Struggle

Clouds of pain. Tiny hand to forehead, seemingly unconsciously. A moan, the head lifted a few inches - and then back down on the pillow, and back to sleep. For 20 hours, Cleo's little body simply rested: on a soft bench in a cafe; on our sofa as Portugal frustrated the Danes, on the television, with a late goal; on her bed, under the venerable blanket made by her nanny.

L. and I fret, we wonder, we review the symptoms of Lyme disease and compare them with other possible causes of this feverish lethargy. We're comforted by the tone of the doctor, who was utterly competent and warm as she gently felt Cleo's lymph nodes, and we're encouraged by Cleo's apparent willingness to swallow the antibiotics. But, still, one worries - and so I awoke in my bed at 1, climbed out, and joined Cleo for the rest of the night in a tender vigil, ministering her tiny gulps of water when she awoke for a minute or two.

One worries - but one also has a certain faith. After all, it seems that Beethoven, in 1796, may have suffered from meningitis, whose symptoms can be quite close to those of Lyme disease: like Cleo, he probably fell victim to sharp headaches, to an aversion to bright lights, and to a sustained weariness. True, there's debate about the exact contour of the infection that he contracted - but there's no debate about what he managed to accomplish in the years after. In 1805, after all, he composed the Eroica, prompting at least a few musical historians to wonder if he was picturing himself in the rugged, inspiring framework of the symphony: was the music a tribute to his own fight against sickness?

Cleo, as of 9:08 this morning, has not yet composed a symphony. But she did manage to sit up and to watch a slew of Milkshake videos, and to down a half dozen spoonfuls of yogurt this morning. We'll maintain our vigil, of course, but I hope that she's already on the mend, and we thank all of you who have written with kind words and encouraging wishes.