When I was told last year that my 2-year-old son had an illness that threatened his life, I tried to strike a bargain with fate,I would do anything, I would trade my old life away, if only he would get better. We learned that our son would need months of treatment, maybe even a year, before we would know whether he would recover. My husband and I settled into a deadening routine; one night at the hospital, the next night at home to be with our daughter, then right back to the hospital. The days and nights were a blur of medical reports. Fear and despair engulfed me.

I watched the other mothers at the hospital. I saw the mother of the child with cystic fibrosis faithfully administer physical therapy, heard the hollow thump-thump-thump as she pounded the child's chest, her efforts a talisman of dedication, hope and pain. I ached for the mother whose infant twins both had cancer and who managed somehow to write thank,you notes to the nurses after the babies' many hospitalizations.I worried that I could not live up to these mothers' heroism. They did what good mothers are supposed to do,what mothers of sick children have to do,and what I did, too.

I worried that I could not live up to these mothers' heroism. They did what good mothers are supposed to do,what mothers of sick children have to do,and what I did, too.

But I did not feel selfless, the way those other mothers seemed to feel. I was ashamed to admit it, but mingled with my terror and grief. After the first three weeks, we realized we were only at the start of a marathon. The friends who knew me best started telling me I should go back to work. It would be good for you to get a break, they said. I resisted. Good mothers, I thought, do not abandon their sick children for work. Yet when my son's doctor told me he thought it would be fine, that he could E-mail his assessments, I tore myself away.

I could not work a normal schedule-far from it. But as the months of my son's treatment dragged on, he was able to stay out of the hospital for longer periods. My husband and I still took turns at the outpatient clinic or at the hospital. I was lucky that my family and my baby sitter could also relieve me so that my son was never alone.

There were still long stretches when I needed to drop everything to be with him. But to my surprise, I found that going to work when I could eased my sense of helplessness. I could be distracted: there were phone calls and deadlines and a rhythm to be swept into. I could be in control of something.