When I was told last year that my two-year-old son had a life-threatening illness, I tried to strike a bargain with fate—I would do anything, trade my old life away, if only he would get better. We learned he would need months, maybe a year, of treatment before we knew if he would recover. My husband and I settled into a draining routine: one night at the hospital, the next at home with our daughter, then back again. The days blurred into a haze of medical reports, engulfed by fear and despair.
At the hospital, I watched other mothers. One faithfully performed chest physiotherapy on her child with cystic fibrosis, the rhythmic thumping a talisman of dedication, hope, and pain. Another, whose infant twins both had cancer, still wrote thank-you notes to the nurses. I admired their seeming heroism, worried I couldn't measure up, yet I didn't feel the same selflessness. Shamefully mingled with my terror was a different emotion.
After three weeks, realizing this was a marathon, close friends urged me to return to work for a break. I resisted. Good mothers, I believed, don't abandon sick children for work. But when my son's doctor approved and offered to email assessments, I tore myself away.
I couldn't keep a normal schedule. Yet, as treatment dragged on and my son spent more time out of the hospital, working when possible became my unexpected solace. It eased my helplessness, offering distraction, deadlines, and a sense of control. I felt guilty, wondering what other mothers thought of me bringing work clothes to the hospital.
Eventually, I realized getting away was good not just for me, but for my children. It was a sign that life could go on, a statement of hope that seemed to reassure them. I understood the danger of motherhood's "shoulds" and society's insistence on one right way. Such rules ignore that mothers are diverse, and there are many ways to meet a child's needs.
Had I followed those rules, I might have succumbed to terror. This ordeal eased my guilt. I, like many caregivers, needed a place to draw breath and find meaning outside the sickroom. For me, that was my job.
My son is recovering now. I'm still too close to the experience to grasp all its lessons. But I know this: working while my child was sick might have looked wrong from the outside, but it helped keep me sane. I grew less intimidated by other mothers, seeing that my dedication was no less. We all care for our children, each in our own way.