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I will never forget my daughter's fourth birthday party. Just the week before, I was diagnosed with having a malformation in my brain stem, and blood vessels were leaking blood into my brain stem. I almost did not make it to the party. I spent the week being monitored in an intensive care unit of a hospital. But there I was, slumped in a corner chair at the party, unable to stand and dance with the children and unable to swallow the cake being served. The pressure on my brain stem had not only effected my balance to the point where I could not stand, but it had also effected my tongue movement and larynx. Speaking and eating became an exhausting task.
But for my four-year-old daughter Leora, at least I was there. What she couldn't have understood, though, was that the doctors sent me home because surgery on the medulla, the part of my brain stem in need of repair, had a high risk of making my condition even worse. Basically, the doctors were praying that the bleeding would stop by itself. Even less aware of my precarious health was my seven-month-old son, Ezra. I'm sure he noticed my absence the week before, but it should have been no different to him than my being away on a business trip, which was not so unusual. My children's awareness would grow in the coming weeks.
The next day, Monday, I said good-bye to Leora as she left for nursery school. It was the last she would see of me for a while. During the weekend I had the eerie feeling that my brain was losing control of the rest of my body. Walking, talking, seeing, feeling, eatingÛnothing was working correctly. At least my ability to think had remained untouched. But that Monday I added a new function to my "does not work" list. Soon after I kissed Leora good-bye, I was sitting in a chair, praying actually, when I realized I was not breathing. When I stopped to think about it, I could take a breath and continue. But my brain was not doing this on its own, involuntarily. Doctors are fascinated with my description of this event. Few people alive have experienced such a failure of their brain and can remember it. Fortunately, my wife, Dalya, was home and she quickly took me to a nearby emergency room, where I was placed on a respirator. Later that night, I was transported back to my intensive care unit. Surgery was now my only option. The days passed as the doctors waited for me to stabilize for surgery.
Pictures of my wife and children stood by my bedside. Surgery was scheduled. The day before surgery, my children were brought to see me. My nurse tried to make the room children-friendly. She sat me in a chair, tubes behind me, and pushed the machines to the side. I wanted to cry when Leora and Ezra were brought to me. Knowing the enormity of the next day's surgery, how else could I have reacted? Here in front of me was lifeÛtwo beautiful young children. But here I was, their father, facing death. It was the most important visit I had during my hospital stay. A father is supposed to give his children strength. My children gave me strength.
Ten days later, I was in a brain trauma rehabilitation center. That's when my children were able to see me again. For the last few weeks, since my emergency room visit, I was unable to speak. Instinctively, Leora came over to me and gave me a great big hug. Ezra, now about eight-months-old was just learning how to walk. Fathers always take pride in watching their child take his first steps. But how many fathers are learning to take their first steps at the same time? At the rehab. center, I was able to experience first-hand what my son was experiencing -- the frustration and joy of learning to walk. It became a race. Who would walk first? I won that race, but Ezra soon caught up and has flown by me. I can only keep up with him now with the aid of a wheelchair.
It is now three years since that experience and I have joined the ranks of At-Home Dads. I have a lot of respect for those who choose such a path in life. To be honest, it was not something I would have chosen. After my surgery, I struggled to return to work, only to fall short of my goal because of my physical limitations. I am glad I failed. Being at home with my children has brought meaning to my disabilities and purpose to my life. Although I can not do as much as other At-Home Dads, I have immense pleasure when I help Leora with her homework, especially her math, and I enjoy playing games with Ezra. I have even played baseball with my kids while sitting on a chair. I have always enjoyed playing with children. Even before my illness, I had time to play with my children. I was not one of those workaholics who never saw his kids. The difference now is my appreciation of this time with my children.
However, there are many aspects of my old job that I miss. I miss the feeling of accomplishment after finishing a hard project. I miss visiting customers and convincing them that they need our latest product. I miss the companionship of co-workers. I miss the paycheck. Compared to my old job, being at home with the children is mundane. I have a graduate degree from Harvard, for goodness sake. But it is the mundane and ordinary aspect of caring for children that equalizes my losses. I feel accomplishment when I take Ezra's mind off his brooding by starting a counting game with him. I feel great when I convince Leora to eat her broccoli. I enjoy the companionship of my children. And thankfully, my wife brings home a paycheck. I think I am putting my Harvard degree to good use.
For me, fatherhood does not mean being the breadwinner of the family, although providing for one's children is a parent's obligation. One can be an excellent father and have a career. I did that for the first four years of Leora's life. But being a father has taken on a new meaning.
For me, being a father means being alive.
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