Love Song

Each morning and each night I go through a ritual of pulling different medicines up into little plastic syringes to administer to Charlie throughout the day and night. As I measure out the various doses and line up the 5 mL vials, I can't help thinking of the lines from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock": "For I have known them all already, known them all;/ Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,/ I have measured out my life with coffee spoons." I feel like I am measuring out Charlie's life in teaspoons.

Yesterday, the specialist added one more medicine to try, one more half teaspoon. He thinks this really might make a difference, that things will drastically improve to the point of even being off the reflux medicine in a matter of a couple months. We left the doctor's office yesterday almost dazed. Could it really be so easy? What if it really works? What if Charlie gets feeling better and soon, to quote Eliot, in the "afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!"

I realized pretty quickly last night that this may be one of those situations where it has to get a little worse before it gets better. Once again I was up about every hour with Charlie, trying to soothe him. Sometimes I'd feed him, sometimes I'd just walk with him a bit, sometimes I'd try one of his teaspoons. With Prufrock streaming like a song stuck in my head, I'd pat his back to the rhythm, "In the room the women come and go/ Talking of Michelangelo." I wondered if the lines really held the significant commentary on artistic values as I had taught young university students a few years ago, or if Eliot just liked the meter of Michelangelo's name. That certainly had some effect on Charlie.

Early this morning I tried to cradle Charlie as he squirmed and writhed in pain. He was still asleep and I knew he needed to sleep more. I also knew I wouldn't. He would alternate between the picture of sound sleep to a grimace that would turn to crying and squirming, trying to find relief. We go through this routine for a couple hours every morning. There is really nothing I can do for him, but somehow holding him keeps him from fully waking and becoming inconsolable. After a while, he settles to a whimper, then back to peaceful sleep for a stretch.

My sister once asked me how being a parent doesn't just break your heart every day. On the one hand kids will do things so sweet you just can't stand it, like Ellie refusing to say her prayers unless she can hold Charlie's hand, or Charlie's big laughs and smiles when you know he's having a hard time. On the other hand, you have to watch them go through such difficult things you can't stand it, like Ellie being in so much pain she could only eat in her sleep as a baby, or Charlie whimpering in his sleep. It really can be heartbreaking sometimes. But we are hopeful.

I am pretty sure that I will never have the magnum opus like Eliot that students and scholars praise and analyze write about. I used to want to be a writer or an academic; perhaps one day. But tonight I am preparing for another night with Charlie, lining up the teaspoons. For now, that is my love song. "Let us go then, you and I,/ When the evening is spread out against the sky."