by T. Patrick Foster
(Below is an excerpt from my upcoming book "3 Candles." I hope you enjoy.)
Henry’s first months with us were absolutely “normal.” His mysterious illness in the hospital was nothing more than a scary blip on the radar once we got him home. It disappeared as quickly as it came on. They let us take him home. He was breastfeeding, gaining weight, passed his infant screening tests – all very normal. Henry had an older brother and sister to get acquainted with, and we wanted to spend time with our new addition. So, with everything seeming copasetic and with a lot on our plates, Kristen and I gave almost no thought to Henry’s first days.
Almost. Or, so it would have seemed from the outside. But, like most parents, we are worriers. Speaking for myself, I long worried about things that I thought might happen – rational or not. So, completely forgetting about something that did happen and not worrying about the future was not in my make up. Kristen’s either. Our concerns didn’t get “air time,” as neither of us discussed them. There was really nothing to say. Early on, he seemed just perfect. So, to talk about “what ifs” without a symptom or a reason – was just asking for trouble. A truism in my universe about virtually everything. I had enough trouble to deal with – without asking for more.
Though we didn’t talk “what ifs” with each other, my mind raced with them. I was used to going through scenarios, possible problems, potential outcomes, and plans to protect from the worst. I did that as a child, not appreciating that I had little, if any, true influence on the outcomes in most situations. Then, I entered a profession where this process was my focus, where there were rules that I could master, and have a much more direct effect on outcomes. This control, influence, and level of predictability felt safe for me – much less volatile, and more fair, than what I was used to.
So, it was natural for me to carry this practice with me to my family. It had served me well, so I thought, up to that point, and it’s what I knew. What I wasn’t prepared for was that the lack of control, lack of influence, and sometimes utter unfairness would return with a vengeance. Unlike in my law practice, there were no rules. Things didn’t have to make sense. They could be unsettling. And the flow charts more voluminous and complicated. Non-sensical even.
It could also become overwhelming. At any one time, I had several flow charts streaming through my head – each with different problems (virtually none of which materialized), several potential solutions for each, and all of the potential outcomes. Sometimes it was paralyzing. Not in that I couldn’t make a decision or take action, as I always was decisive. I had to be. Indecision proved dangerous, and picking a path was a way that I was able to exercise some control, or a sense of it – even when I chose what turned out to be the wrong path. So, the paralysis wasn’t indecision; I was racing through the flow charts in my head – making serious and thoughtful decisions – without hesitation.
The paralysis was my inability to enjoy what I had right before me. I had three relatively healthy and loving kids, a beautiful and supportive wife, professional success, and the means to support my family and spend time with them. When I read it now, or looked objectively at it then, being overcome with worry and anxiety just didn’t make rational sense. But with fear, rationality goes out the window. I learned that it can overtake us. Any of us. And that doesn’t mean that we don’t love our kids, our spouse, or the blessings that we have. I did. It just means that the fear of losing it – those things that are most important to us – can overshadow what we have. The flow charts in my head did.
Instead of enjoying what I had, I was planning how to keep it, and preparing myself for losing it. To some extent, we all do that. Those that have lost loved ones, or are living with them through illness, engage in this exercise. Those that have been abused – in any way, shape, or form – understand the constant planning – for self preservation. Those of us that have ever struggled with self-confidence issues also inject “worthiness” into the equation. All of this makes it difficult, if not impossible, to truly and graciously accept the gifts we have right now.
Struggling with this is something that we all do – regardless of our backgrounds. Conquering it, on the other hand, is a difficult challenge that few of us ever accomplish. I’m proud to report that Henry helped me gain the perspective, and live it. It took my son, who had a more balanced perspective on life than anyone that I have ever met, to teach me this important lesson. To teach me that the here and now is what’s important. To teach me that laughing, crying, and showing the feelings that we have now is living. To teach me that we don’t have control over much of anything. And, that’s okay. But, we can control how we choose to live each day. We can choose to get rid of the flow charts and not let fear control us. We can choose to really live life to the fullest.
The irony is thick. That this very big life lesson can be so clearly and cogently taught by a little boy who has been stricken with a rare and terminal disease, by a boy that has everything to complain about but doesn’t – and instead chooses to laugh, smile, and see the bright side of everything – is powerful, humbling, and nothing short of divine. Taught by a boy that has less time than most of us will to spend on Earth, but will undoubtedly live more life than most.
So, though there were no significant symptoms to worry about in those first few months, the internal storm was fierce. And, even then, we became eager students. I’m glad that we paid attention because, as is apparent, there were real medical storms that we’d face. But with Henry’s example, Kristen and I learned how to ride the storm out, appreciate every minute, and keep fear at bay. Our greatest fear became not living life to the fullest. So, we did. And, so can you. Just listen to Henry!
