As I find myself on the second night of my husband’s bi-weekly business trip, I’m reminded that this night is often tougher than the first. The initial excitement of solo parenting has worn off, my patience for my children’s bedtime antics has evaporated, and my pledge to remain calm has crumbled before dinner is even finished.
My 5-year-old daughter, thankfully, has drifted off in her brother’s room, leaving me to contend with my 3-year-old son, who seems determined to keep the bedtime battle going. I yearn for just a few moments of peace before collapsing into my bed, spread out like a starfish. To encourage him to sleep, I feign slumber, hoping to set a peaceful example. Each time my eyes flutter open, however, I’m met with his wide-eyed enthusiasm as he hurls his Spider-Man action figure against the wall, trying in vain to catch it on the way down. He’s bursting with energy, laughing each time Spider-Man bounces back.
“Let’s try to sleep, buddy,” I gently suggest, placing my hand on his tummy.
“Okay, Mama,” he replies, squeezing his eyes shut tight. His effort warms my weary heart. But soon enough, the sounds of play return—he’s back at it, tossing Spider-Man again.
It’s not entirely his fault; his preschool mandates a rest period, and he typically sleeps soundly during the day. Yet, the struggle of having a child who no longer requires a nap but still can’t settle down until late is a familiar woe for many parents.
In a moment of desperation, I pull out my phone to text my husband, something along the lines of, “Help me! Bedtime is a disaster. Aarrrgghhh!!!” I can only imagine how many times I’ve sent similar messages on these second nights of his trips.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes, startling me. A text from my father appears, and my heart sinks. My dad rarely texts me without reason, and the few times he has, it’s been about severe winter weather in Chicago. But now, in May, there’s nothing noteworthy about the weather. My anxiety heightens as I read his message: “Call me when you can.”
My mind races—someone must have died. I mentally catalog our elderly relatives, worrying about Uncle Gerry and my dad’s cousin Junior, who is 86.
“Mama will be right back,” I assure my son, who looks perplexed by my sudden departure. I rush upstairs, dialing my parents’ number, my breath quickening with each step.
“Dad, I saw your message. What’s going on?” My underlying fear is palpable as I try to keep my composure.
“Everything’s going to be OK. My liver…biopsy…hepatitis…we wanted you to know,” he explains.
I ask what I believe are the right questions: “How are you feeling? What do you need? How can I assist?” When my mom joins the call, I find the courage to ask, “Is this related to alcoholism?” even though my dad has been sober for over 38 years.
“They said no to that,” my mom reassures. “He also asked about Agent Orange from Vietnam, and they confirmed it’s unrelated.”
In that moment, the three of us find a rare unity, grappling with the same questions and seeking to understand the situation. We share a collective sorrow as we ponder who might be to blame for my dad’s health issues.
“He’ll be on medication for life,” my mom states, and the weight of those words settles heavily on me. The thought of my dad needing a pillbox while traveling, whether to visit me or to see his beloved Aggies play, fills me with dread.
“Mama! Maaaaaaamaaaaaaa!” my son’s voice booms from downstairs, pulling me back into the present.
“Are your kids still awake?” my mom asks, sensing the chaos.
“Don’t ask,” I reply, wishing I could hide my feelings.
“It’s nearly 10 p.m. If I can just get him to sleep, I can then research my dad’s condition. Knowledge is power, but that will have to wait.”
I lie beside my son, and as I scratch his back, I can feel his warm energy calming. He flips over and I think about my dad’s liver—its long journey through life, from Vietnam to sobriety, and the wear and tear it has endured.
Then, a sobering realization hits me: My dad isn’t 40; he’s 70. The “rest of his life” isn’t as long as I often presume.
As I keep my hand on my son’s back, I scroll through my search results, landing on the Mayo Clinic’s website. “Not fatal. Controllable with medication.” A wave of relief washes over me, and as my son’s breathing steadies, I allow myself to finally relax.
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Summary
This article depicts the challenges of solo parenting during a spouse’s absence while grappling with unexpected family health issues. The emotional strain of balancing children’s needs and parental concerns is relatable to many in the sandwich generation, highlighting the importance of support and information during difficult times.