our breath tumble in front of us in the street light. In the summer, I would stand with his little head in the freezer. And once, on a particularly warm, particularly bad night, I had crossed the street and snuck us into the walk-in freezer at the 24 hour Safeway. It always worked, for him, and every child since.
Natalie is just as smart, but 10 times more stubborn. She wouldn’t hear of calming down. She was angry at not being able to breathe and she wanted to cry. “I hate this day!” she squeaked out between barks. I kept up my gentle chant, encouraging her to breathe and calm down. She settled just a little, so I scuttled to the bathroom to get my trusty remedy. Say what you will about homeopathics, it’s the only medicine that has ever worked for my children when they had croup. A scientist friend once told me I was crazy, that it was “placebo by proxy”, and that it only worked because I wanted it to so badly.
“Then why didn’t the other medicines work? I wanted them to work or I wouldn’t have used them!” And even if it is placebo, if it helps, who cares?! Who cares, when my baby can breathe.
I gave her a dose and then grabbed her coat. She was confused and started to protest, but I told her we weren’t going very far. I bundled her up and wrapped her bare legs in a blanket. “This is my favorite blanket! I don’t want it to get messed up!“ I assured her it would be okay, grabbed my husband’s sweatshirt and hunted for my shoes in the dark. Opting for urgency over comfort, I opened the slider and stepped out of my bedroom barefoot onto the wet balcony. The air was still and crisp, and a seldom used porch light cast a surreal and eerie glow up the slope into the skeletal apple trees shrouded in a hint of fog.
Between her barking coughs and gasps I explained to little Natalie that the cold air would open up her airways and let the air in if she could just breath in deeply. I modeled the sounds of deep breaths, and she followed my lead. Inside of a few short minutes, she was calm and breathing, though a small rasp could still be heard.
“I think you’re good. Ready to go in?“ I asked. She squeaked out a tired little yes. “I hate this day,” she weakly reminded as we stepped into the warm, dark house. “I know,” I agreed.
She sadly declined my offer to climb into bed with me, so I guided her to her room and peeled off her bundling. Tucking her in, I asked if she was warm enough, and was answered with a nod, but when I offered her that favorite blanket, she nodded again. Warmth and comfort are two different things.
*****
Nano rolls out of bed at 11:15 this morning. She slips past me, bare chested, her shirt in her hand, and a pair of last summer's denim shirt shorts showing too much leg. She walks backwards with a quirky smile on her face, her hair an auburn rat’s nest. I don’t need to ask if she’s feeling better. She hurries to her brother and begins chattering at him in a froggy voice. They bellyflop on the rug and start playing Candyland, giggling as they use the animals from the nativity as playing pieces. Natalie draws the best card in the deck on her first turn, and I can’t help but wonder if Jonah had set it up to happen that way.
She is smiling and talking, though still a bit froggy, and I know she will continue to improve throughout the day. But I’m seasoned, so I also know... we will probably be on the balcony again tonight.
