When the fever spikes, and the pediatrician calls back, and I just know we are headed to Boston again, sometimes it isn't the fear for J. that overwhelms me, but the sadness of time lost. Because every trip here means days apart from my husband and my teenagers. Days that I don't get to sit and watch movies with them, days that they aren't sharing funny Facebook pictures with me, and days when my husband sleeps on the couch because our bed is too lonely. Sometimes those days inevitably fall on important events. This week, our oldest daughter is heading of on her very first ocean scuba diving trip...an amazing accomplishment and a big step towards her future goal of studying marine biology. And I'm missing the "what do I pack" and "can I borrow her shoes" and the assorted drama that comes with an unknown adventure. This week, my son is continuing to come to terms with the severe injury sustained by his friend, and the fact that she now faces months of rehab. And I'm not there to listen, or explain, or even just keep him from hiding out in his room where worry doesn't have to be shared. School starts in about 10 days...and I'm not there to check schedules and find textbooks online and remind them about summer reading. And there is no way to resolve the fact that texts and 10 minute phone calls -- most of them spent bitching about doctors or stressing over treatment plans-- don't count much in terms of connecting with your spouse.
And so I worry, and I wait, and I fight off the loneliness and isolation. And I hope that, when we get back, there will be time enough to make up for the days and weeks spent away.
