Vulnerability is something that I have never been comfortable with. Who is? Opening that door that leaves you virtually naked and exposed is something nightmares are made of. It’s horrifying to reveal yourself to the world about a feeling that can be construed as a weakness. And yet I still felt the desire to share what it means to me when I feel helpless.
There is one occurrence that perfectly exemplifies on where the feeling of helplessness always seems to guide me. On a recent cold December night, everything was as it normally is. My wife was busy cleaning the house preparing to host her family as we usually do on Christmas Eve. My oldest son was taking his bath and my youngest son lay curled up next to me on my bed while we watched the Bears lose another uncontested game.
Suddenly my five-year-old let out a shriek of pain as a piercing stabbing sensation tore through his stomach. Immediately, he looked to me for comfort and I responded like most parents do with reassuring words that he would be fine while rubbing his back to calm him. The usual sequence of events that come when a child falls ill quickly transpired. I’ll spare you the details. But even after all that, his cries of pain didn’t lessen, and his stomach was as hard as a plate of steel. He was in such agony that he couldn’t even walk which triggered me to bundle him up and rush to the hospital.
Those fifteen minutes felt like hours as his pleas for help were ones, I had no answer for. That’s when the dreadful sense of helplessness began to seep in. Yet I held onto the perspective that everything would be fine once we got medical assistance and that seemed to keep the horrid feeling at bay for the time being.
Trying to remain calm, I was thrown into a slight panic when no parking was available in the ER lot. Not wanting to waste another minute, I parked in an unauthorized space, so I could get my ill child in as quickly as I could. Given that I was uncertain on the severity of his condition, I felt time was of the essence. Upon check-in, as my son clung to me with his arms around my neck still in agonizing pain, I was promptly given a choice of taking him back into the car with me and finding a space in the garage or leave my five-year-old alone in the waiting area. I was dumbfounded that they would even put me in such a predicament especially since my vehicle was not obstructive to anything.
I was basically useless to my son. If his condition worsened, even within a short time, he would at least be near medical personnel, so I sat him down in the chair closest to the nurse registering patients and darted for my car. Although I knew it would perhaps only be five to seven minutes for me to park and race back, I felt like I abandoned him. I couldn’t shake that feeling despite knowing he was in better hands than mine. I don’t think my feet had ever moved as fast as they did that night. My primary responsibility in life is to protect my family and I felt like I was failing miserably. That monster of helplessness began to surge inside me with greater strength.
I wanted to burst through the revolving door like a runaway train, but I somehow remained composed. When I rushed up near the registration podium, my adoring little boy was sitting there waiting patiently for me trying as hard as he could to hold back his tears. His small soft voice let out that his stomach still hurt as he reached up and latched back onto me. He was urging me to do something. To fix it. Make him feel better. I could do nothing though but hold him close and wait.
Fortunately, the wait was not long. We were escorted to a room and told that the doctor would be in shortly. The definition of shortly to a parent that had already endured too much time of not being able to ease their child’s discomfort however is different than those that are not emotionally shackled. Help could not come soon enough. My son’s suffering intensified and his pleas to make the pain go away did not stop.
I kept telling myself that they would be able to remedy his situation quickly or at least set my mind at ease but the concerned look on the doctor’s face after evaluating him only escalated my fears. He ordered an ultrasound and we were whisked away to a part of the hospital that felt like it had been abandoned.
My son struggled to remain still causing the ultrasound tech to increasingly become frustrated. Time and time again, he had to start over attempting to get some insight into what was happening. After five grueling tries, he finally had enough images to evaluate. The tech exited the room without uttering a word and left us alone wondering if anyone was going to take his place in monitoring my child’s condition.
The setting of the ultrasound room was like a scene out of Stranger Things. The main lights remained off while only small soft white and blue lights illuminated the corners of the space. My son looked like a mere shadow as he turned towards me and pled once more for me to do anything to ease his suffering. Waiting for direction from the medical team, I felt trapped in this isolated wing of the hospital. At least in the ER, the medical team’s presence made me feel that I was not alone. But now, there was no one I could turn to. No one to share the burden and the guilt of not being able to cure my son of whatever was ailing him. Throughout the night, my trepidation that it may be something serious built to this moment and I was at the breaking point.
My son’s head fell slowly to the side weakened and exhausted. The pain he had endured finally had gotten the upper hand and I thought he was about to pass out. Just before he closed his eyes, his soft voice whispered, “I love you, daddy”, and that monster, that beast, that maniacal feeling of helplessness surged through me from head to toe and consumed every inch of my being.
It was as if his words were a pardon. In that moment, I felt worthless. All I could do was watch him whimper more. I turned to the only thing I could while stranded in that cold dark chamber. I sought aid from something you can’t see. Something that I’m not even sure is there. Something I personally refer to as the great spirit.
The creator, God, Allah, whatever one may choose to refer to that being outside of our concept of space and time. As always, I had turned to the spirit as a last resort. My last reach for a long shot. And it was in that moment as I held my son’s hand that I questioned why it was only in times like these that I tried to tap into whatever connection to a faith I have. The answer was on the tip of my tongue just as I finished the question in my mind. It was because I reached out whenever I felt this massive and all-consuming feeling of helplessness and all I was left with was hope.
Hope that there’s something out there that can make up for my ineptitude. But I carry a guilt each time I have cried out for this aid. I feel ashamed that I don’t stay connected to this relationship. Why should I be helped when I so often abandon it? Is that what I really deserve? I found myself once again conflicted between a philosophy and a blind belief. When reading Emerson when I was young, the idea of self-reliance resonated with me. Whatever I wanted to achieve in life I felt would always come down to my will and determination. I couldn’t rely on some unseen force in the universe to lead me to the end of the road I wished to travel.
Perhaps it was an overreaction, but here I found myself on that road feeling threatened that my son’s hand potentially would not stay within my grasp for the rest of the journey. Within that moment, my will and determination meant nothing. It was crippling to have this revelation that my self-reliance was not enough for him. Whatever ability or knowledge I have had no bearing on my child’s health. I had no choice but to accept that feeling of helplessness and rely on whatever hands could be impactful even if those hands perhaps are ones I cannot see.
After analyzing my son’s results along with additional tests, we were placed in isolation. They concluded that they would simply observe his condition because none of the tests indicated any significant problems. As the night crept steadily closer to the morning sun, his pain began to lessen, and his stomach was no longer a plate of steel. What was so frightening, and debilitating was finally subsiding and simply diagnosed as a severe stomach virus. My three hours of hell ended abruptly and without further worry.
As I stayed through the night and into the morning with him at the hospital, I could not shake off the contemplation that struck me so boldly in the ultrasound room. I walked away that day with a resolve that it was time for me to maintain that spiritual connection beyond only times of need.
When I look back, I wonder if perhaps that is all what faith is really about. I still don’t consider myself to be religious because I associate the term more with its’ institutions and their consistent hypocrisy. This experience though has somehow had a more lasting impact on my perspective. Maybe religion, faith or belief is just a product of what we all are – simple beings that are vulnerable and helpless. Maybe because of that we feel that there is nowhere else to turn and hope that we’re not alone. Hope that something truly is there to help and guide us down whatever road we have taken when we cannot control the obstacles that are thrown in our path along the way.