I lost the knack of praying a long time ago. Nowadays a heartfelt wish is about as good as I can do.
So here’s one.
But first, a little context.
My son had one of his return visits to his Orthodontist earlier this week. He’s been having some pretty serious realignment done for just over a year now. The dentist-guy, who wears cool protective glasses, pronounced my son’s progress as being remarkable and announced that some of the more obtrusive blocks can be removed early next year.
My reaction to this news surprised me a little. It is no exaggeration to say that I was, quite literally, overjoyed. It was a definite over-reaction and much more of a one than my son had. He reckoned it was ‘pretty cool’ and he moved on with other stuff just like he always does.
I know why I reacted as I did. It’s mostly because of how lucky we’ve been. So very lucky. I’m not superstitious at all but still I touch wood as I write that last sentence, you have to cover your ass in any way possible.
We have two great boys and neither of them (touch that wood again) have known serious sickness or hurt or pain in their lives. We’ve been so lucky. I’d go for ‘blessed’ but I lost the knack of ‘blessed’ a long time ago too.
So I’ll never forget the awful day that I first brought my son to get his orthodontic stuff fitted. I wasn’t really warned, or prepared, so I sat in the waiting room and waited for him to come out. It took a long time.
The moment when he came out was, without question, one of the worst of my life. His mouth seemed to be packed tight with ‘stuff’, metal and plastic 'stuff' and his jaw hung open awkwardly and, truth be told, rather grotesquely. But it was his eyes… his eyes looked at me and said to me, ‘Is this real?’ ‘Do I really have to do this?’ ‘Can’t you make this better for me?’
I ran into the surgery. The guy looked surprised behind his cool glasses but not too much.
“This can’t be right,” I said, “Look at him, his mouth is hanging open.”
“He’ll get used to it,” the guy smiled, “don’t worry.”
And he did. Stoic little John. Within a single day he had taken it all on board, dealt with it effortlessly, and his being-okay-with-it made it okay for me too.
Many of you may laugh at this story of mine. Stupid, lucky, blessed, Ken, who thinks an hour at an orthodontic appointment is to watch your child suffer. I don’t blame you, not at all.
But it’s not that.
My tiny experience gave me my only taste of what it must be like to have a son or a daughter who is unwell. It was like that thing the old priests used to do – run your finger across a candle flame to get a gauge of the thousand-fold agony of their ‘hell’.
Those feelings I had that day. The dread, the helplessness, the genuine wish that there was some orthodontic brace that I could wear for him that would straighten his teeth. Some bloody way that I could just take this bullet for him. Those feelings gave me a minuscule taste of what life might be like with a sick child.
So today, as the first of the orthodontic blocks get ready to come out. My thoughts are with you, you parents whose children are unwell. I won’t throw the cliché at you and say that I don’t know how you do it. I reckon that you don’t either. We simply have to drink from the cup we are given, don’t we? But my heart goes out to you, it really does.
And I wish you things.
I wish you well. I wish that 2012 sees your kid get better and better every day and, if that simply cannot be, I wish you the strength and reserves to cope and to support your stoic child.
And that’s about as close to a prayer as I can ever get for you.
I really mean it though.
So here’s one.
But first, a little context.
My son had one of his return visits to his Orthodontist earlier this week. He’s been having some pretty serious realignment done for just over a year now. The dentist-guy, who wears cool protective glasses, pronounced my son’s progress as being remarkable and announced that some of the more obtrusive blocks can be removed early next year.
My reaction to this news surprised me a little. It is no exaggeration to say that I was, quite literally, overjoyed. It was a definite over-reaction and much more of a one than my son had. He reckoned it was ‘pretty cool’ and he moved on with other stuff just like he always does.
I know why I reacted as I did. It’s mostly because of how lucky we’ve been. So very lucky. I’m not superstitious at all but still I touch wood as I write that last sentence, you have to cover your ass in any way possible.
We have two great boys and neither of them (touch that wood again) have known serious sickness or hurt or pain in their lives. We’ve been so lucky. I’d go for ‘blessed’ but I lost the knack of ‘blessed’ a long time ago too.
So I’ll never forget the awful day that I first brought my son to get his orthodontic stuff fitted. I wasn’t really warned, or prepared, so I sat in the waiting room and waited for him to come out. It took a long time.
The moment when he came out was, without question, one of the worst of my life. His mouth seemed to be packed tight with ‘stuff’, metal and plastic 'stuff' and his jaw hung open awkwardly and, truth be told, rather grotesquely. But it was his eyes… his eyes looked at me and said to me, ‘Is this real?’ ‘Do I really have to do this?’ ‘Can’t you make this better for me?’
I ran into the surgery. The guy looked surprised behind his cool glasses but not too much.
“This can’t be right,” I said, “Look at him, his mouth is hanging open.”
“He’ll get used to it,” the guy smiled, “don’t worry.”
And he did. Stoic little John. Within a single day he had taken it all on board, dealt with it effortlessly, and his being-okay-with-it made it okay for me too.
Many of you may laugh at this story of mine. Stupid, lucky, blessed, Ken, who thinks an hour at an orthodontic appointment is to watch your child suffer. I don’t blame you, not at all.
But it’s not that.
My tiny experience gave me my only taste of what it must be like to have a son or a daughter who is unwell. It was like that thing the old priests used to do – run your finger across a candle flame to get a gauge of the thousand-fold agony of their ‘hell’.
Those feelings I had that day. The dread, the helplessness, the genuine wish that there was some orthodontic brace that I could wear for him that would straighten his teeth. Some bloody way that I could just take this bullet for him. Those feelings gave me a minuscule taste of what life might be like with a sick child.
So today, as the first of the orthodontic blocks get ready to come out. My thoughts are with you, you parents whose children are unwell. I won’t throw the cliché at you and say that I don’t know how you do it. I reckon that you don’t either. We simply have to drink from the cup we are given, don’t we? But my heart goes out to you, it really does.
And I wish you things.
I wish you well. I wish that 2012 sees your kid get better and better every day and, if that simply cannot be, I wish you the strength and reserves to cope and to support your stoic child.
And that’s about as close to a prayer as I can ever get for you.
I really mean it though.
Perhaps that counts for something, somewhere.
11 comments:
One of the things about getting divorced—and I’m sure there will be thousands of weekend fathers out there who can relate to this—is that you don’t get to see your kid sick. If they’re sick your wife phones you up and says, “Don’t come and pick up little Jenny or little Johnny this week—they’re sick.” On the surface that may seem like a blessing but it wasn’t until I started reading through this that I realised that I couldn’t remember my daughter being sick as a child. I can’t imagine that in all the time I had her she never felt unwell—I have a vague memory of her being constipated once—but I honestly have no memories of sitting over her bed fretting that she might not make it through the night because of some boo-boo. I feel cheated. It’s not the first time I’ve felt cheated by the fact my first wife left me but I particularly resented the fact that it forced me to become a part-time dad, something I had not signed up for. I tried to get full custody but you know how that goes.
I was an asthmatic growing up—still am an asthmatic as it happens but it doesn’t have the same debilitating effect on me now as it did when I was a kid—and I have … the word I want to use here is ‘fond’ because that’s the adjective that generally wants to go with the noun ‘memories’ but it’s not really right although it feels a bit bare bones to say merely, “I have memories” … I have strong memories of being ill, being unable to sleep lying down and having to spend night after night propped up on the front room couch trying to doze off. One of the side-effects of being wedged into an upright position like that is that my back would hurt; my back hurts just now simply thinking about it. I would get very distressed over the ache and, of course, distressed was the last thing I needed to get because it just aggravated the bronchospasms, which for years was what I thought was wrong with me because the doctor never said in so many words, “Your son has asthma,” so my dad would sleep on the floor beside me and when I got upset in the night he’d get up and rub my back until I calmed down. It sounds like it ought to be a dreadful memory and it is. It was probably another four or five years of regular Saturday morning trips to the asthma clinic before I learned to control a spasm without feeling I had to resort to Ventolin which, when I was young, caused me to shake terribly and affected my nerves, but I think you can see that in some respects it’s hard not to look back with some degree of fondness at those times. I suspect this is why when, in his later years, when all his flaws had come out into the open and no one could talk about him without a certain tone in the voice, I still found myself dwelling on the good qualities that were every bit as much as part of him as his weaknesses and limitations.
Prayer is another matter entirely. My father was a religious man as I’ve mentioned many times before and yet—and I do find this very strange—he never taught me to pray. He prayed publicly, he said grace before meals, he said he prayed privately but when I was ill like that you’d think one of the things he’d say would be, “Let’s pray,” as a means to try and calm me down, to reassure me, and yet never once did that happen. I learned years later that that was exactly the kind of thing that other families would do as a matter of course—that would be the natural thing in fact for them to do—but not our family. And, as I have said, I have no recollection of my dad ever sitting me down and teaching me to pray, not the Lord’s Prayer nor even, ‘Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep.’ He seemed to take it for granted that having a belief in God would be enough and prayer would come naturally to me. Well, it didn’t. As an adult when I tried to give religion a go this was the one thing that I could never get over—I did not have, and seemed wholly incapable of having, a personal relationship with God. Doctrine I could learn—that’s just studying—but the practical application of faith, that was a very different ballgame.
Dear Jim: It's a rather obvious statement, after all these years, but your comments makes this blog-of-mine better.
Thanks.
What a lovely piece of writing, I read it with a lump in my throat. You're so right, we have no idea what reserves of strength we have until faced with the unthinkable.Thank you.
Go1dfinch: Thanks. You're so right.
As a father whose son faces major spinal surgery in the next few months I'd like to thank you for your post. And to everyone else in the same position - hang in there!
Jack.
Jack: Thank *you* Jack. I wish you all well... a big wish.
We had a taste of it when our girl was much younger. It came to nothing in the end (thank goodness) but we had a few horrible moments on the way. There's nothing quite like it. You just feel sick right through your body and nothing else matters.
x
Wow Ken, as I have often said I don't ever seem to have gotten the hang of Facebook and all this modern technology but i gues that's coz I'm 110 and probably doing well for my age but anyway just by luck or some other force I hit upon your blog today and wow it really hit the spot.......gorgeous piece of writing even though very serious content and yes like you i would wish only the very best for all those (2many!) families out there that just are not getting life quite as cushy as we are.
What a brilliantly well written piece Ken. It is all so true for parents when their kids get sick. Having been there done that, I can see both sides when I'm working. Well said Ken.
What a moving blog Mr Ken. My children are healthy too (touch wood touch wood touch wood) and I have only had pathetic little glimpses of the agony of a hurting child - a few broken but entirely fixable limbs, a disastrous haircut when one of them was 14 or so, and a broken heart (bloody boys). But I've witnessed some terrible things and have even had to be the bearer of the news that no parent should have to hear, and I remind myself ALL THE TIME, of how lucky I am. No matter what supposed disasters and catastrophes befall me I dismiss them as insignificant because... My children are healthy. Touch wood touch wood touch wood. I know that if one of them were to become sick I would joyfully take on all of my current troubles multiplied by a thousand whilst simultaneously gouging my eyes out with a rusty fork, if I could only have them well again.
And like you my heart aches for those less fortunate parents. Although I know that'll be no consolation to them.
Hi Ken - great piece. You are lucky but it is good to appreciate it. We have long and emotional chats with Ciara over her diabetes. I'd do anything to get rid of it. But there you are. Happy Christmas x (I just read the goosey goosey post - hilarious!)
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