March, which has been a rough month for the past many years, has finally gone. Unfortunately, it left a reminder of our vulnerability (or its power) in its wake. On the final day of the month, I was on the phone with a Kaiser physician describing the backslide in my son’s illness of 2+ weeks. Similar to last year, where he came down with pneumonia on March 19th, it appears that the month of March it out for him. It is almost as if it is a reminder to slow down and honor the grief process — as if we weren’t already aware. 

Our annual going out to dinner, just YaYa and me, to honor Tom’s passing did not occur on the 21st this year. YaYa was sick, having to take a couple of days off from school. A few days later, after the worst of it appeared to be over, he returned to his routine. I watched him wear himself down trying to catch up and raise his grades back up to a reasonable level. Late nights completing homework are the norm around here. I thank God that he loves his school and is willing to do the work. Unfortunately, his body needed him to rest. And here we are, on our second antibiotic with little to no improvement in the 5 days he’s been on them. 

Morning and evening, I hover over him with the meds, fluids, the thermometer, and my stethoscope. I attempt to flush the mucus from his nasal cavity with the netti pot and shake it free from his lungs by percussing his back and chest with my cupped hands. My wrists and triceps ache. I’ve been feeling the discomfort more and more in my yoga practice. I am diligent in my efforts but it falls short of the healing I desire. I try not to let the memories of a similar hovering and disappointment (7 years past) get stimulated. This is different. I know. Nobody is dying. We are alive and this is just a part of life. These moments, good and bad, make our lives palpable and teach us to appreciate one another and life itself — on a good day. I am thankful I’ve come to appreciate it again.

After my feeble attempt to nurse my son back to health, I step onto my mat to begin my yoga practice. As always, I put my focus on my breath, inhaling and exhaling as full and slowly as I possibly can. The emotions come flooding in the drown out my focus and my lungs feel tight and restrictive. Distraction, always distractions. Yesterday, it was at the end of my practice; the tears came pouring out in savasana. I let them be, watched the worry of YaYa’s illness not improving coupled by rumors of BoBo’s deployment coming to an end. I won’t let myself breath even a sigh of relief until he is safely out of there. *groan* Is it any wonder why my breathing is restrictive? 

I try to push it all off and do my practice but, today, I just give up. I’m a fool: an April Fool. Telling myself that I will do practice later, I wonder if I will let something else get in the way. I move my mat to the wall, finalize my taxes, and write. YaYa comes into my room. I percuss him one more time, have him take deep, deep breaths and cough as hard as he can. I inspect the byproduct of our collective efforts. Light brown, instead of dark. *sigh* The sky opens up, rain falls, and I smile. We’re going to be okay.

[knock wood]