By Jenn Norrell
@jenn.norrell

I can tell from my husband’s breathing that he is awake. I wish that I wasn’t. I wish I could skip this morning, that the call we got last night never came. As I roll over, I untangle little fingers from my hair and see my daughter’s eyes flutter open. Her face breaks into a smile as she springs up between Adam and me.

“Mama, it’s Tuesday right? I am so excited to go play with my friends today!” I am not excited. We are not going to play today. Her face and body are like a tiny pinball machine lit up and vibrating. My husband and I exchange a glance. Then he closes his eyes. I know I need to take the lead.

“Hey Idgie,” I say, “I know you are so super excited to go play today, but we have to reschedule for another day.” She stares at me blankly, so I keep talking. “Pepaw is in the hospital, and we need to leave this morning to drive to Alabama to be with him. He is really, really sick.” 

Slowly her stare morphs into a wrinkly chin and pink cheeks. Her brow furrows and I know she is trying hard to hold back the tears. Before I can say anything else, she flings her body onto mine and wails, “I don’t want to go see Pepaw! I want to see my friends!” Then the sobs begin.

I rub circle patterns on her back and send shushes to her ears, tears forming in my own eyes. Words full of explanation tumble out of my mouth in an attempt to help her understand the gravity of her grandfather’s sickness. Adam gets out of bed. I fight the urge to cry.

***

I rush around the cabin, packing everything we might need for a hotel stay of unknown length: clothes, toiletries, chargers, and way too many devices. I stop near Idgie’s craft table to debate the need for art supplies.The dog! We have to bring the dog and all of her things. It is then that I notice Adam looking at our daughter. He has let his coffee grow cold in his hands while she sulks over her lost playdate, still, an hour after breaking the news. He and I lock eyes, he reaches for my hand and I guide him into our bedroom.

I plop down on our unmade bed and motion for him to cozy up next to me with a pat of my hand and a smile. It feels important to take a minute to connect in the chaos and emotions of this morning. As he sinks in next to me his hand finds mine and I give a gentle squeeze. 

 “I don’t get why she is more upset about missing a playdate than my dad being in the hospital. I mean, really, it’s just a playdate.”

I can see the sadness and frustration in my husband’s eyes and it stops me from blurting out a reaction. I bite my lip, not knowing the best words to use. In this moment I feel like anything I say will add to his sadness.

“She’s four. I think it’s pretty normal for a kid her age to feel that way. I know it’s hard, but try not to take it personally, babe. She just doesn’t get it. If she did she wouldn’t have responded that way, right?”

“I know,” he breathes. He hugs me and I can feel his body begin to shake in silent sorrow.

***

“She’s finally asleep,” I say as I close the door to the hotel bedroom. I sit down on the stiff, green couch, tuck my feet under me and rest my head on Adam’s shoulder. We sit in silence for a few minutes, neither of us really wanting to have the discussion we know is inevitable.

“So what should we do?” he asks. “Do we want Idgie to be at the hospital? To go in and see him?”

I shrug and sigh, waiting for the words to come, but they don’t until I force them.

“I don’t know,” I admit. 

“Me neither, but what do you think?” he says, turning to look at me. I can see the exhaustion on his face and I feel the need to know what we should do so he doesn’t have to. I wish all of those times someone told me I would be a natural at parenting meant I wouldn’t have so many questions in this moment. How much do we shelter Idgie from pain, hers and ours? How do we decide how much sadness is too much sadness? How do we know we are making the right choice?

“She’s so sensitive. I don’t know if she could handle seeing your dad hooked up to all those machines and not looking like her Pepaw. I don’t know...I mean on the other hand, she understands things better when she can see them and she says she wants to see him, but she’s four, so ...”

I pause for a moment and try to arrange my thoughts into something coherent, something helpful. I know I'm rambling, but my words seem to parallel my feelings: jumbled and pressured.

“I don't really want Idgie to see your Dad as anything but her happy Pepaw but I ...if this is her last chance. Ugh! I don’t know. I don't want to make the wrong decision. And I also don't want to leave you on your own.”

We sit again in silence, leaning into each other, feeling each other’s weight.

“What do you think, babe?” I say.

“I don’t want Idgie to see my dad this way. And I don't think he would either. I know he wouldn't.” And with those words, I feel the weight of Adam’s body lift from mine. I feel the lightness that comes with clarity.

***

Idgie and I walk through the art museum. We stop and watch a video on how to make African pottery, twice. We admire the vibrant Chihuly and go in search of Native American art per Idgie’s request. I find myself smiling at her enthusiasm and interest, remembering walking through countless art museums with my parents in my childhood. I almost allow myself to forget the reason she and I are here, and why Adam isn’t. I take a breath, trying not to let the guilt seep too far in, trying not to second-guess our decision.

“Mama, I bet Pepaw would like this one,” Idgie says pointing to a traditional Native American headdress. “Remember when he went with us to the Cherokee museum? Maybe we can bring him over here when he gets better.” Her smile is genuine and full of hope.

“Maybe,” I say, barely loud enough for her to hear me.

We’ve been in Birmingham for a few days now. Idgie and I drop Adam off at the hospital each morning before heading out for a day of exploring new places, returning to the hospital at the end of the day to pick him up. A few days ago I felt confident in our decision to distance Idgie from the realities of ICUs, hospital waiting rooms, and death. To allow her to process the situation without the harsh visuals and grown-up decisions. But today--today I am not so sure. Today I worry she views this trip as another adventure while her Papa sits and watches his dad die. Today I worry that by supporting her I am not giving him enough. Today I worry I am not enough.

I am torn between two places. Between two people. No decision feels right.

***

We go round and round on the parking deck, up and up with each turn. In the back seat, Idgie belts out a John Denver song and I turn up the volume to drown out my sadness. We score a parking spot on the fifth floor, head down the elevator to the second floor only to walk through a maze of halls to take another elevator back up to floor five. Why are hospitals so complicated? As we feel the rumble of the elevator, I hold Idgie’s hand while she softly sings, “Friends I will remember you, think of you, pray for you.” 

The doors open. I see Adam before he sees us. He is wearing the pain of hard decisions and one-sided goodbyes. His shoulders bear the weight of them. 

I pull Idgie to the side and bend down. “Remember, Papa is really sad.” 

“Because Pepaw died … and Papa is going to miss him?” she asks with a look of concern on her face.

“That’s right.” As I say this, she spots Adam over my shoulder, her hand drops mine and she points in his direction. “There he is, Mama. Let’s go.” She grabs my hand again and I allow her to take the lead. She immediately winds her small body around my husband’s leg, pulling me close. “Family hug,” she says, looking up at both of us.

Adam smiles and tousles Idgie’s hair. “I love you guys,” he says.

“I hate that I couldn’t be here for you, babe.” I say, squeezing my little family tighter.

He immediately starts shaking his head. “Don’t, babe, you were right where I needed you to be. Always.”

“I love you,” I say allowing myself to cry.

Guest essay written by Jenn Norrell. Jenn lives & travels full-time in an Airstream travel trailer with her daughter and husband. When she's not homeschooling or out exploring a new place, you can find her with a cup of tea in hand while reading, baking, or rediscovering her creativity through writing. She has a love/hate relationship with Instagram and occasionally writes on her blog. 

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