English Original
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.
中文翻译
去年，当我得知两岁的儿子身患危及生命的重病时，我试图与命运做交易——我愿意做任何事，放弃旧日的生活，只求他能好转。我们了解到，儿子需要接受数月甚至一年的治疗，才能知道能否康复。我和丈夫陷入了疲惫的例行程序：一晚在医院，下一晚在家陪女儿，然后再次返回医院。日夜在医疗报告的模糊中流逝，我被恐惧和绝望吞没。
在医院里，我观察着其他母亲。一位母亲忠实地为她患有囊性纤维化的孩子做着胸部理疗，那空洞的捶击声是奉献、希望和痛苦的护身符。另一位母亲，她的双胞胎婴儿都患了癌症，却仍能在孩子们多次住院后给护士写感谢信。我钦佩她们看似英雄般的行为，担心自己无法企及，但我并未感受到同样的无私。可耻的是，与我的恐惧交织的，是另一种情绪。
三周后，意识到这是一场马拉松，亲密的朋友们开始劝我回去工作，换换心情。我拒绝了。我认为，好母亲不会为了工作抛弃生病的孩子。但当儿子的医生表示同意并可以通过邮件发送评估报告时，我强迫自己离开了。
我无法保持正常的工作日程。然而，随着治疗拖延，儿子住院的时间变短，在可能的时候去工作成了我意想不到的安慰。它缓解了我的无助感，提供了分心的事务、截止日期和一种掌控感。我感到内疚，想知道其他母亲会如何看待我把工作服带到医院的行为。
最终，我意识到暂时离开不仅对我有益，对我的孩子们也有益。这是一种生活可以继续的标志，一种希望的宣言，似乎让他们感到安心。我明白了母亲身份中那些“应该”的危险性，以及社会对唯一正确方式的固执。这样的规则忽视了母亲的多样性，以及满足孩子需求方式的多元性。
如果我遵循了那些规则，我可能早已被恐惧压垮。这场磨难减轻了我的负罪感。我，像许多照顾者一样，需要一个在病房之外喘息和寻找意义的地方。对我来说，那就是我的工作。
我的儿子正在康复。我仍离这段经历太近，无法完全领悟其中的教训。但我知道这一点：在孩子病重时工作，从外表看或许是错的，但它帮助我保持了理智。我不再那么畏惧其他母亲，我看到自己的奉献丝毫不减。我们都在以自己的方式照顾着我们的孩子。