Lose what is important: Creative Nonfiction

That Wednesday is etched in my memory as one of the strangest and most stressful days of my life.

My last son Miguel was two years old. He was, like all the babies in my family, a super spoiled baby.

After a morning of teaching I had lunch with my family. I fed Miguel, bathed him, put him in a pyjamas with cute kitten designs and put him to bed for a nap.

From my mother's house I inherited the habit of napping. I lay down thinking that I would take a forty-minute nap. As a professor of social research, I was obliged to attend a round table on the theme of "Life Stories". I was very interested - and excited - to attend the discussion, because the topic opened up possibilities for the development of undergraduate projects for sociology students in the field of qualitative research. In this way, we could break out of the rigid patterns of social research that had been used in the Sociology Department until then. I thought that meeting would be the most important thing I would do that day. I was wrong.

I opened my eyes at half past two in the afternoon. As I was getting dressed I was startled by the silence in the room. I automatically asked:

"Miguel hasn't woken up?"
"No, let him sleep a little longer." Said my husband.

"Well, yes, I'd better take it easy," I said, and concentrated on finishing sorting out the materials I would be taking to the university.

I left my room at three o'clock. I had enough time to arrive punctually. The appointment was at 3.30 p.m. Professors from other universities in the country were coming. It was not right for me to be late.

"Is Miguel still asleep?" I asked at the door, my car keys in my hands.

"Apparently he is!" My husband said.

I furrowed my brow, something wasn't right.

I headed towards Miguel's room. I opened the door. A cold spasm came to my stomach. The baby was not in his bed.

I searched my husband's gaze for an explanation.

"She must have changed beds." He said as he opened the other rooms and lifted toys from between the bed sheets.

I went back to my room. Everyone knows how fond little boys are of mommy's bed, but Miguel wasn't there either.

"He must be with the cat in the yard!" said my husband.

We went out through the kitchen. I called out his name in the hope that he would answer me as soon as possible. He didn't answer. We went to the courtyard. He was not there. The seconds that passed seemed like minutes and the minutes seemed like hours. We went to a side garden, back to the kitchen, back to the living room, and back to the bedrooms. Certain that he wasn't in the house, we went out to the car park, checked the front yard. Miguel was not there.

With my heart in indescribable anguish, we checked the locks on the house's protective gates. Everything was fine. My husband opened the gate to the house and I stepped out into the middle of the street. I looked from left to right. I had a crazy hope of seeing him coming towards me, walking.

My husband came out with me. My neighbour asked me if I was looking for Cato, our cat. I replied in a whisper that we couldn't find Miguel. She went into her house and called the neighbourhood watch and other neighbours. Some of them came over to ask us questions. At that moment the house phone rang. My husband answered it. It was my colleagues from the university who were surprised that I had not yet arrived at the meeting place.

"It is possible that she is late. We can't find the baby." My husband said, dryly.

"Please don't use our phone line." He added.

This reaction from my husband chilled my blood. We went into the house and sat together on the sofa.

My hands covered my face and all sorts of thoughts ran through my mind. I remembered every time when I was in a crowded place I was afraid of losing one of my children. My worst nightmare had caught up with me.

My mind began to assess the situation. I thought it was a difficult moment, the worst moment of my life. I wondered what to do.

Then I heard my daughter Gabi's little voice coming from her own room.

Mummy, here he is, here he is!

A formidable impulse lifted me out of my seat. I ran into the room and saw six-year-old Gabi standing, alone, in front of her wardrobe.

Where is he? I said anxiously.

Over there, among the dolls! She answered, pointing her finger at the bottom of her wardrobe.

There was Miguel, like one more doll, among so many dolls and stuffed animals, sound asleep, dressed in his pyjamas with kitten designs. He was cuddled up with Cato, our cat, who was also sleeping soundly.

I was late for the meeting that day. I still hadn't fully processed the intensity of the emotions I had just felt minutes before. To tell the truth, that meeting lost all importance for me. "Everything that was being discussed was already stated in the books," I thought to myself, trying to justify my coldness towards a meeting that seemed so important to me in the morning hours.