Fathers and Sons

My six-year-old is wheeled back into pre-op wiping fresh tears from his eyes with hands noticeably shaking. I was not expecting to see him nearly so soon. In fact I didn’t expect to see him again for several hours yet. To the best of my knowledge, getting your tonsils out takes substantially longer than three or four minutes. Something has definitely gone wrong.

“We had a melt down,” my wife says with forced calm that tells its own story. “When they tried to put the mask on, he just …” she doesn’t say “lost it” and she doesn’t have to. I know what that panic looks like. I’ve seen it during enough blood draws by now to recognize that it’s an electric thing that takes on a life of its own. The anesthesiologist smiles from behind the elaborate gurney, frustration buried deep behind a practiced expression.

“We’re going to give him a sedative. It might help his nerves. Also, the medicine we’ll use will probably let him forget what goes on once it takes effect.” There’s a hidden message there that every adult in the room understands. If we have to hold him down next time we take him in for surgery, the message says, at least he won’t remember it.

“I just couldn’t do it, Daddy.” Fresh tears threaten to spill onto his cheek. I nod in what I think is a fatherly way, but I don’t understand and I’m terrified that he will see the horrible hint of disappointment that I am working so hard to hide.

I have always been worried about communicating with my sons. I worry because I have seen enough fathers and sons who go through agonizing decades of not understanding one another, both sides carrying shared responsibility for the insurmountable walls that are built across great landscapes of grief and guilt. I worry because of the relationship I had with my own father for so many years.

Though we have overcome most — not all — of those obstacles, the memories are still there. It is not that we are necessarily so dissimilar, in fact that may be the problem. Our mixture is a volatile one, a fiery and rocky thing that buries deep into our Irish heritage, or so we like to tell one another. Never violent, the hurts we have managed to inflict on one another, very often without ever meaning to, ran much deeper.

I do not want my own son and I to go through that long, potholed road to understanding, and yet I feel too often the seeds being sown. He is a challenging boy, just as I am certainly a challenging father, intensely energetic who struggles like no one I’ve ever seen to fight the impulses that seem to drive him, and when those impulses overtake him, he seems abandoned in a drowning sea of his own making. Worse, I am unequipped to deal with it. I too often interpret it as willful stubbornness, even as I can see in his eyes that he is begging for someone to give him the tools to overcome his impulses.

How can I tell him that I don’t have the tools to understand much less help? And so we both become monumentally frustrated for different reasons.

“One to ten, how bad?” I ask my wife.

“Ten.” She says. The fact that she doesn’t even joke with an eleven or a hundred confirms what I suspect. When they had tried to put that mask over his face, he must have become feral. My guess is that they don't wheel a majority of kids back into the pre-op area for a good solid reset.

I am holding in my hand a replica of the anesthesia mask that is the current source of my son’s deep fear. It is a soft and harmless looking thing, but I catch him eyeing it suspiciously.

I should be doing something. If I were the father I wanted to be, what would I do?

My father and I communicated through sports and music. It was not always ideal, but it was the way we could reset, get back to common ground. When the world had been cleaved in two, one half being the way in that I saw it and the other half being the alien, parallel, bizarro world that was his perception, the way to merge the two back into a jury-rigged functional place was through the lens of quarterback stats and southern rock.

For all the things I might be able to say about my father’s relationship with me, the dysfunctional years that seemed like they’d never end, he always tried. He was always willing to come back to the field, put on his helmet and see if we couldn’t bang out some kind of middle ground. As a father myself now, I know that’s just what you do, not because it’s noble and not because you’re trying to win an award but because it’s worth doing.

In front of me is a scared six-year-old who is putting on a brave face because I showed him where to keep the mask, and it’s my job to know how to help him overcome the fear that threatens to pull him under. This time, telling him to just put on the mask and not to worry so much about it won’t just be ineffective. It could be destructive. The fact that I don’t understand that fear in the first place is irrelevant, that I don’t understand why he didn’t just put the mask on like we’d talked about is just not helpful.

And, if my wife and I can’t do it, then they are going to hold him down and force him to breathe deep until chemical sleep overtakes his panicked mind.

“Let’s practice,” I say.

The medium for my son and I to reset is video games. When we reach those impassable waters where you can imagine your relationship being run aground in a tempest of wind and rock, we pull back to the familiar waters of Lego games and Rock Band. Imaginary adventures give us comfort, and when he settles into the crook of my arm as we sit side-by-side on the floor playing games that others might dismiss as meaningless, I realize that gaming has become important in my life like I had never expected.

I suppose often it’s true that you can only understand your own parents once you’ve become one. You can only really see who you were as a child once you have to look through the lens from the other direction. It can’t be a coincidence that my own relationships have been repaired at the same time that I’ve become a father myself.

My boy is wearing his practice mask, with his eyes closed. “Ok,” I say. “You’ve got your scuba gear on and you’re jumping off the boat. How many dolphins do you see? Count them out loud.” He counts out twenty dolphins with enthusiasm, pressing the mask to his face. “Can you keep up with them? Can you swim as fast as them.” He giggles a yes.

The doctors and nurses have gathered to wheel him back to the OR. They smile at one another to see my son wearing the mask and swimming with whales and dolphins. As they begin to roll him out of the room I kiss the top of his head, and remind him that the mask is his scuba gear, and he gives me a thumbs up. “Rock on!” I call out as they wheel him through the double doors, and the last sound I hear before the doors close is his laughter.

I suppose it all can be explained by the sedative, but I hold on to the idea that I was able to connect with my son when no one else could, and that gives me hope.

They tell me that he happily and calmly counted two dolphins before he was under.

Comments

Something I don't think anyone else has said:

Just leave off the bit about video games.

I also come here for articles like this, and it's OK that they're not about Lego Rock Band. It may have started that way in your head, but the final product would probably be better jettisoning it.

It is articles like this that make me the asshole dad, not that I am going to change my strategy at this point. Hell I got to help hold my 3 year old son down for a catheter a few weeks back and the only thing I could say is, "Therapy will help you with this later in life, maybe."

Great article and perfect timing. I had to take my 19 month old son to the doctor yesterday for them to draw blood and perform two chest x-rays. He was shaking and crying and looking at me with wide-eyed terror and all I could do was hold him still, tell him he was the bravest little boy I knew and hope that the tone of my voice would be reassuring.

In the end, he needed a nebulizer (sp?) treatment, and trying to keep that mask on his little face as he squirmed and spasmed every muscle in his body was a lesson in softness and determination, and I think he still loved me afterwards.

That is twice I have gotten misty eyed in as many days.

“I just couldn’t do it, Daddy.” Fresh tears threaten to spill onto his cheek. I nod in what I think is a fatherly way, but I don’t understand and I’m terrified that he will see the horrible hint of disappointment that I am working so hard to hide.

I really appreciate how honest you were in this article. I don't have kids yet, and this article touched on a lot of what scares me about having kids, especially sons - but was very comforting in the end. Thanks.

You bastard, you pull at my heart strings! Seriously though, that was fantastic. As a grownup gamer who will eventually be a father (not quite yet, but several years from now perhaps), this is really important to think about for me.

This was great! I have no doubt that you have established a communication conduit with your son that cannot be broken. Simply a wonderful article.

Short story: When my kid was about 5/6 he literally refused to clothe himself in the morning. It was a morning ritual that usually ended with his clothes on but him in tears after chasing him around his room. One morning I was so tired of this ritual I came into his room not with my shirt on but with it in my hand. He stared at me, of course, ready to evade in the spirit of remaining truly free. I took the shirt, and while making the transformers changing sound- EE ON ORN AHH EE, I put on my shirt. He quickly grabbed his own shirt and TRANSFORMED! It was wonderful.

Further evidence that making something fun or making it a game can achieve results where simply asking/ordering cannot.

This was a fantastic article and all too similar to the situation I went through last year with my 6-year old. Dental work in his case, but that means the mask plus pain during the procedure. He had bombed out on an attempt while he was there with his mom, and I took a day off of work for the next attempt. It was a crying, panicked failure at first, but somehow...while going through the exact same thoughts and emotions that you capture here... I was able to finally talk him through it, his white-knuckled hand in mine for the whole time.

Great piece.

I'm lucky that I'm sitting in the sunny spot in the coffee shop and thus wearing my sunglasses. Yea, it's because of the sun, that's it. Amazing.

I cried right at the end, great article Sean. I don't have kids, but it made me appreciate the great relationship I have with my Dad. Thank you.

ThatGuy42 wrote:

I'm at the office this morning and literally holding back tears. Thank you, Elysium. Thank you for sharing this because it touches on more things than I can rationally comment on now. Maybe I'll come back after a walk around the building for some air.

Boy, me too! Being a father is unimaginably hard, sometimes.

I do not want my own son and I to go through that long, potholed road to understanding, and yet I feel too often the seeds being sown. He is a challenging boy, just as I am certainly a challenging father, intensely energetic who struggles like no one I’ve ever seen to fight the impulses that seem to drive him, and when those impulses overtake him, he seems abandoned in a drowning sea of his own making. Worse, I am unequipped to deal with it. I too often interpret it as willful stubbornness, even as I can see in his eyes that he is begging for someone to give him the tools to overcome his impulses.

How can I tell him that I don’t have the tools to understand much less help? And so we both become monumentally frustrated for different reasons.

As a father of a son with Asperger syndrome this is so on the mark. Sometimes you wish there was a Parent FAQ that would give you this magic cheat code to warp you pass the whole thing.

When she was about 1-1.5 my daughter pushed over a mirror which shattered over her head. Holding her down for stitches was one of the most horrible things I've ever experienced in my life. Three years later I can still see her face and hear her screams in my head with very little effort.

I completely understand that brute force is the easy way out and that thought terrifies me.

Congratulations on propping up your son and being brave, even if just in face. Hope he enjoys his ice cream.

Baaspei wrote:

Further evidence that making something fun or making it a game can achieve results where simply asking/ordering cannot.

This. So often as parents we have the impulse to just reason/force our kids to do something ... but really stopping and thinking and using some kid psychology can work miracle solutions where no amount of reasoning or threat of punishment worked.

Amazing article! I'm always amazed at how open you are with family moments and at how much they move me.

x4.5 (kinda teared up there)

Anyway articles like this give me good support for why I want to be a father. It's these touching moments like this that I want to experience and also try to understand what my father has gone through. I'm not sure if it sounds a bit selfish, but that's how I see it right now (as a wide-eyed college student). Keep these great articles up, it's wonderful to see that there are mature gamers out there and I am very glad to be joining your ranks.

Making a guy cry at work is not appreciated, but your article certainly is!

watshisname08 wrote:

x4.5 (kinda teared up there)

Anyway articles like this give me good support for why I want to be a father.

I'm not trying to sound condescending when I talk about parenting so don't think I'm trying to insult you in any way. That being said, being a parent is the best and most terrifying thing that can happen to a person. Someone wiser than myself said that having a child is like giving a hostage to fate. Worry becomes such a huge part of you. No matter how much you try not to think about it worry is always there in the back of your mind. Throw in a couple of lengthy hospital stays and suddenly the person looking back at you in the mirror looks ten years older. It can take a toll on a person. Is it worth it? Damn straight it is.

It's pretty scary how similar our childhoods sound, right down to the Irish background. I understand that to this day my father doesn't really get where I'm coming from. I know that my relationship with my own son is also focused by that understanding. Great read, man.

Edit: forgot to mention that the embedded image of the ER coupled with the article title got me worried right from the outset.

AcidCat wrote:

This. So often as parents we have the impulse to just reason/force our kids to do something ... but really stopping and thinking and using some kid psychology can work miracle solutions where no amount of reasoning or threat of punishment worked.

This is what scares me in particular - I really wish I understood more about where kids irrational fears of stuff like putting clothes on come from.

Wow. Amazing article, Elysium. It's articles like this that make me proud to call GWJ my internet home.

I haven't posted here in...3+ years or so I guess but, this article compelled me to. Awesome. I now have a 2yr old daughter, and I hope I do as well with her.
Thank you.

Amazing article! Like others have said, pieces like this are what keep me coming back to GWJ.

Really enjoyed the article, which was obvious because I, as have many others, teared up a bit while reading. As a relatively new dad of 3 (boy and girl twins, age 2, and a 2 month old daughter), your account of being a dad touched me, and I can only hope that I react as you did when faced with a similar situation.

is there anything worse than having to watch your child endure pain? Holding my kids while they get shots at the pediatrician is more torture for me than it is them. The pain will quickly fade on their side, but the thought that I willing participated in allowing that pain is almost more than I can bear. Guess it's probably a good thing that nothing more drastic has occurred in their young lives yet.

Keep up the fantastic work!

Call me crazy but I don't find it very odd for a preteen kid to be afraid of a mask surrounded by people in mask. It wouldn't have bother me at that age but I don't think the average kid would be all fun and games in that situation. I guess I don't understand there is not to understand.

When I was about 8 I had to get blood drawn because I think I was having my wrist worked on. I don't know I broke something or other. The nurse couldn't find my vein. This stupid c-word stuck me with that damn butterfly needle a bunch of time. After a while she gave up on that and tried the finger pin prick method but couldn't get enough blood after trying all by god damn figures. After she started to double up finger pricks I absolutely refused to go on with that torture. I made them get real doctor that managed to get my blood on first try. To this day anytime I get upset I can feel those damn needles going into the back of my hand.

Nurse lady if you happen to be reading this. I hope you wrote in hell. Who the hell gave you a license to torture little kids.

Certis wrote:

You made me cry, you bastard.

I'm glad I work from my apartment. I admit nothing!

I don't even have kids and that almost made me cry. Thanks for that article Sean. These touching, personal stories are the reason I keep on coming back to GWJ each day.

Strong work, Sean. I think you're better at this "Dad" thing than you are willing to accept credit for.

Thanks for the article.

It is only because I already commented on how great a piece this is hours ago that I can now return and link you to this. I'm so sorry, but it has to be done. Because it's hilarious.

Apparently sedation and gaming is such a logical combination, somebody already commercialized it.

PediSedate.

Now that I'm back from lunch and have taken a good long breather I just wanted to say a quick few words. Every human being needs a way to connect to other human beings. This is even more true when it comes to parents and their children. For my Dad and I, it was SCUBA.

Elysium wrote:

My boy is wearing his practice mask, with his eyes closed. “Ok,” I say. “You’ve got your scuba gear on and you’re jumping off the boat. How many dolphins do you see? Count them out loud.”

The flush of memories and emotions at reading those words literally stopped me in my tracks. I lived that with my Dad. We bonded and connected while diving in a way that we never had before; it was the bridge during my teenage rebellion that allowed us to have a real relationship. Just this past Monday night while at the Sharks game, my dad let me know that his heart condition had progressed to the point where he would no longer be allowed to dive. It's still fresh in my mind, and I'm still processing the loss of that activity we loved to share. We have a different relationship now, one that doesn't necessarily need diving as the sole bridge between us. But I know that when my son is old enough, I'll be signing him up for SCUBA lessons, and be right there next to him 30 feet underwater for his certification dive, just like my Dad was there with me.

I dub thee Sir Elysium, Destoyer of Manlihood and Bringer of Tears.

Not me though, I'm talking about all them lily-livered posters up there ^

*sniff*