Anxious

February 12th, 2024

Our little grandson, Asher, is asleep. He is lying in the bed, breathing loudly because he has a head cold. I just gave him a warm bottle of oat milk a little while ago. He woke up thirsty, and after drinking the bottle, he got tired and dozed off again.

Asher has more than a cold. He probably has pink eye. Yesterday his eyes were slightly swollen and reddish. The right eye had a small amount of yellowish discharge. He seemed to have no pain or discomfort. My wife and I decided to wait until this morning to get him in to see his pediatrician, rather than drag him to urgent care or an emergency room.

Yet, I feel anxious. We are his fulltime caregivers, and we worry about the boy like he was our own son. I feel sure that we won’t have a problem getting to see his doctor, and the pediatrician will probably prescribe some kind of antibiotic to clear up the eye trouble. It’s just that we care about the little guy, and we don’t like to see him sick. I will feel much better when we know what is wrong with him, and how we can fix it.

I also feel exceedingly fortunate. I can take Asher to his doctor’s office, which is fifteen minutes way from our house, and quickly get him treatment. Other people in other parts of the world can’t do that. Parents in Gaza have no chance of getting medical care for their kids. They can only comfort their children on their own and hope for the best. The fact that I have help readily available for Asher and families in Gaza do not seems fundamentally unjust. Why are we the lucky ones?

I need to check on Asher.