Familiar, but not normal.
The same tender touch I’ve grown accustomed to during 30 years together, a reach from his side of the bed in the wee hours, his fingers on my waist, just checking in. Three seconds, tops. Enough, though, to pull me from a sound sleep, eyes flicking open.
When our youngest son Carl was a child, he often would appear at my bedside in the night and crawl in for a cuddle. I would roll onto my side, pull him close, and return gratefully to sleep. But after he was diagnosed, at age 7, with acute lymphoblastic leukaemia, his nighttime visits sometimes signalled more than a bad dream. His compromised immune system showed itself with bouts of fever which could not be ignored. Many a night, when Carl crawled in close for comfort, the heat of his little body sent me searching for the thermometer. Anything above 37.5 C/99.5 F signalled a phone call to the pediatric oncology nursing station and, usually, urgent instructions to bring Carl directly to the hospital. I learned to pack overnight bags for Carl and for me as, depending on his blood counts, he was often admitted for several days of antibiotics and close observation.
I recognized fever in my husband’s light touch.
That morning he had eagerly joined the socially distanced queue at the walk-in clinic to wait for his AstraZeneca vaccine. Dean felt grateful for the opportunity, returning home afterward in high spirits. The reaction began mid-afternoon – violent, shaking chills, low-grade fever, fatigue. He took two Tylenol and crawled shivering into bed shortly after 7:00 p.m. Opening my iPad, I keyed in, “At what temperature is adult fever dangerous?” and read that one should contact the hospital at 39.4 C/103 F.
So at the 3:00 a.m. wake up call, I rolled from under the covers and pulled on my robe. I went downstairs to fill Dean’s water glass, woke him and sat him up in the dim room, encouraged him to drink. As always, he was a cooperative patient. He maneuvered the ear thermometer into place and pressed the button, waiting for the “beep” before passing it to me. I carried it into the lighted ensuite bathroom to read the sobering result – 39.2 C/102.5 F.
Was he feeling hot or cold in himself, I asked, and he said, hot, so it didn’t feel harsh to peel away the down quilt and sheets. In the bathroom I ran water from the faucet until it felt cool and soaked a facecloth, wringing out the excess. Dean sighed, grateful, for the cloth laid over his forehead. Walking through the dark house, I poured him a second glass of water and pressed a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol into his hot hand.
As he drank I sat on the edge of the mattress. I believe in the power of Extra Strength Tylenol, but I also believe somehow, mysteriously, in prayer. So for a few seconds I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and invited Jesus into our situation. In the gospels there are so many stories about folk bringing (sometimes carrying!) their loved ones to Jesus for healing. That night, in my imagination, I brought my sick man to Jesus. “Here he is,” I said in silent prayer. “Please care for him.” The room, and my chest, felt calm.
Then I soaked another cloth in cool water and pressed it onto Dean’s hot feet, onto his throat and chest, his hands. Back and forth I went between the bedside and the bathroom where the cool water poured from the faucet. We talked in quiet, nighttime tones about when we were children and about how our mothers had cared for us when we were ill, just this way, with cool facecloths and pink Bayer Children’s Aspirin that tasted like candy. Within about 30 minutes, when we took his temperature again, it had dropped to 38.6 C. He covered up with just a light blanket, a cloth still on his forehead, and we both went back to sleep.
Though Dean still had fever through the next day, it didn’t spike again into a danger zone, and by Friday morning he felt nearly himself again.
It may seem a story too simple to tell, but I feel thankful – first, that my husband was ill from the vaccine rather than the virus itself, and second, that somehow Jesus, mysteriously, had not left us alone in the night.
Darlene Pinter 
Beautiful. And I wish you were here. I’m sicker than a dog from Astra Zeneca which I got yesterday. I don’t think Brent can quite offer me what you are providing Dean, although he tries… K
Karen Stiller Writer, editor Author of “The Minister’s Wife: a memoir of faith, doubt, friendship, loneliness, forgiveness and more.” http://www.karenstiller.com
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Got mine this morning. We’ll see how it goes. Hope you recover soon!
Dean, Darlene,Evan, Emily, Carl brought to the Lord daily in prayer. God does hear and answer day and night. Thankful for His compassionate healing touch.
I just asked Brent if he could do that thing where you lay a damp facecloth on my forehead. And he said “sure, cold or hot?” What a dum dum. Then he offered to lay a cold can of beer across my forehead. Sigh. K
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Only one word to comment with.
Love. ❤️
Thanks Lisa
Another wonderful post, so full of feeling.
I remember those days with Chris’ leukaemia,. I swear I could measure his exact temperature by pressing my lips against his little bald head. I remember those moments so well – on good days and bad, kissing his sweet little 3 year old bald head and holding him tight against me. Our longest “fever for no particular reason” stay was a month. I remember we would wait each morning for his counts like it was the lottery winning numbers and squealing with delight and packing up in seconds to experience our freedom again when we hit that threshold! I say that, though, remembering that sometimes on a day visit home , Chris would whisper to me “don’t you think we should head back to the hospital?” He loved having me to himself with no cleaning, or dishes, or laundry to do – just endless snuggles, stories, video games and movies , snuggled up in his little hospital bed.
I’m so sorry that Dean had a trying reaction to the vaccine, but so happy he will be safe now, especially since he is a “first responder” of sorts, caring for his congregation.
Sue, thank you for sharing your own story. Who else but you can I swap leukaemia treatment stories with? Such a mix of anxiety, the hurt of watching your child in pain, and some really special, intimate memories of togetherness. Carl and I have a great memory of being admitted to the ward, a bed out in the main area with just curtains for privacy, and I suggested to Carl that he would enjoy a VHS video they had there, Home Alone 2. We got to the part where the kid is throwing bricks off the roof and Marv and – oh, the other guy – and Carl started to laugh so hard that he had to lay on the bed struggling to breathe. All the nurses in the unit were listening with smiles on their faces because it was wonderful to hear a child’s laugh fill the whole room.
Another wonderful post, so full of feeling.
I remember those days with Chris’ leukaemia,. I swear I could measure his exact temperature by pressing my lips against his little bald head. I remember those moments so well – on good days and bad, kissing his sweet little 3 year old bald head and holding him tight against me. Our longest “fever for no particular reason” stay was a month. I remember we would wait each morning for his counts like it was the lottery winning numbers and squealing with delight and packing up in seconds to experience our freedom again when we hit that threshold! I say that, though, remembering that sometimes on a day visit home , Chris would whisper to me “don’t you think we should head back to the hospital?” He loved having me to himself with no cleaning, or dishes, or laundry to do – just endless snuggles, stories, video games and movies , snuggled up in his little hospital bed.
I’m so sorry that Dean had a trying reaction to the vaccine, but so happy he will be safe now, especially since he is a “first responder” of sorts, caring for his congregation.
Ahhh Darlin, Such a sweet tender story! So glad Dean is better, and you could be there to comfort him! Such a tender story. Love you Darlin!
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Darlene – thanks for this reminder that Jesus is always, lovingly present. When the situation might not seem an enormous ordeal to an outsider, it IS when it’s you in the middle of the night in the middle of a pandemic and Jesus gets it. I needed this reassurance today.
Oh dear Darlene, What a reflection of love and care and grace. Thank you so much. It is beautiful and poignant and filled with grace. I am so thankful with you and Dean that all has resolved. Blessings today as you do your work. I am off very soon to get my vaccination. They have brought a clinic to our small community, so the whole Island will hopefully be done in the next two days. We’re today and the Wilkinson’s are tomorrow. Much love, Sherri
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Sherri, you are so generous. Thank you. I got my vaccine yesterday, so felt a little off last night and today, but improving. Glad to hear that everyone on the island can get theirs.
Beautifully written Darlene. And so thankful Dean is now better. We had Pfizer and had no side effects, but I know everyone is different. I remember your ordeal with leukemia. How wonderful that is so successfully behind all of you.
BTW if I ever get ill, I want a wife like you!!
Sheila x
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Thank you Sheila! You and Viv were always so supportive and encouraging. Love you both.
I talked with Dean yesterday, so happy he and you are feeling better now. You have such a wonderful ability to write an express yourself feelings. We are so lucky to have you both in Moose Jaw at St Aidan. Blessings.
Thank you Leona for taking care of us so generously.
Thank you, Darlene. This is beautifully written.