As my husband embarks on his bi-weekly business trip, I find myself facing the second night alone with the kids. The first night, there’s a rush of excitement in tackling solo parenting, but by the second, my patience is stretched thin. The kids’ tactics to delay bedtime seem endless, and my resolve to remain calm has crumbled before the dinner plates are even cleared.
Fortunately, my 5-year-old daughter has drifted off in her brother’s room, leaving me to wrangle my lively 3-year-old son. The goal? To reach that glorious moment of me-time, sprawled out in the center of my bed. I pretend to be asleep, hoping that this might encourage him to follow suit. But every time I peek, he’s wide awake, enthusiastically tossing his Spider-Man figure against the wall, trying to catch it as it falls—a little bundle of energy, laughing every time Spider-Man lands right on his face.
I let out a sigh, placing my hand gently on his tummy. “Let’s try to sleep, buddy.”
“Okay, Mama,” he replies, earnestly squeezing his eyes shut, melting my tired heart.
But the thumping resumes. I know he’s back at it with Spider-Man again. It’s a common struggle for many parents: when your child who no longer needs a nap still gets one during preschool, making bedtime a challenge.
Frustrated, I grab my phone to text my husband, something along the lines of, “Send help! Bedtime is a disaster!” My husband could compile a book with all the frantic messages I’ve sent on these nights—each one a plea for a lifeline.
Just as I’m about to hit send, my phone buzzes with a new message. The sudden noise sends a jolt of anxiety through me. It’s from my dad, which is unusual. He only reaches out out of the blue for weather updates, and it’s May—nothing unusual about the weather. My heart races as I read his message: “Call me when you can.”
A wave of dread washes over me. I can’t help but think the worst—someone must have passed away. I quickly run through the health of our elderly relatives in my mind.
“Mommy will be right back,” I say to my son, who watches me with confusion. I’ve never left him so suddenly.
I call my parents while rushing up the stairs. By the time my dad answers, I’m breathless, caught between cardio and panic. “Dad, I got your message. What’s going on?” I need him to ease my fears before my son starts calling for me again.
“Everything’s going to be OK. My liver…biopsy…hepatitis…we wanted you to know.”
I ask what seems like the right questions: “How are you? What do you need? How can I help?” When my mom joins the call, I muster the courage to ask, “Is this related to alcoholism?” even though Dad has been sober for over 38 years.
“I think Dad asked that, and they said no. Didn’t you, Paul?” she confirms.
In that moment, we share a connection, all wondering who or what is responsible for this turn of events. There are no answers, just a prescription for steroids to help manage his condition. “He’ll take them for the rest of his life,” my mom adds.
The weight of those words hits me hard. I envision my dad, once vibrant and full of life, now carrying a pillbox everywhere he goes—on trips to see my brother or when visiting me. What if he forgets his medication?
“Mama! Maaaaaamaaaaaaa!” My son’s urgent cries echo up the stairs, interrupting my thoughts.
Mom hears him. “Are your kids still awake?” she asks.
“Don’t ask,” I reply.
“Go to him. We’re fine. Call us later.”
I want to cry, but I hold back. It’s late, and I need to get my son to sleep so I can research my dad’s condition.
I lie down beside my son, feeling the warmth of his little body. “Can I scratch your back?” I ask, knowing that if he’s on his stomach, he won’t be able to throw anything. His heart races beneath his Spider-Man pajamas as he nods and rolls over.
I think about my dad’s liver journey—its struggles from Vietnam and the toll of years of sobriety. I remember snippets from high school biology about the liver’s functions. It’s essential for life. I realize my dad isn’t 40; I am. At 70, the “rest of his life” doesn’t stretch as long as I often assume.
As my son shudders and drifts closer to sleep, I keep my hand on his back while my other hand scrolls through my phone. I click on a health site, and relief washes over me as I read: “Not fatal. Controllable with medication.”
I breathe easier. So does my son. We both surrender to sleep.