At 4:00 a.m., I was awakened by the wails of my six-year old with a stomach bug. I switched on his light and reassured him, through his tears, that I’d help him feel better.
I ran water in the tub while I searched the kitchen for his favorite cup, a pumpkin with a bendy straw for the stem. After he sipped some ginger ale, he relaxed in a bubbly warm bath while I stripped the bed, cleaned up his room, and laid out new pajamas. I held him as he ate a few bites of dry toast (to which I’d added a smiley face made out of strawberry jam). His whole being a bit more settled, he crawled between fresh sheets. I tucked the special quilt his grandmother made him around his shoulders and read him Goodnight Moon.
It was 7:00 a.m. before I could slip back to bed. The sheet changing and trips up and down the stairs took some doing, all before my morning meds. But I hardly noticed. The moment called for comfort and care. And long before being a person with Parkinson’s, I am a mother.