The Gift of Long Hours

There is something powerful about watching your first-born child's chest rise and fall.  Listening to the air pass through his lungs, his small pursed lips.  I didn't think I was going to be this kind of parent...The one with the pocket mirror.  The one who wakes him only to put him back to sleep.

I move my face close to his to feel the fever.  His skin aglow in blue monitor lights.  Memorizing every fold, each crease, the way his brows arch.  I try to catch the movements in his eyes as they roll through another deep cycle of REM.

His face twitches as he stretches his neck.  He's not in pain, it's just the expressions of a new born, the jerky movements as he tries out his new parts. The faces only we see and think they are funny.  The face we fell in love with for the first time and then all over again.

When I need to check his temperature I don't feel it with my hand.  I take advantage of this opportunity to get close to him.  His breathe is warm on my ear.

I gently, barely touch my cheek to his.  Then I realize I don't know which razor stubble is his, and which is mine.

It's been more than 16 years since I've had the chance to spend so much time watching him sleep.  How long had it been since I checked on him.  Sure I give him a thorough smell test when he gets home late on a Saturday night. Do I detect smoke?  Drink?

When have I cared for him in this way.  So completely.  He doesn't cry when he hurts.  Instead, he tells the doctor about the pain.  Rates it a one to ten. He can walk, when he has the strength, getting himself to the bathroom and pees in a special plastic container so the medical team can examine everything that goes in and out of his body.

It's a staph infection in his chest. There have been tense moments. Especially at first when we weren't sure if we could get him home from the coastal Spanish town where he'd been studying.  Scarier yet when the hospital didn't know what it was.  A mysterious bite under his arm our only clue.

But after a few days in the hospital, a host of treatments, doctor visits and endless blood-taking and pee-examining he seems better.  More alert, his color is back, fever is down, swelling is receding.

And then it becomes a gift.  When the marrow-shattering fear subsides and the parental nightmare fades, it is our time.  This isn't about a near-death experience re-shaping my world-view where I come out the other side stopping to watch rainbows.

It's about a parents' awareness that our children are with us, if we are lucky, for 18 years.  And then if it all goes according to plan they are swept off into the world and leave us to our life if we can only leave them to theirs. 

I desperately want to feel close to him.  Adolescence now an obstacle. Tensions rise over school, friends, curfew, cars, money, homework, Facebook, phones, computers.  But none of those matter here in the dark of the hospital room.  At night we watch ESPN.  He in his hospital bed hooked up to monitors and IVs.  I rest in a recliner.  We talk about the games. The slowness of the baseball season.  How will the Redskins do?  He asks about things at home. He tells me about his trip to Spain without me asking.  It won't be this way next week, but it is tonight.

And with a scant two years left it's on our minds a lot.  What life lesson can we still impart?  What final factoid can we squeeze into him hoping it becomes part of his philosophy?  

We are in his presence for periods of time that we haven't had since before pre-school.  Interrupted by doctors and family and visitors and bouts of sleep. In our normal lives there are no long hours. just times together before we have something else to do.

Tonight he and I had dinner in the hospital cafeteria.  We sat there well after our tasteless food was picked over.  We laughed at how he couldn't tell if his last bite was a piece of chicken or a carrot.  At home the meal would have been a short segue.  Tonight it was a destination.

The hum and wheeze of the machines that clean his system and fight the poison, rouses and confuses me.  Is that his breathing?  Are those strained noises his body trying to do something it can't?  I check his fever.  Its four o'clock in the morning.  He moves his head and squints in the early light.

"Did you just put your cheek up against my face?" he asks in a whisper, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

"I did," I said smiling, feeling like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.

"That's just weird dad," he says, before fading off to sleep.

The Lesson of Positano

In every village there are four men -- never more, never less -- who sit in the square with their cigarettes, their espresso and their newspapers, arguing, laughing, reading, living.

The cab driver explained that working 7 days a week for 7 months was too much.  So he called a friend. And when he takes a day off, his friend drives.  And when his friend needs a break, he drives.  He works until dinner and then his friend works till midnight.

"The only one to work 7 days is the car."

He smiled at this discovery and looked in the rear view mirror to see if I was equally impressed.  I held the question as long as I could, but it spilled out.  The American question that had to come and his Italian Amalfi Coast answer was at the ready.

"So do you make more money?" I asked

"What does it matter?" he replied.  "I have more time.  More time at home.  In my garden.  With my kids."

It reflects the story of the Mexican fisherman.

An American investment banker at a pier in a small Mexican village eyes a small boat with one fisherman.  Inside the boat were several large yellowfin tuna.  The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, “only a little while.”

The American then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish? The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs. The American then asked, “but what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine, and play guitar with my amigos.  I have a full and busy life.”

The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “15 – 20 years.”

“But what then?” Asked the Mexican.

The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part.  When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions!”

“Millions – then what?”

The American said, “Then you would retire.  Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.”

The Giving Tree

I am reminded, in this coastal paradise, of the children's book.

The place built into the side of an Italian shoe is pure.

They are forever waiting for the sun to rise so the tourist will come.

All through the cold rainy months of October through May.

And then the sun comes out and warms the water, dries the olives and lights up the lemons until they are as big as grapefruits.

Soon the boats come out, sidewalks fill, the hotels open and the people follow.

The olives grow until they are picked and then smashed for their blood.

And then they wait for the earth to give again.  The sun, the wind, the rain, the ocean, the limestone, the lemons, the olives, all for pleasure.

Camelot on the Italian Coast

Positano:  A Place

The Amalfi Coast is not a place that does anything.  It exists solely for people to enjoy.

To eat the bread, with the olive oil and a little salt and not gain weight.

The smell of the lemon trees that never dull.

To eat the pasta, big heaping plates al dente with a pile of grilled fish and not get fat.  Or even full.

To do nothing and not feel guilty.

To sleep late and know you are missing nothing.

The boats sway as if on a timer.  

The birds and insects sing together, an orchestra conducted by nature.

The only thing that takes away are the unfortunate bathing suit choices of the men.

Upon Returning

Like most things the anticipation was worse than the event.  The return was fraught with worries about ruining it.  Taking the good, trying to do too much, capturing another year in a four-day stretch.

But the return is also filled with things to do, meetings to attend, work to get done.

There is a familiarity.  I find my Oyster card in the bottom of a desk drawer.  I write down my Barclay's bank card number on a piece of paper in my wallet.  I find my meetings by walking down vaguely familiar streets that come alive with memories as we pass a pub.  Like college campus after a long time away I re-discover places I once knew.  I stumble on new treasures.  If there is time I find a new path.

And then there is a trip back to the swim club where so many nights were spent.  The smell of the chlorine, the wood in the coffee shop brings me there again.  I suspected I would be sad, but I'm not.  My heart fills, like seeing the kids after they've been away at camp for seven weeks.  A friend from long ago.  I am glad to be there and the happiness lingers.

When we first returned home the cold water of life had the potential to ruin all the good from the previous year.  The memories and moments soaked by the frustrations of day-to-day suburbia.  The return brings them back to life and reminds us of how we lived and how we were happy with less space and more time.