Snakes, elevators and a life-threatening illness—letting go of fear for the sake of my son
Nauseous, my heart racing and my legs shaking, I attempt to remain neutral in front of my son as we watch a slim creature slither across the pavement before us. Turning the stroller towards the small garter snake gliding across the warm cement, I resist every urge in my body to scream and run away. Instead, I encourage my 18-month-old son to observe the snake as it disappears into the field beside us. I shudder and quickly push the stroller past the field, while my son motions for “more, more.” It is the first time he has seen a snake. I’m disgusted and he is in awe. As a new mother, I have become acutely aware of the fact my anxieties, my fears and my traumas are not his—so we stroll on.
As we continue on our brisk walk, the cool, fall air greets us. The bright sun illuminates the gold speckled fields, the orange of the changing leaves and the blue mountains before us. My son turns his head, swiveling from side to side, as we walk through our neighborhood. He smiles and claps at the geese flying overhead and the garbage truck that grumbles by.
At 30 years old, my view of the world is shaped by past experiences but for him everything is new. He is a blank slate, and I vow to only influence him for the better, knowing I will fail. I will undoubtedly pass on undesirable character traits, anxieties, fears or traumas—but I will attempt to limit this.
Our snake encounter is an exercise in self control and mindful parenting. It is my fear, passed on from my own mother, and one I hope to eliminate from the family line. While a fear of snakes is inconvenient, I am far more concerned with my son’s propensity towards perfection. As a first born daughter, fear of failure has been the greatest driving force in my life and I don’t wish the same for my son. I want him to know the value in failure, to take calculated risks and to seek self validation. I want him to seek his interests and passions without seeking simultaneous reward or praise for doing so, but simply because it brings him joy.
It’s ironic I want to encourage fearlessness in my 18-month-old, as I am almost always consumed by small anxieties and fears, but perhaps this is to shield him from my daily pain. After coming out of a near-death experience, every day seems like a practice in risk mitigation. While my son is too young to notice, one day he will start to ask about that time mommy was sick or why his mommy can’t be like the other mommies.
At seven months postpartum, I was diagnosed with a rare life threatening autoimmune disorder, called aplastic anemia. My bone marrow failed and I was hospitalized for two months, completely separated from my son. Having undergone immunosuppressive therapy, I am on the road to recovery. That said, I continue to take immune suppressing medication and remain susceptible to infection.
Throughout my near-death experience, I often felt I was fighting my medical team and not my illness. Placed in positions that would impact my health and future, I ferociously advocated for myself through battles with insurance, large pharmacies and arrogant medical staff. The painful blood draws, beeping monitors and sterile hospital environment still haunts me.
A fact I was acutely aware of as my son underwent a routine surgery to repair an inguinal hernia. As my past experiences reared their ugly head, I continually reminded myself my experience was not his experience. I remained positive and optimistic throughout his outpatient procedure, explaining to my toddler the importance of each step in an attempt to empower him. I swallowed my own fears, slapped a smile across my face and remained by his side throughout the day.
Though my circumstances are unconventional, I am not so different from other mothers. We are all attempting to do better than those before us, to heal our own traumas and to give our children the best start in life. It is my deepest wish to shield my son from the shadows of my past and to nurture a path for him to create his own story. I carry the weight of my own trauma and experiences, but I strive to be a beacon of strength and support. As my son writes his own chapters, he should be free of my scars. Whether it be snakes, needles, elevators, doctors, parking garages or failure—he should be free to embrace his own future.
So, we stroll on, knowing the path ahead is wondrously and terrifyingly unpredictable.
