Being a Father

Imagine this:

You are in Ethiopia and you've had your son for less than a day, and you think he might have a fever and be acting weird (but you don't really know because you've just met him), and the other parents at the embassy say that it looked like a large spit-up that got all over you, not throw-up; but then he hasn't eaten since the morning and you're back in the room at the guest house trying to get him to take a bottle but he's completely limp and not eating very much. So you try some of the mush instead. No dice. He starts to spit up--another big one, so you dash for the bathroom.

And standing over the sink, looking at your son in the mirror, you see the continuing flow of spit-up running over your arm into the sink change color and consistency. Yellow. Smooth. It's bile. And then, with his whole body completely limp, and his head resting awkwardly on your arm, he looks in your eyes and your son starts dry-heaving.

And adding to the surreal quality of the situation, he's not crying. He hasn't all day.

You think, "We need a doctor."

And then you think, "We're in Africa."

Staring helplessly into the mirror you call to your wife and ask her to get some paper towel or toilet paper. She helpfully points out that there is toilet paper right next to you as she comes in and tears some off for you.

And you're thinking, "I can't handle this!" so you hand him to your wife and, in order to keep from breaking down, you go to the kitchen sink and start washing the clothes your wife was just working on. A few minutes later you find her in the bedroom taking his temperature, and as you walk up you see it register 101.4.

You don't need your wife to tell you that is really high, but she does anyway. You look at your son, and you can see the sweat all over his head. His eyes are glazed over. You wonder whether he will live.

And how long you are going to be in Ethiopia with him in the hospital? And will your insurance cover the costs?

Convinced you need a doctor, your wife confirms it by asking if you had heard that one of the other adoptive fathers was a doctor. Yes you had. You're miles ahead of her.

As you pray for your son and for strength, you attempt to prepare yourself to go ask for help. Chances are slim that you can announce this to your wife without sobbing, and so you delay, practicing the words in your head. You know full well that the first person who Speke to you outside of the room is not going to be prepared for a complete breakdown from you, but you doubt it can be helped. So you figure you better communicate in as few words as possible. You consider trying to say the words, "My son needs help." before you become completely unintelligible. Frankly, you probably won't make it past "My son..."

Your wife announces that she's going to go ask somebody how much baby Advil to give him since they don't put dosage amounts for under 2 years old. As she leaves you think, "It's baby Advil. It's for babies! They don't tell you how much to use?!"

When your wife returns she tells you that his temperature is actually only 99 according to a "better" thermometer. She gives him some Advil, and you lie down on the couch with your son sweating on your chest. You put a damp towel on his head and you pray.

Half an hour later he wakes up and he's fine. He drinks some water. He drinks some milk. He keeps them down.

Congratulations. Your eight month old has survived a low-grade fever.

As you thank God for his answer to your prayers, you realize what it means to be a father. You thank God for your son, and you give him back to God.