On Christmas morning, my toddler, Lily, developed a painful rash on her backside along with a fever. My partner, Sarah, promptly took her to the doctor. From the clinic, I received a text that read: “She has hand, foot, and mouth disease.”
As parents of three kids under the age of 9, this was our first encounter with HFMD. For those lucky enough not to know, HFMD is everything but pleasant. It can linger for up to two weeks and is highly contagious and incredibly painful. The rashes eventually morph into blisters, which can even get under fingernails, leading to the horrifying possibility of them falling off. Yes, falling off.
The mere thought of all three of my children running around with rashes, blisters, and missing nails sent chills down my spine.
By the time Sarah returned from the doctor’s visit, I was already busy shampooing the carpet and washing sheets, desperate to contain the virus.
As Sarah walked in with Lily cradled in her arms, I noticed the little girl’s once-soft mouth was now dotted with red spots. Her big brown eyes looked teary, and she kept opening and closing her hands as if they were numb. It broke my heart to see her like this, and I instinctively wanted to comfort her. But I hesitated, fearing the illness that had invaded our home.
I had recently been watching an alternate history series that depicted the horrors of a world where the Nazis had triumphed in WWII. One of the torturous methods they employed involved ripping off fingernails. Just the thought of that had haunted my dreams.
Herein lies one of the cruel ironies of being a parent: if Sarah had fallen ill, I would have kept my distance. I would have prepared soup and cared for the kids without physically touching her. But with my children, even if they had the bubonic plague, I would still have to hold them close.
Lily approached me, walking gingerly due to her sore, blistered feet, and tugged at my pant leg. I hesitated before picking her up. This is the reality of parenting a sick child: when they are messy and unwell, you care for them. And if your toddler has hand, foot, and mouth disease, you hold them tight, hoping to come through the ordeal unscathed, all ten fingernails intact.
Sarah handed me a list of over-the-counter treatments that the doctor recommended. “What is this nonsense?” I exclaimed.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a virus. She’s not even two yet; they can’t give us anything.”
For children under two, parents are left with two ineffective placebos: Tylenol and Motrin. They offer little relief, only a false sense of action.
The rest of the day was spent running to Walgreens—the only pharmacy open on Christmas Day—gathering ointments, fresh toothbrushes, bath toys, and anything else Lily might have touched recently. I felt guilty for shopping on a holiday but was grateful that any store was available in our small town.
The following nights became a test of endurance. Sarah and I took turns caring for Lily, whose rashes inevitably turned into blisters. On the third day, as I prepared her for a bath, I noticed one of the blisters on her bottom was peeling. When I tugged at a loose flap of skin, a patch the size of a dollar bill came off.
Sarah walked in, her face a mix of confusion and concern. “What happened?” she asked.
I shrugged, “It just came off?”
Lily stood there, naked and vulnerable, her blonde hair tousled. She looked at me with sorrowful eyes, as if I had betrayed her. Clutching the stuffed orange cat she received for Christmas, she wailed and waddled down the hall towards the tub, her sore bottom on display.
That night, she lost a bit more skin, some from her hands and feet. Yet by the next morning, she began to improve. It wasn’t an instant change, but rather a gradual return to normalcy.
About two weeks later, while cleaning up in the living room, I heard her laughter for the first time since this ordeal began. Exhausted from sleepless nights and just returning to work, I caught a glimpse of her joy. Our older children were in their rooms, and Sarah was in the kitchen. Somehow, we had all avoided falling ill.
Lily was wandering around the living room, and when our eyes met, she clutched her tummy, threw her head back, and burst into laughter. It was then I realized what had been missing: she hadn’t smiled or giggled in days.
There’s something incredibly fulfilling about witnessing your children’s happiness. I can’t explain why it brings me such joy, but it does. When their laughter fades, it feels as though a vital piece is missing—a deep void that cannot be filled.
This is perhaps the most troubling aspect of having a very sick child. They seem devoid of joy, stuck in a cycle of sadness or anger, and all you want is to see their smiles return.
I scooped Lily into my arms, “Looks like you’re feeling better.”
She babbled something and laughed again, filling me with warmth. I hugged her tightly.
That night, she slept more soundly than she had in days. The following day, her fingernails began to shed, but she didn’t seem to be in any pain. After that laugh, it appeared she was no longer suffering. And while I didn’t do much apart from holding her and applying ointment, there was a profound sense of fulfillment in seeing her recover.
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In summary, navigating the trials of hand, foot, and mouth disease is a harrowing experience for any parent. It challenges your strength and resilience but ultimately reinforces the power of love and care when your child is unwell.