Moonlit Cough

One sound wakes me with dread. Fear, sure…loud bumps in the night, lingering childhood nightmares, or cracks of thunder vibrating the windows. Disgust, yes…a wet bed or the sound of a retching child. But dread is different. It implies foreboding. Most children remember this sound differently; it’s such a funny thing to bark like a seal. So empowering to make a realistic animal noise; to no longer sound human. To my ears now, it’s grating. My boys have an affinity for croup. A virus causing swelling of their tiny airways, resulting in a strained whistling breath and hollow barking cough. I remember having it often as a child too. I remember it being funnier.

There is a decision to make; to strap your toddler, his footie jammies, and his cough into his car seat and drive to the emergency room or to let the cool night air work its magic. In the emergency room, experts illuminated by flickering lights will create clouds of epinephrine that will ease the swelling in the tiny airway. It works so quickly. It’s lovely and miraculous. Your anxiety eases as your child’s anxiety rises. The best treatment for croup is found behind those doors.

The cold night air holds a home remedy for those little ones whose cough is harrowing, but they are not struggling to breathe. They become the moonlit coughs that add to the midnight din. Odd as it sounds to bundle a sick child and take them outside on a cold night, it works. With each breath they take, the swelling recedes and they begin to sound more human. To you it is a stressful few hours, chilling in more than one way. To them, it is a grand adventure.

To be outdoors at midnight? To peer up at the stars when the world is asleep? To hear the echo of a faraway train whistle traveling on the winter wind…magic. Gazing out into the darkness, you count their breaths while they croak to you about the bright moonlight and dark dark sky. They are no longer thinking of moments before when they were afraid in their room, trying to catch a breath between coughs. Nope, they are transfixed by a world transformed, one not often seen by small children.

“Da tar, da tar! Da moon, da moon! Wook momma, wook, da wight binking! Whass dat sound? Where da sun go? Where Daddy? Where brudder? Why dey seeping?” The excitement is palpable if not contagious.

I have been the mother in the ambulance, anxiously watching my wee one breathing as he asks “where da siren, momma? I hear it! Where da wights flashin?!” I have been the nurse on the other end; caring for those whose croup has gotten the better of them in the intensive care unit. I have been the mother bundled on the front porch, absorbing the weight of toddlerhood in my lap. Being ill is a social currency when you are small. Your friends share their love in hugs and slobbers alike. Coughs and sneezes are a universal language. It is a right of passage, building an immune system. Of late this has become of greater interest to the rest of the world too. A glimpse, if you will, back into toddlerhood, where your playground is a Petri dish, unless you are isolated. As many of us have discovered, isolation is a bitter burden not designed for humans. We too are choosing the playground and realizing something the toddlers knew all along.

Excellent midnight reads with sick toddlers:

“Baa-Choo!” by Sarah Weeks

“Don’t You Feel Well, Sam?” by Amy Hest