It’s the second night of my partner’s bi-weekly work trip. By now, the initial excitement of solo parenting has faded away. My patience for my children’s creative tactics to delay bedtime has dwindled, and my promise to maintain calmness has been all but forgotten by the time dinner is over.
Fortunately, my 5-year-old daughter has drifted off in her brother’s room, leaving me tasked with the challenge of getting my 3-year-old son to sleep, so I can finally enjoy a few moments of solitude before collapsing into bed. I lie there, pretending to sleep, hoping this might inspire him to do the same. Yet, every time I lift my eyelids, I find him wide awake, tossing his action figure against the wall, trying—unsuccessfully—to catch it on the rebound. His energy levels resemble a monkey on a caffeine high, and he bursts into laughter every time the toy lands on him.
With a sigh, I place my hand gently on his tummy. “Let’s try to sleep, buddy.”
“Okay, Mama,” he replies, squeezing his eyes shut with all his might. It’s heartwarming to see his eagerness to please.
But soon enough, the familiar sounds of his playful antics return, and I know he’s resumed his game with Spider-Man. It’s a common struggle for many parents: when your child who seems too old for naps still takes them, making bedtime a battle that drags on until 10 PM.
I pull out my phone, ready to send a distress text to my partner. It would read something like, “Help! Still battling bedtime. Aarrrrgghhh!!!” If I were to compile all the messages I’ve sent on these second nights, they’d follow a similar theme: “Help me. I’m overwhelmed. You owe me a full week of bedtime duty!”
As I type “help” in all caps, a text notification interrupts me. The buzz catches me off guard. Seeing it’s from my father shifts my initial surprise into a wave of anxiety. My dad only texts me unexpectedly under serious circumstances, usually regarding extreme weather back in Texas.
“Call me when you can,” the message reads.
My heart sinks. Someone must be in trouble. I mentally scan through our elderly relatives, concerned about the health status of Uncle Jerry or my great-uncle “Bill” who’s well into his 80s.
“Mommy will be right back,” I assure my son, who looks at me with confusion—he’s never seen me leave so abruptly.
As I ascend the stairs to grab the phone, I’m gasping for breath by the time my dad answers. “Dad, I got your message. What’s going on?” The subtext is clear: You’re stressing me out, so please tell me what’s happening before my son starts crying for me.
“Everything will be alright. It’s about my liver…biopsy…hepatitis…we wanted you to know.”
I ask what I think are the right questions: “How are you feeling? What do you need from me? How can I support you?” When my mom joins the call, I muster my courage and ask the difficult question, “Is this related to alcohol?” It’s a tough inquiry, considering my dad has been sober for over 38 years.
“I asked that, and they said no. Right, Paul?”
“Yes, I asked about that and whether it’s connected to Agent Orange from Vietnam. They said it wasn’t related.”
In this moment, we are unified, grappling with the same fears and concerns, searching for an explanation. Who is to blame for Dad’s liver troubles? There are no clear answers, but there is hope through modern medicine and a regimen of lifelong steroids to manage symptoms.
“He’ll be on them forever,” Mom says.
Forever? The weight of that word hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s akin to diabetes, but without the needles. The thought is heartbreaking because I still picture my dad as a younger man. He has many years left to live, but the reality of needing a pillbox is daunting. What if he forgets to take them while visiting me or traveling abroad with my brother?
“Mama! Maaaaamaaaaa!” My son’s voice carries up the stairs, loud enough for my mom to hear.
“Are your kids still awake?” she asks.
“Don’t even ask.”
“You should go to him. We’re okay here. Call us later this weekend.”
I want to cry, but not now. It’s 9:45 PM, and if I can just get him to sleep, I can research my dad’s condition. Knowledge is power, but that has to wait until my little one succumbs to sleep.
I lie beside my son, feeling his warmth. “Can I scratch your back?” I inquire, knowing that if he’s lying on his stomach, he won’t be able to toss anything around. I can feel his heart racing beneath his Spider-Man pajamas.
He nods and turns over. My thoughts drift to my dad’s liver and everything it has endured: the effects of Vietnam, years of alcohol abuse, and now this new chapter of his life. I try to recall what I learned about the liver in biology class. There are lobes, right? You can’t live without one.
I consider the lifetime of medication my dad is facing. Then, a realization dawns on me: My dad isn’t 40 anymore. I am. He’s actually 70, so “the rest of his life” isn’t the 40 or 50 years I often assume.
Now, I feel a deeper sadness knowing the reality of his remaining years isn’t as lengthy as I once believed.
My son shudders, and I notice his eyelids flutter. He’s nearly asleep. I keep my hand on his back for reassurance while I use my other hand to scroll through my Google search on his condition. I click on the Mayo Clinic site and hold my breath as I read the entry. “Not fatal. Controllable with medication.”
My breathing steadies, and so does my son’s. We both surrender to sleep, finding our peace amid the chaos.
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Summary:
Navigating the complexities of parenting while managing family health crises can be overwhelming. In this heartfelt narrative, the author shares their struggle with bedtime routines while dealing with their father’s health issues. As they balance the demands of caring for young children and the emotional weight of a parent’s illness, they reflect on the fleeting nature of time and the importance of being present for loved ones.
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