Parents aim to give their children a sense of perspective; an awareness of their place and role in the world.
With my wife, I try to teach our kids Emily (11) and Ben (8) that we don't hold sway over our beginnings and endings – co-dependency and community reign. But as for how we elect to muddle through the in-between bits? That´s on us.
My favourite parental pontification has always been to choose to treat life´s lesser negatives as ‘water off a duck´s back´ by not letting circumstances dictate their responses; the Romans put it more martially; vincit qui se vincit (‘he conquers who conquers himself´).
But my own duck has been royally saturated of late by a serious health condition that would´ve ended me in a less enlightened age.
For several months I´d worked, growled, slept and woken in pain and discomfort, hounding my hapless GP as she dismissed possible maladies such as kidney stones, cancer, diabetes, bladder infections, tumours, prostate problems, etc.
Weight gain baffled; work colleagues frowned me-wards daily, concerned. Heavy facial bruising led to attempted humour: winking surreptitiously I reassured the kids that their gentle mother, Trudy, was not bashing me each night.
A belated early April referral to a urologist/surgeon, led to an alarming ultrasound and a blunt instruction to head for the nearby emergency triage ‘now´. My bladder was a water balloon waiting to go splat. A damaged kidney raised fears.
A painful, slow but necessary catheterisation was a new lowlight (worsened by the practitioner´s grinning admission that ‘you´re my first´). A sleepless night in emergency dawdled on, punctuated by a friend´s visit, anxious phone calls and texts, and regular screams from ‘code greys´ (instances of drug-affected and mental health patients losing the plot).
Back home, the kids were in tears. They rallied, negotiating a roster for sleeping in Mum´s bed. I felt useless.
Grim if illuminating consultations (‘we usually see this in 60 and 70 year olds´) preceded a bleak morning release. Several miserable weeks followed, walking circles slowly around home.
It´d be good for my ego to declare that I shed the collective pain, stress and uncertainty like H2O off my tail feathers, as I proved myself a positive stalwart for wife and progeny. Not always so; I´ve too little faith in this best of all possible worlds, and too vivid an imagination.
Hope, and the sense of perspective I try to emphasise in my parenting, actually came from Trude and the kids. When the kids and their Ma picked me up from emergency, Emily stood guard over her Dad in a beautiful bit of role reversal while the others got the car. Arriving home after school that afternoon, Ben delegated Hooters, his stuffed owl (an anecdote to share with his mates at Ben´s 21st), to keep me company.
The kids stepped up, helping Trude with cleaning and chores. Easter came and went, with its storied agonies and redemption. School holidays beckoned and my body needed time to reset before surgery was advisable.
Trude and I talked it through; I could lie in bed and groan at home, with the kids comatose in front of electronic screens. Or (as we did), we could pile in the car, scoot down for several days to our booked pleasure dome in Inverloch, where I could lie in bed and groan while two intrepid explorers dragged their sainted mother around the region´s dinosaur bone-laden pathways and freezing beaches, etc.
Family and friends communed, wishing me positivity and prayers, support and doctor jokes. The kids´ friends at church prayed regularly for their sick dad. Grandma drove an hour up to Melbourne to take Ben to his karate lesson.
Emily was surprised when she moved me to tears one morning as she played a grade eight piano arrangement of Georgie Gershwin´s joyful ‘I Got Rhythm´; she´d never seen me cry. Ben gladdened our lives, scoring an honorable mention award at an eisteddfod for his cello feistiness.
Routines returned our worried, weary family to a sense of normalcy. School, swimming, homework. Endurance. Music soothed, flowing through cornets, cellos, violins and pianos. The uncontrollable was faced; accepted.
On 17 April, blissful nothingness via the anaesthetist preceded successful camera exploration and laser-wielding by our surgeon. My groggy, relieved escape from hospital preceded my ongoing, healthy convalescence at home for several weeks, with numerous walks with Wolfgang, our superannuated spoodle.
Ten kilos lighter, I´m due back to work on 20 May. Both kids are seeing lots of me while Trude´s jealous of my extra sleep post-surgery. The offspring have both scored ‘student of the week´ awards, Em for ‘her insightful entry in her writer´s notebook´ and Ben for 'delivering yet another fabulous speech (and for trying his best to complete his homework)'. Sensitive, tender, our kids rose to meet a challenge.
I also re-learnt something I´d retired from the forefront of my mind; their mother (whose name aptly means ‘spear maiden´) is made of strong stuff. Sitting together with friends a´visitin´, Trudy floored me by admitting that before my emergency admission she was terrified I´d up and die on her. She kept it together, regardless. I am truly grateful.
Barry Gittins is a communication and research consultant for the Salvation Army.
Hospital visit image by Shutterstock.