One of my earliest childhood memories was being sick at night. This was the 1980s, in the USSR, and there was little over the counter medicine, and it wasn’t very effective. My particular affliction was ear aches. I would get them multiple times during the winter, and through the year as well.
Earaches are horrible. But even more so for kids. Its this unremitting pain inside of your head. Sometimes dull, sometimes throbbing. You cant touch it. You cant massage it. My grandma would put cotton tips with rubbing alcohol in my ears, but it didn’t seem to help much. The pain seemed to be always with you, spiking every time you moved your head.
My parents would put me in a separate room by myself (we all slept together in one room normally) and I would stay there alone through the night. The pain would not let me sleep, and I would lay in bed through most of the night staring at the dark ceiling, wincing from the pain, feeling utterly alone. Year after year. Many similar lonely nights coming together to becoming one gut sinking dark memory.
I am not here to complain about my parents. I don’t think they knew. I’m sure they just wanted me to sleep better alone. I don’t remember asking them to sit with me or arguing about it. They wanted me to sleep alone, and I did it. I hated the experience, but I don’t know if I ever voiced it to them. And that’s the hardest thing about kids: they never tell you when they are being traumatized.
……..
It’s night. I’m sick. I’m laying in bed staring at the dark ceiling. I am listening to my oldest breathing on a mattress by my bed. I am waiting for him to wake up and throw up again. He’s been doing that regularly through the night the last few nights. So I am in the office with him, while Gabby has the younger sick kids in the bedroom, who also keep waking up but without puking. Dividing 3 sick kids between 2 sick adults: fun parent math.
He sits up coughing. I pass him the bucket in the dark. He throws up. I give him a tissue. Than some water. I rub his head and back and we talk. I say I’m sorry he has to throw up from the flu. “It’s ok” he says, “It’s not your fault. These things happen sometimes.” He is not upset. Just tired. I love him so much my throat begins to hurt, even more than from the flu. I tell him I love him so much. He goes back to sleep. I go back to staring at the ceiling and waiting for the next episode.
I feel accomplished. Sure I’m sick and exhausted. Possibly 30 hours without sleep. I would probably be on the mend already if I just got a decent night’s sleep. But it’s ok. I’m not an amazing dad. I don’t give my kids enough time or attention. I don’t like reading kids books. But at least I am do this one right. My kids won’t have memories of staring at the ceiling when they are sick at night. They will have memories of sharing that time with a loving adult. Or most likely they won’t have any memories of this at all. If it’s not traumatic anymore, it’s not worth burning into your memory. The tough scary night shared with a parent just dissolves into the fuzzy mist of a happy childhood. And that’s ok. I am not doing this to be remembered. I am doing this so that this ceiling won’t be.
…….
But what about that other little boy? The one back in the Soviet Union, 30 years ago. Still staring at the dark ceiling through the night. Feeling the pain of the earaches. Keeping still. Keeping quiet. Feeling utterly abandoned by the world. Feeling unloved and unlovable. Not daring to ask for any company. Someone to be there to share in the darkness and the pain.
That kid is still inside of me. I can feel him right now. Sad. Alone. Abandoned. Quiet. Waiting for the night and the pain to end. As I soothe my own kid, I feel the sadness of the young USSR me deep inside. As I talk my oldest back to sleep, I feel the loneliness of the me from 30 years ago.
He also wants his dad to be there. To talk to him at night when he is in pain. To pat his head and rub his back. To not leave him through the night. So the pain wont be so bad. So he can stop feeling so utterly alone.
Now we are both lying there staring at dark ceilings. Adult me and the little sick boy me from 30 years ago. Separated by time, connected by night. I feel his loneliness. I feel his pain. His jealousy for the love my son is getting so effortlessly.
I don’t know what to do for him. I can’t change my past. I can’t call my parents 30 years ago to not leave him alone. There is no time machine to fix my lonely childhood. All I could do now is give my kids the care that I wanted back then.
But little boys are complicated. They don’t care about time or distance. They just care about being loved. And there is no one left right now to reach out to that lonely boy in the USSR, just me. If I won’t talk to him in his night, who will? So…
…….Hey…. I love you. Don’t feel alone.
I’m sorry for not being there sooner. But… would you like a hug?
I can stay here all night. You don’t have to be alone. You don’t have to be alone anymore.
Yeah I’m not your dad. And I can’t truly fill his place. It’s not the same. But I’m here. And I am a dad. And I would not leave a sick boy to feel pain alone. Because that leads little boys to feel abandoned and unlovable. And you are lovable. Because all little boys are. Without doing anything to deserve it. I have 3 little boys myself, and I know it to be true with all my heart. And if you need someone to feel that for you, than it can be me. Because I am here.
So let’s share this night. Let’s share this feeling. Me from 30 years ago and me from now, we don’t have to be alone. Let’s amend this dark memory. Its our memory. We make the rules. Now there can be the little me looking up at the ceiling and older me also there to be talked to. To remind me that I am not alone and lovable. To pat me on the head and rub my back.
… Yeah earaches suck. I get it. They are the worst. Let’s talk about planes. Planes are awesome. And we have the whole night to talk.
