On Christmas morning, my toddler suddenly broke out in a bubbly rash on her backside and spiked a fever. My partner rushed her to the doctor. Shortly after, I received a text: “She has hand, foot, and mouth disease.”
With three kids under the age of 9, this was our first encounter with HFMD. For those lucky enough to avoid it (and I genuinely hope you do), HFMD is pure misery. It can drag on for two weeks, is highly contagious, and is incredibly painful. The rash morphs into blisters, and those blisters can even hide beneath fingernails, causing them to fall off. Yes, you read that right — fall off.
The idea of all three of my kids roaming around with rashes, blisters, and missing nails felt like a descent into chaos. By the time my partner returned from the doctor’s office, I was already shampooing carpets and washing sheets, desperate to contain this virus.
As soon as Mel walked in, she had our little girl, Lily, on her hip. By then, Lily’s sweet face was dotted with red bumps. Her blue eyes looked glassy, and she kept flexing her hands, probably numb from discomfort. I wanted to scoop her up for a comforting hug, yet I hesitated.
I had recently been watching “The Man in the High Castle,” a show that imagines a world where the Nazis won WWII. One of the horrifying interrogation methods depicted was the removal of fingernails. Just thinking about it had been keeping me up at night.
This is one of the most challenging aspects of parenting. If Mel had caught HFMD, I would have maintained my distance, being empathetic but careful. I would have taken care of the kids and prepared her soup, but I wouldn’t have dared touch her. She would have done the same to me, without a doubt. But with my kids, even if they had the bubonic plague, I still had to hold them.
Lily approached me with a painful shuffle due to her irritated feet, tugging at my pant leg. I looked down and thought twice about picking her up. This was the reality of parenting a sick child. When they’re messy and unwell, you clean them up. And when your toddler has HFMD, you hold them close, soothe them, and hope for the best — praying you come out of this ordeal intact, with all your fingernails still in place.
Mel handed me a list of over-the-counter ointments and pain relievers recommended by the doctor. “What is this nonsense?” I exclaimed. Mel rolled her eyes, “It’s a virus, and she’s not yet two. They can’t give us anything.”
Before they turn two, parents are left with two ineffective options: Tylenol and Motrin. They hardly do anything except give you a false sense of control.
The rest of that day, I made multiple trips to Walgreens, the only pharmacy in town open on Christmas Day. I picked up everything from ointments to new toothbrushes and bath toys — anything that Lily might have recently put in her mouth. I felt guilty for shopping on a holiday, but at the same time, I was grateful that a store was even open in our small town.
The nights that followed were the longest of my parenting journey. Mel and I took turns caring for Lily. Her rashes transformed into blisters, and about three days in, while preparing her for a bath, I noticed one of the blisters was peeling. When I tugged gently on a loose flap of skin, a patch the size of a dollar bill came off.
Mel entered the room and stared at the piece of skin in my hand, confusion etched on her face. “What just happened?” she asked. I shrugged, “It just came off?”
Lily stood there, naked and vulnerable, her blonde hair messy at the back. She shot me a sorrowful look, as if I had committed some grave injustice by peeling off her skin. Clutching a stuffed orange cat she’d received in her Christmas stocking, she snatched it from my hand, buried her face in it, and screamed. She waddled off toward the tub, her raw backside on full display, crying the whole way.
That night, she lost a bit more skin — some from her hands and some from her feet. But by the next day, she began to improve. It wasn’t a dramatic change; rather, it was a gradual recovery.
Two weeks later, while tidying up in the living room, I heard her laugh for the first time in what felt like ages. Exhausted from sleepless nights and having returned to work, I paused. Mel was in the kitchen preparing dinner, and our two older kids were in their rooms. Somehow, we had all managed to remain healthy.
As Lily wandered into the living room, our eyes met. She grabbed her tummy, threw her head back in a dramatic manner, and erupted into laughter. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since I’d heard that joyous sound. In the days leading up to that moment, her emotional range had been limited to angry, listless, sad, and sleepy — but never joyful.
There’s something profoundly gratifying about witnessing the happiness of your children. As parents, we find immense joy in their smiles. When that joy disappears, it’s as though something crucial is missing. It’s the most unsettling part of having a very sick child: they don’t smile, they don’t laugh, and they sit there looking sad or mad, leaving us yearning to see them happy again.
I reached out and pulled Lily close to me. “Looks like you’re feeling better!” I said. She responded in babble and laughed again, warming my heart. I enveloped her in a big hug.
That night, she slept soundly, better than she had in days. The next morning, she began losing her fingernails, but thankfully, it didn’t seem to bother her. After hearing that laugh, it was as if her pain had vanished entirely. And while my role in her recovery was mostly about holding her and applying ointment, there was a real sense of satisfaction in watching her heal.
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Summary:
Dealing with hand, foot, and mouth disease in children is a parent’s nightmare. The illness is painful and contagious, causing rashes and blisters that can lead to nail loss. Despite the challenges, watching a sick child regain their laughter and joy is one of the most rewarding experiences for a parent.