Fever

Diane Burley

Word Count 768

 

Mom was on the couch shivering under a blanket.

I felt her forehead. She was hot. 

“I think you are running a fever. I’ll grab the thermometer.”


It was one more twist in a surreal weekend. 

I was 26 and living in Manhattan. Dad had flown to a furniture show, John? was in college, Chris? in Boston, and I didn’t want Mom home alone. 

The prior year, during our weekly phone calls, I had sensed something was different. It’s funny what you hear when you can’t see. 

“I just don’t feel good,” Mom sobbed. 

She was 52, and her voice sounded nothing like the woman I knew. Mom was never tentative; she was skilled at weaponizing anxiety. She was sharp and could be bitingly critical. I was highly sensitive to her remarks. (Were they as bad as I remember, or was it me?)

“Have you been to a doctor?”

“He told me it was ‘empty nesting’ and ‘change of life’. Maybe I am out of shape, “I’ll add another aerobics class.”

I called my uncle Tom, a doctor.

“Something isn’t right with her -- can you stop by the house?”


Tom did stop by, and recommended she see a hematologist – who took one look and sent her to the hospital. She was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL). 

When the diagnosis was determined, Mom, being a nurse, knew the prognosis was horrible. And she struggled to tolerate treatment. On my birthday in May, she didn’t know who I was. At risk of stroke, they ceased treatment. 

Though treatment was abbreviated, Mom experienced a brief remission. She and Dad came to see me in New York and went on to see Chris in Boston. Her hair even started coming in again. 

But by October she was once again weepy on the phone. I wasn’t certain – but I knew. I flew home to keep her company.

After being dropped off at the house, I climbed the stairs to surprise her. I saw her through the wrought iron railing – she was standing in front of the bathroom mirror inspecting her hands. And she was crying. 

As I entered, she turned to show me; her knuckles were bleeding. 

“It’s back,” she sobbed.

We hugged, I struggled not to cry.

Trying to lighten the mood, I made her favorite meal – lobster tails and Chablis. Situated on the couch, I set up TV trays for our dinner. I’d like to say she ate with gusto. But honestly, I can’t recall. What I remember most is the urgency.

I pummeled her with my insecurities.“Were you proud of us?” 

“Of course, I was!” 


“But you never spoke about us to friends or family when they bragged about their kids.”

“I thought they were boorish to talk about their kids like that.” 

“Do you have any regrets?” 

“I worried too much about having dinner on the table on time instead of playing with you kids.”

Her faith and worrying about doing what was expected of her (and us) was what defined her. But on that day, something was different. A very religious woman, I saw a defiance in her about “those men in Italy telling women what to do” when it came to birth control. I don’t remember why the subject came up. 

I wanted the conversation to continue. But she grew tired. When she awoke, she had a fever. She took some Tylenol and asked me to call the doctor. 

“What is her temp, right now?” the office asked.

“101.2.”

“If it hits 102, you need to take her to the hospital.”

Mom hated the hospital. 

“We need to get your fever down, “ I told her. ” I’ll run a cool bath.” 

Cool baths were one of the many life lessons growing up a nurse’s daughter. I hated them as a child and felt a level of guilt I didn’t know possible for having to inflict it on her. 

Together, we waged war against the fever: fluids, Tylenol, rest, and cool compresses on pulse points. It came down to just below 100 and we felt like victors. But it was just a respite, simmering until it would once again reach a boil. 

As it crept north, I began the compresses sooner. Another bath. She was exhausted but I was determined not to lose; 

I would not be the one to take her back to the hospital.

Morning came. I won. 

Though I knew the victory would be short lived. I so wish it hadn’t taken 25 years to meet the woman I spoke with that night.  

My ride arrived to take me to the airport. As Mom and I hugged, I felt tears, but swallowed every one of them until my stomach hurt. 

Diane is a writer, former journalist, and digital publisher whose essays appear in HerStry and on her Substack, Musings of a Storyteller. She is at work on a creative nonfiction book about Leonora Kearney Barry Lake, one of the first women to hold a national executive position in the American labor movement. A mother of two grown sons, she lives in New Jersey with her husband Tim, and Max, their elderly and overachieving dog.