A Morning With Kinsley

Yesterday’s toys lie scattered about the house, and Genée resigns herself to the clutter. She knows that her thirteen-year-old daughter, Kinsley, needs her attention more than any household chore. At seven in the morning, warmly clothed in Disney patterned P.J.’s, Kinsley trails behind her mother through the clutter of toys and clothes. Every few seconds, Genée looks back at her little shadow, takes a deep breadth and heads into the kitchen. When Kinsley’s bare feet hit the cold kitchen tile, she moves to the table, sits and waits.

She stares blankly at her mother’s movements to and from the cereal cabinet, and her mouth opens slightly as if reaching for a sentence to begin a conversation, but she utters no sound. Involuntarily, her head, like a lightly touched bobble-head figurine, swings from side to side. Soon her hands and arms wiggle gently. She remains seated, her sole voluntary act, while tremors take over her body.

As her mother approaches the table with a bowl of Cheerios, Kinsley keeps her eyes on her mother’s face. She stares, transfixed and glossy-eyed. Genée dips her spoon in the cereal and “Oh”s as she airplanes it into Kinsley’s mouth. Kinsley almost forgets to chew her Cheerios. She has forgotten how to do most ordinary activities she once performed with ease. Although diagnosed as slightly overweight in the past, Kinsley has lost about a pound a week for the last seven months. As her mother dives back into the bowl, Kinsley still blankly peers at her mother, her body trembles and she awaits the next bite.

The simplest of daily rituals have become complicated and unpredictable with Kinsley. As Genée bathes, dresses, combs Kinsley’s hair and brushes her teeth she speaks nurturing words of encouragement, but on this morning, those words go unanswered. Whether unresponsive or articulate, Genée proceeds with as much normalcy as possible.

Once ready to head off to her school for children with special needs, Kinsley scurries to the family SUV parked in the driveway. She sits upright and buckled so that no matter how bad the shaking gets she won’t fall over. From the cell phone speaker comes the comforting greeting of her grandmother:
“Good morning, how are you Kinsley?”

Staring out the window, Kinsley stammers out a response, “Hi-I-I- Naaana…Good-biie,” her words are a flat operatic vibrato of strain. Even from the land of the lost, a place where a rare and undiagnosed affliction periodically sentences Kinsley, she returns to the comfort of a familiar voice.

An Evening with Kinsley

The sun has set, and the after-work T.V. fires up at the Fonseca house. The time on the cable box reads, 6:01, and the home phone rings. David, Kinsley’s step-dad, picks it up.
“Hello,” he says. “Oh, hey Genée. Is everything ok?”

He listens.

“Uh, oh,” he mumbles. “Did she throw up at the Boys and Girls Club or in the car?” He pauses for a moment. “Ok. Well drive safe,” he tells his fiancé as he hangs up the phone.

Concerned, David settles back into his couch and turns on the baseball game. A call like this floods David’s stomach with an unsettling stir. After months of watching Kinsley’s precipitous decline, nights at the Fonseca house bare little resemblance to earlier days when her condition was manageable, when David could still interact with Kinsley. There is a constant yearning for the fun-loving Kinsley to return.

As the clock on the cable box reads 6:20, head-lights flash through the living room windows and descend upon the outside driveway. Genée arrives with Kinsley and her younger sister Kolby.

The front door swings open, and the night air rushes in. Following the cold breeze comes the frantic energy of Kinsley, pointed toward her mother’s room at the far end of the house. David says hello, “Hello Kinsley,” twice, but she gives no sign of hearing his greeting.

She stops, the puzzled expression on her face freezes, and her muscle tremors maintain their hold on her body. She gazes around the room only to settle momentarily on David. Then at her sister who has made a b-line for their bedroom. Kinsley takes a moment and once again surveys the situation like a nervous cat amongst new people. Nothing registers. After five seconds, the hesitation releases and Kinsley jets to her mother’s room at the far end of the house.

“She is not feeling well tonight. I think she has a fever,” Genée tells David as she enters the house a moment later.

“Alright, well let’s try to get that temperature down,” he replies.

They exchange knowing glances but neither says a word nor appears worried, just tired. After a full day of work, both must now summon the energy to help Kinsley wash, bathe, clothe, eat dinner and eventually fall asleep. Although understanding and caring toward her sister, 11-year-old Kolby must now wait for some attention from her mother.

This nightly scene has become routine except tonight has the extra worry and weight of tending to a sick child.

As the clock reads, 7:08, two Ahi tuna fillets sizzle from the kitchen and plates make delicate thuds on the dinner table in between silver-ware set-ups. Kolby robotically sets the table as David and Genée prepare the dinner. The dining room table sits directly next to Genée’s room so that Kinsley can see from the bed what’s happening at the table.

Peering into the room, Genée notices Kinsley’s calm demeanor and says to herself, “Hopefully her temperature will remain a low grade fever.” Memories of random nights she had to rush Kinsley to the hospital in an ambulance with 106 degree fever, plagues her.

The food hits the plates and as the three settle at the table tonight, a grin hits David’s face and a joke about the San Francisco Giants sputters out. He is a Dodger’s fan. A familiar laugh rumbles from mother and daughter and David winds up for another. Between bites the three unwind and enjoy each other’s company for 45 minutes while Kinsley looks on.

Once the plates are cleared, Genée brings a dinner tray to Kinsley since she is not feeling well and feeds her in bed. No laughing. No smiling. Just feeding. Genée comes back from the room to clean up after dinner-- her face still and her eyes heavy with fatigue. She has reverted to taking care of a 13-year-old toddler…

The clock now reads 9:00 and the energy in the house has evaporated. Exhausted, the family dives into sleep in order to make it through the next day.

Except for Genée.

Around midnight, she falls asleep knowing, that Kinsley will wake up at least three times before sun-rise asking for her. And with that thought, Genée also knows, she will give all the comfort she can.