Keeping our distance to work together

Anyone recognize this?

It’s called a nebulizer machine.

From the time Gabe was born until he was about 10 years old, this little beauty was his lifeline. Through the wonderful magic of science, it turns medicine into a mist so it can be breathed in by a patient.

It’s been a few years since we’ve had to use it. But I still recall it’s loud, whirring noise. The feel of a younger Gabe sitting on my lap, tiny mask strapped to his face while he worked to breathe in the fine, medical mist. Reminding him over and over and over to take deep breaths. …Deep. …Breaths. 

We couldn’t explain to him as an infant why we did that to him. He was just a baby. All he knew was that mommy and daddy were hurting him. He’d scream and fight us the entire time. Deep, sobbing, soulful screams the whole neighborhood could hear.

The doctor said it was a good thing; meant he’d draw the life-saving medicine deeper into his lungs. When he was a toddler, I sang the “Alphabet Song” or the theme from “SpongeBob SquarePants” over and over just to distract him until the medicine was gone. It never worked.

By the time he turned 4 or so, he’d learned to sit patiently. Read a book. Draw a picture. He knew what that medicine meant. Arguing with us wouldn’t do him any good, so he saved his energy for later. For Legos and Star Wars and riding his bike and all the other stuff little boys love.

I remember the night we spent in the hospital’s oxygen tent when he was 2 years old. Jon and I taking turns to crawl inside with him, each holding his fragile little body while he struggled to breathe. Listening to the pulse monitor, checking his oxygen reading. Over and over and over again. Praying for the first reading to go down; the second to climb up.

The dozens and dozens and dozens of nights my husband and I laid beside each other in bed, listening to Gabe in his bedroom, cough endlessly. Worried. Wondering if tonight was the night we’d have to make a trip to the ER. Wondering how on earth a little boy could cough through the entire night but still get a good night’s sleep. Neither of his parents did.

I almost pity people who don’t understand the seriousness of “be a barrier, not a carrier” through this pandemic. It must mean they have absolutely no one they’d give their own lives for. No one to protect. …I know that’s not true. Unfortunately, for some of them, a loved one is going to die. Then it might finally hit home for them. Just look at Italy. Military transports are being used to remove the dead from hospitals because the bodies are stacking up.

The nebulizer still sits in our closet. The rational adult in me has argued with the irrational mom that we should have donated it years ago. To another family who now faces the same struggle. We’ve loaned it out…but I always manage to get it back. Gabe is almost 15. He’s strong, athletic, heathy as a horse in every respect but his susceptibility to respiratory illness. He gets bronchitis from time to time. What if the five different medicines he’ll have to take don’t work? What if he ends up in an oxygen tent again? When I hear him make the cough - that wet, croupy cough that kickstarts too many bad memories - my heart stops beating for a moment. Is it just seasonal allergies? Is it more? ...Please, God, don’t let it be more. This machine is my security blanket, and I simply cannot give it up.

So here I sit, working from home while Gabe chills out, watching Netflix and playing video games. Jon is seeing physical therapy patients each day. He goes in and out of the hospital. He doesn’t get protective gear like other health workers. I’m so thankful for his professional, lifetime habits like strict handwashing. They’ll probably help save our son. Just as they’ve done through flu seasons and other illness outbreaks over the years.

I know this is a difficult time for everyone. More so for many. I’ll focus on one day at a time. Doing what I can to elevate others, spread some cheer, stay positive, be a barrier. I’ll let those above my pay grade focus on the future.

This could mean a fundamental shift in our society. Remember us after 9/11? Politicians from across the aisle holding hands and singing? People flocking to recruiting offices to join the military? Everyone hanging the Stars and Stripes from their front porch? The unity? The driving spirit that we were one as a nation?

Never forget, we’re told each year on the anniversary.

…It only took about five minutes for us to forget. Sure, we haven’t forgotten the images of the falling towers, the anger, the stories of heroism and of tragedy. But all that good will, all that “we are one,” all that help your neighbor stuff? Most people forgot entirely too quickly. It wasn’t long before America went back to the status quo of everyone out for himself.

The optimist in me hopes that when we walk out the other side of this - as survivors both physically and mentally - we’ll have learned our lesson.

That “never forget” actually means something this time.

That we, as a society, begin caring for the common good rather than just a privileged few.

Until then we’ll keep our distance, so that in the future we’ll finally - FINALLY - work together as one.