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

Really a fine piece, Elysium.

The article and comments are dangerously close to becoming the Field of Dreams of Goodjer threads. In a good way, of course.

mudbunny wrote:
MoonDragon wrote:
Rat Boy wrote:
Certis wrote:

You made me cry, you bastard. I hope he's doing better, now.

Seconded on both counts.

x3

x4

Thanks for sharing, and, like many others above have said, let us know how things have gone.

My wife and I are trying (not much luck over the past year), so a very heart-felt and teary-eyed x5 here.

*sigh*

I just wrote something fairly clever on a different blog and got some kudos for it. Then I come over here and read this, and I realize my writing has so far to go...

Not only a great story, but a well-written great story. Thanks for sharing.

And, as always, thanks to all the guys for running this site and podcast. Look forward too coming here every day.

I really enjoyed this one a lot. Excellent article. (And, like everybody else, I hope the little one is feeling better.)

Thanks so much for sharing this, Elysium, and hope your son is recovering well.

We're expecting our first child soon, and when we learned that it's going to be a son, I have to admit I was baffled - for whatever reason, I'd always assumed it would be a girl. I really hadn't given much thought to what it would like to be the father of a son. Maybe it's because I'm not very athletic, and the stereotype of the father-son relationship is tossing around a baseball/football.

But then I was listening to a recent Conference Call when you discussed gaming with your kid (I'm pretty sure you were discussing New Super Mario, but maybe Pixeljunk Shooter). And I realized - I do have something I could imagine doing with my future son : share my love of gaming.

Thanks for everything you've shared here, Elysium.

Pirate Bob wrote:
mudbunny wrote:
MoonDragon wrote:
Rat Boy wrote:
Certis wrote:

You made me cry, you bastard. I hope he's doing better, now.

Seconded on both counts.

x3

x4

Thanks for sharing, and, like many others above have said, let us know how things have gone.

My wife and I are trying (not much luck over the past year), so a very heart-felt and teary-eyed x5 here.

And x6. Thanks for sharing these moments, Elysium. Your articles - and Rabbit's - make me look forward to being a father. Even the difficult ones like this.

F*ckin' A, Elysium, I don't like blubbering at work.

I had such a complex relationship with my father that I attempted to document when I eulogized him on my blog but I didn't capture the essence as well as you did there. I'm thankful that I've been graced with a daughter. I know it'll have it's own special tribulations but they're, to my mind, less complicated and I actually feel more prepared for them.

I'll personally never forget lowering my daughter into the iron maidenish contraption they use to get infant/toddler chest Xrays several years ago. Her grasp of language was not high but she expressed her terror perfectly and in no uncertain terms -- "Fini Papa, fini! FINI PAPA!" since we were teaching her French -- and I wanted nothing more than to hoist her out of there and hug her tight.

Congrats for being there for your son.

Whoa. Hit a serious parent nerve in that one. Nice writing, and more importantly, way to be a father.

Now. Will you come and help me count dolphins when I will (likely) get MY tonsils out in two weeks?

Rallick wrote:
Pirate Bob wrote:
mudbunny wrote:
MoonDragon wrote:
Rat Boy wrote:
Certis wrote:

You made me cry, you bastard. I hope he's doing better, now.

Seconded on both counts.

x3

x4

Thanks for sharing, and, like many others above have said, let us know how things have gone.

My wife and I are trying (not much luck over the past year), so a very heart-felt and teary-eyed x5 here.

And x6. Thanks for sharing these moments, Elysium. Your articles - and Rabbit's - make me look forward to being a father. Even the difficult ones like this.

x7. I'm a father of three myself, and have been there where you've been, on most all counts. Connecting with my two oldest is [strikeout]probably[/strikeout] the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life, hands down. This is because I'm not technically Daddy, despite the fact that they'll exclaim it from the rooftops if given the chance. I've also watched my two youngest sedated for procedures; Kaitlyn for an MRI at 3 months old; Griffin for tubes, adenoid removal and frenectomy all in one procedure.

So as I find myself here with tears running down my cheeks remembering the day we sat with him in pre-op, I marvel at the courage he showed. This was a couple of years ago, before our daughter was born. It's still amazing to me that we sat there coloring, he and I both knowing what was to come, yet acting as though we were at home. The resilience of children is truly an amazing thing.

With my daughter, it was harder on me in a way. All she knew was that we weren't at home, that she'd been poked and prodded all morning, and that Mommy & Daddy were talking with a bunch of really, really strange people in funny clothes(scrubs). But when time came for them to take her back for the MRI, there was definitely a great deal of trust on her part. She went without a great deal of fuss, and again, I marveled.

And as all that rambling brings me to thoughts of my old man and how it was growing up. He was gone as often as not; away on a deployment, or shore duty, or gone off to war, even if it only lasted a scant 42 days. I think back on how I too was a challenge to my parents. I grew from being a short, skinny frustration into a taller, lankier frustration. I pray daily that I can be a better father than Dad was for me; not because he didn't do well. I don't think I could find a better father than he. But in the hope that when I'm nearing 60, and my children have loved, lost, loved again and married I'm not sharing the same regrets that he does.

Cheers to you Elysium, and may your son recover swiftly and well, as children are wont to do.

I literally don't know what to write, Elysium. You are a great writer, and as far as I can tell, a great father too.

And I don't say that second statement lightly.

I read this just now on the laptop with my 6-month old son sleeping on my chest, arms around my neck and faced buried in my neck. Emotional overload. You got me feeling real mushy Elysium. Just took this after wiping away the manly tears of manliness. Beautiful piece! I hope I'm half the daddy you seem to be.

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Is there anything better in the world than having your baby sleep on your chest.

Answer: no there is not.

Thanks to all who have responded so strongly in public and in private.

seconded, My daughter has grown out of it now and I miss it so much. I don't mind it so much when she has a bad night now because it means i get the most wonderful hugs.

I really enjoyed reading your article, it sums up some of the fears of all parents I think and the sucess story was wonderful to hear.

Long time lurker, first time poster.

Like so many, this hit a very powerful cord with me. Primarily because you hit the relationship nail square and true. Connecting with my kids, particularly my six year old son, is a constant and never ending struggle. Reading this is huge for me, because now I know that I'm not on an island with this. Games of all kinds are the common ground and the connection will be made. Thanks for writing such a great story.

Good thing my office door is closed, I don't want to explain the tears right now.

Top notch. Thanks for sharing.

Great article, very touching. I hope he enjoyed all the jello and ice cream while recovering.

Elysium wrote:

Is there anything better in the world than having your baby sleep on your chest.

Answer: no there is not.

My son is fast asleep on my chest right now, and it's the greatest thing. I'm going to miss it so much when he's too big to do it anymore.

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I couldn't resist. FSeven you have touched an experience that virtually every father has experienced. Son on chest!

adam.greenbrier wrote:
Elysium wrote:

Is there anything better in the world than having your baby sleep on your chest.

Answer: no there is not.

My son is fast asleep on my chest right now, and it's the greatest thing. I'm going to miss it so much when he's too big to do it anymore.

They still do it when they're 120lbs. It just hurts a LOT more!

Great story Sean. My dad bailed on me when I was 8 and I never saw him again. I guess we all have our demons when it comes to father/son relationships. My history compels me to go overboard when it comes to being there for my kids.

You did remind me of our adventure in tonsillectomy land. Two years ago we bit the bullet and had both of our kids in surgery on the same day. Abby had her tonsils out and tubes put in her ears and Ben had his tonsils an adenoids removed. Our friends thought we were out of our minds having both of them done the same way but we turned our house into a recovery ward and it made it a bit easier.

Abby was fine by 5:00pm and described the experience as "fun".

Ben had some unbelievable post-op nausea. I'm not sure there was a square foot of flooring that he didn't throw up on.

The scars of that day are invisible to them while it seems like it was only yesterday for mom and I.

Parenting is hard..................

adam.greenbrier wrote:
Elysium wrote:

Is there anything better in the world than having your baby sleep on your chest.

Answer: no there is not.

My son is fast asleep on my chest right now, and it's the greatest thing. I'm going to miss it so much when he's too big to do it anymore.

My daughter is four and a half and large for her age. It's not "common", but we can still sneak one in every so often. She hasn't caught on yet.

Milk it for everything you can get.

As someone who had to be held down by 3 nurses, a doctor, and a pediatrician when getting a round of booster shots (2 shots, seven+ puncture marks because I kept squirming and kicking), thank you for finding a way through the terror.

Man, this one is not fair. You hit me right in the solar plexus at the end of a very long day.

I could probably fill a rather thick book with my own reminiscences in this area. With four of them and without a shred of caution between them, I used to think it would be cheaper if we could just get a block rate down at the local ER.

There are some differences. As the mom, I'm not just supposed to be supportive or comforting. There's the expectation that I'm supposed to "fix it". That whole "kiss it and make it better" thing gets passed down from the previous generation somewhere in our antrons, and expresses itself with every skinned knee. I sure as heck never suggested that I could do a damned thing about anything, but somehow they all got this idea that I should be able to just because I'm mom. And that doesn't stop with stuff that only requires a first aid kit.

The bringing them back out to where their parents can deal with them isn't nearly as uncommon as you might think. It has happened to me so many times. When he was three or so my younger son once screamed and fought so badly at the prospect of getting three stitches to close a cut on his head that the staff dealing with him just couldn't deal. He'd lost it at the sting from the contact anesthetic and they just never got it back. We ended up with his father and two nurses holding, and me doing the stitching with the poor intern who was supposed to be doing it supervising me. Once he knew I was going to be doing it, my son just held still and didn't make a peep. Neither my husband or the nurses were going to let go, though. We may have been born in the dark, but it wasn't last night.

I do have some qualifications -- an 80 hour EMT certification that has long since lapsed. In a real hospital and now-a-days there would have been pearl clutching all over the place but in BF Egypt, Alaska back then no one cared as long as the kid was okay. If you think that made it easy you're dead wrong. I spent the time they were doing the discharge paperwork in a bathroom throwing up and crying.

I have thanked any diety that would listen for that little bit of training over the years so many times, though. More stitches, IV's, blood draws, MRI's and CAT scans, one spinal tap. You name it. My eldest's Agony-of-Defeat style gravity test with a big hill and his buddy's bicycle. My daughter's broken leg. The time her sister fell out of a tree. Countless collect calls from the local skate park; you could clone both my boys and several of their friends off the big pyramid. Or even just knowing how to judge the scale of an issue. Like when it's time to call 911 vs when it's time to do first aid and make an office appointment. It helps to know what they're talking about when they're "consulting" and how to read what they're writing on the chart, or knowing when to freak over the monitor readings and when to just get a nurse in to stick the little sensor-doohickey back on the right spot.

Oh God, those go ram monitors. My daughters had sleep apnea for their first six months, and they had to sleep with heart monitors on and they wouldn't sleep apart. One would stir and knock a sensor off the other one, and their father and I would both be sitting bolt upright in bed listening to the damned thing shriek. It's something you never get used to over time. Even a dozen years later I had to return an alarm clock because that first morning I used it the thing just about gave me a heart attack - it sounded just like that damned oxygen alarm.

The procedures themselves are always bad enough. But the worst thing was the times when they had to stay. When my younger son was a teen, he had to do eight days in a psychiatric hospital for an assessment. I was there every minute they would let me be, but that isn't very many. They would barely let me see him. Even without the worry over physical conditions, the longest miles I have ever driven in my entire life were the first time I had to go and leave him there. I never got used to that, either.

I guess if I could give any sort of coherant take-away on this (other than you owe me most of a box of tissues), it would be to remember this. Remember what you did and how you did it. Both you and your wife. And both of you learn how to take care of yourselves and each other while you're doing it. This is a skill you're going to need all through their growing years and on into their lives. And just when you think you've got it handled for them, your parents will be starting down that path.

My son is only 8 months old, and I've had a hard enough time with the vaccinations and associated screaming. At least there is no chance of him actually remembering any of it at this age. Sounds like it gets a little tougher when they start to reason and have their own fears to wrestle with.

x8 - that made me cry. What a wonderful story - he's a lucky little guy to have you for a dad.

This filled me with an odd sense of anxiety about parenthood. Often times I am horrible with reacting to people's emotions in a way that comforts them and those are people my age. This is good food for thought. Thank you.

One of the greatest articles ever to grace the internet.

I'll join the chorus of those who shed tears, and I don't even have children.

"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."

Not sure what's been a bigger heartbreak in my own life: thinking I had disappointed my Father as a child, or having my son (8) think that I am disappointed by something he has done.

Great article.

Well done, Sean, well done.

Beautifully written sir,read through tears.
We went through our first Tonsil/Adenoid operation with my eight year old daughter a few months back,my six year old daughter is due for the same operation in a couple of weeks.
Below is a shot of my baby with a swollen face not long after the op,Care Bear did a good job looking after her Bronwyn tells me.

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