The connection between a mother and her child is mystical. As I lay next to my sick daughter listening to the coughs racking her body, I begin to feel as if I can cough for her. I feel my chest tighten, and I cough with a strange sensation that doing so helps her respire. I clear my own throat to the sounds of the rattle in hers. I can't help it...I can't not do it. It has been predetermined in my genetic code to act this way. I am a mother.
At times the connection feels physical. A ghoast umbilicus. A tug in the center of my abdomen; somewhere very deep.
In times past, when Nixon was having breathing difficulties, I would feel my own respirations become shallow. I would wheeze along with him, both of us sitting up at 2:00 am wheezing away like a couple of old accordians.
It is 4:18. Normally I would be rising for work soon, but not today. The alarm has been turned off. My sick daughter lies next to me, the syrup and the Vicks have begun their duty and the time between her coughs extends. Her breaths regulate and she drifts off to sleep.
I lay awake wondering if when she is older if I will still feel the tug. When she calls home from university with a frog in her throat, will I still clear mine? If she coughs from accross the world will I have ghoast coughs? Does the signal strength fade with distance...with time?
I close my eyes. I decide to sleep, knowing that at least for now the signal strength is excellant.