Strong and Vulnerable

Six days of this coughing, of this barking and gasping. 

A doctor listens to her lungs and says that it may linger.

That's all. 

It may linger.  

Rest and drink water. 

Through illness, the seven-year-old child learns that she is both strong and vulnerable. She learns that she must surrender to slowness and stillness. For when she doesn't, when she moves too quickly or too suddenly, she succumbs to rattling fits of hoarse wailing. 

She wants to be close. She wants peppermint tea with honey. She wants to wedge her slender body into the folds of the couch. 

We must surrender to her illness. We must remember patience and resilience.  We must remember that we are both strong and vulnerable.  

She remembers that she abhors medicine. Last night, it took one hour, two spills, gagging, weeping, and a full mug of tea for her to drink a doll-sized cup of cough syrup.  And she doesn't even get it all down. 

This morning, she bellows big wet growls from her bed. 

Oh, my darling. I'll put the kettle on.