My mother, my self

Yesterday was a rough day for Raja.  First of all, he woke up from a night of fitful sleep due to congestion.  He woke up a dozen plus times in the night, screaming and arching his back in frustration, needing to nurse, or have his nose cleaned out, or simply be held upright so he could sleep.  So he(we) started the day tired and cranky.  Then through two separate incidents, he ended up with a deep abrasion on his nose, and another cut and swelling above his eye, both very painful.  Each time, he bawled and reached out his little arms to me for solace.

When he went to sleep in the afternoon I looked at his battered little face and cried.  Yes, I cried because my son had "owies."  Not the first nor the last of many childhood owies.  I knew how hard the day must have been for him.  I remembered his anguished little wails and his heaving sobs, and how I just wished so badly I could take the pain away from him.  In the evening, after a few naps, lots of cuddles and love, he was back to his normal self.  The runny nose was nearly gone, the battle scars evident but beginning to heal, and most importantly, my happy grinning playful Raj was back.  And I was so relieved to see him laughing and playing and happy that I had to fight back tears for the second time that day.

I have experienced empathy many times in my life.  I have felt sorrow for the suffering of others, but the intense desire to endure heartbreak a thousand times worse if it meant I could somehow remove my child's pain - that's different.  For me, it is a physical ache at least as powerful as hunger or exhaustion.

When I was pregnant with Jaya, one night I had some visual disturbances.  We went to the emergency room, and after a series of exams, more disturbing diagnoses like stroke were ruled out, and we discovered I had corneal injuries.  These were extremely painful but not harmful in any way to the baby inside my body.  I had kept my mom apprised of the situation.  When I told her of the diagnosis, the relief I heard in her voice mirrored my own.

For the next 72 hours, I was in a lot of pain and I couldn't see.  Marei cared for me tenderly, and I recovered.  The next week I flew to NY as planned to see my mom and family.  We went to visit my mom's workplace.  One of her close friends and co-workers told me a story about the previous week.  She explained how my mother had come in to work, obviously shaken and disturbed.  She told me how she found my mother in her office, crying, because of my illness.  I figured out that episode was after my diagnosis.   I blithely laughed at my dear mom, and said to her, "You knew I was fine!  You're a nurse!  I didn't have a stroke or anything - it was just painful, not dangerous!"  She smiled briefly and shook her head, and the subject was dropped.  Little did I know how another three months would change my perspective of this day forever.

Like my mother, I am an extremely practical type.  While I am a worrier and deeply emotional, I rarely waste time worrying about things I cannot control or change.  In emergencies, my mind immediately goes to the most logical and practical next step and doesn't usually waste a moment on sentiment.  But mother love transcends practicality and reason.  It did not matter much that I knew Raja was okay, that I knew his wounds would heal, he would catch up on sleep, and his nose would stop running.  Like my mother that day in her office, all that mattered in the moment was that my baby was in pain and there was no way to take that pain completely away from him the way I yearned to do.  I do not wish to sound ungrateful - I am so very grateful because the moments of pain my children have experienced thus far are few and far between, and we are so blessed to have avoided any serious illness thus far.  I cannot imagine the pain a mother endures when her child's pain has more consequence than the pain itself.  I believe that there is a higher purpose and reason for the pain and tragedy we endure in this life, in any degree, and at any age.  In all practicality, when I reason it out, I don't want to take all pain away from my children for the rest of their lives because I believe it is there for a vital purpose - to help them to grow. That, however, doesn't change that intense mother love empathy - it doesn't change my instinct and desire as a mother to shield my children from pain and it does not mitigate the sadness I feel during the moments they endure it.  

That day in my mom's office later came to serve as a reminder of one of the most profound things I have learned since becoming a mother.  I think of that day and I think, "Now I know how much my mother loves me."