I.
To think, a mere two weeks ago I was happily adjusting to a new/old routine, reviewing the proper cleaning and field assembly of a Dr. Brown’s bottle like an infantryman with his rifle, and relearning the subtle difference in pitch between the “I’m hungry” screech and the “I’m dirty” wail. It was a comforting return to the days when all problems had a tangible solution–a little formula here, a little wipe there–instead of the Alice in Wonderland insanity of dealing with a manic-depressive schizophrenic, otherwise known as a normal three-and-a-half-year-old.
I should know by now from these last three years that nothing ever goes as planned, and that the Sadie Revolution wouldn’t go as expected either. Now that things have calmed down after her arrival, I had intended to spend the first few weeks knocking off various chores and projects shoved onto the back burner during all the excitement. But Carter managed to pick up a stomach bug along the way, which, long story short, ended up with me cleaning up copious amounts of vomit from his bed Monday night. I should also know better, especially after reading Steven Johnson’s The Ghost Map, an account of the 1854 cholera epidemic in London that sparked our modern understanding of how disease spreads, that by doing so, I had doomed myself to the same fate.
The bug laid in wait until the next night, multiplying its strength like a hurricane bearing down on a poor Gulf Coast community. Then, as I watched Simon Baker hustling his wiles on the premiere of “The Mentalist” on CBS, I said, “Boy, that lasagna isn’t going down well.” I’ll spare the gory details, but imagine taking a water balloon and squeezing it in the middle until it bursts at both ends. That was my body, suffering from a list of symptoms that makes one of those TV drug ad disclaimers seem concise. Forget routines, I could barely lift my cramping, nauseated body out of bed to wring itself out again and again, let alone care for anyone else. Once again, my best laid plans had ended up down the rabbit hole.
II.
It’s fitting that the same week my insides liquefied, the economy did the same. The similarities between the onset of my stomach flu and the impending collapse of the US financial system were uncanny: the initial shock and sudden upheaval, followed by wave after wave of bad news, followed by persistent nausea and dread.
Fortunately, I had a responsible adult around to take care of me. Debbie was downright heroic that first night, waking up with the baby, plying me with Gatorade and Tylenol, and getting up the next day to walk the dog and see Carter off to school. I couldn’t have asked any more of her; quick, decisive action borne out of love and an understanding of responsibility.
As I laid in bed the next day watching hours of cable news against my better judgment, I expected to see some adults taking the same kind of responsibility for the economy. But instead I watched House Republicans short-circuit the bailout deal to uphold their conservative ideological views, a scared, lame-duck president who could do nothing to convince them otherwise, and a presidential candidate playing reckless politics with a cheap stunt that left even the most seasoned Washington observers slack-jawed with disbelief. The queasiness from my stomach flu was simply amplified by watching such self-serving bungling.
III.
We use the word “flux” to describe situations that are changing. “The economy is in a state of flux,” one might say, generously. Ironically, the word flux used to describe the particularly gruesome symptoms of dysentery. In Alex Haley’s Roots, the “bloody flux” strikes the slave ship carrying Kunta Kinte to America, spreading to slaves and captors alike so viciously that one of the sailors has to man the ship while standing in a tub to catch his own mess.
My life has been in flux lately, though thankfully in the more modern sense of “continuous change.” Carter started full-time preschool. We had a new baby. I’m starting graduate school again in a week. And now my family’s livelihood in the real estate industry is threatened by collapsing credit markets. After last week, that word flux may be taking on more of its original connotation again.
IV.
Last Thursday morning, two days after I got sick, we feared Debbie had caught the bug too. She hustled up to bed, leaving me to perform the same single-handed family orchestration that she had the day before. As it turned out, she never reached the toilet-abusing depths that I did, but Carter didn’t know this when he headed off to school that morning.
On our walk to school, he started complaining that his toe hurt. He wanted me to carry him. It’s an old trick of his, and I said no. He persisted, and I became more frustrated. “What, do you want to just turn around and go back home?” I finally said.
“Yes!” he wailed, and burst into tears. I managed to calm him down and get him to class, but he broke down two more times on the way. Once at school, I finally understood the problem. “Are you worried about Mommy?” I said.
The waterworks started again, this time sobbing into my shoulder when I picked him up. “When’s Mommy going to feel better?” he said.
I’d forgotten that Carter’s life has been in flux too, even more so than mine. A new sister, a new school, a new routine, and now two days in a row, he had seen both of his parents fall ill and retreat to bed. He was afraid all the responsible adults were abandoning him too.