at Cheeks has bronchiolitis.
"It's the worst thing for a premie to get," the woman who runs the foster home tells us at the terrifically boring staff meeting. "Most of them don't survive it."
I don't know what bronchiolitis is, and I don't learn either, because even though I am upset by the information, the woman has a voice as exciting as a communion wafer, and as she reads from a textbook I am thinking about the guy I want to call me later today and whether he will call me and I wonder what he's doing for New Year's because really, I don't have any plans yet and SHIT, SHIT I'm not listening. Yes, bronchiolitis is bad. It's bad for the baby. Must be careful with the baby. Wash your hands before and after.
I'm not always good at this job.
Later, I feed Fat Cheeks and even though I don't know what bronchiolitis is, I can tell you that it makes you snore like Uncle Walter on the couch after too much egg nog. It is so much work for Fat Cheeks to breathe. It hurts me to hear him breathe, all snot and gurgle. I am thinking about that and then I am thinking about the guy that I want to call me when, suddenly, Fat Cheeks' eyes pop open, like a cartoon fish, and his body arcs in my arms and his oxygen monitor starts beeping and I think for a moment OH SHIT, SHIT I didn't even listen at the meeting they probably explained all this. But it just lasts a second. He settles back down, his big squishy head just lolling against my chest and his eyes closed to the world as he sucks on the bottle.
He falls asleep quickly, as if the day has been a great deal of work.
I go home and can't sleep.