Chapter 6. In-Flight Safety Instructions

Busy inventorying Ethan’s hearing aid equipment, I noticed him in the corner of my eye standing at attention, ready for inspection. He was covered from head to toe in raingear: rain hat, raincoat, rain boots, and an umbrella. Save for the umbrella, which was tomato red, everything was blue, his favorite color at the time.

“You know, buddy,” I said with a smile, “it’s not going to rain today. Plus, it’s going to be rather warm. I’m not sure that you will need all that rain gear.”

“Ethan need it,” he said. “Rain forest today, Daddy. It rains a lot (d)here. Did you know (d)hat Daddy?”

“Oh, of course, hence the name," I responded with a sigh knowing that I would be carrying the extra gear before long.

The day before he was a mountain climber with ropes and a flashlight, the day before that he was the Scare Crow from the Wizard of Oz. Ethan was a serial obsessionist. Each day he assumed an entirely different persona. The one constant in the kaleidoscope of identity changes was me as equipment manager.

Arriving at the playground just before ten, I looked over the crowd while Ethan played with the lock of the big metal gate. His usual M.O. when he did not have a companion along was to shadow kids like a sheepdog, running around the perimeter, then weave his way into their movements and become part of the flow. Before long, a kid would take notice and eventually start playing with him. With no kids his age there, I knew that I would quickly be pressed into service. I put my bag down just before he turned to me and said, “Come on, Daddy!” Off we went, he in the lead, up the ramp and down the slides. If I got ahead of him, I lunged toward him roaring as he careened down the twisty slide or pretended to try to trip him up as he worked his way back up the slide to the top.

Tiring of the chase, I positioned myself on a round, covered platform with a rope ladder in the center and a steering wheel on a wall. “Captain,” I shouted, “there’s a storm coming our way. Should we prepare the sails?”

As he took the wheel and pretended to be buffeted by huge waves, I noticed another boy Ethan’s age arrive and point us out to his mom. I was relieved to see her motion him toward us. He was quickly at our side, enabling me to slink away.

I sat down and began scribbling in my notebook about something that happened the day before at a beauty supply store. He and I were there to pick up a special order of two-dozen boxes of toupee tape. At the counter, I noticed the clerk casting covert glances at me from different angles. She finally said, “Your hair looks great. Do you mind if I ask where you got it?” She turned beet red when I explained we used the tape to hold Ethan’s hearing aids in place and apologized over and over while I tried to reassure her that I was not offended.

“Here’s to you, toupee tape,” I muttered, as I watched Ethan and his new chum chase each other around the playground with Ethan’s hearing aids firmly in place. Putting my notebook away, I noticed the time. Now the challenge was disengagement. I had to reenter the fray. I approached them yelling, “Pirates are boarding the ship. Run!” A chase ensued. They began running faster and climbing more quickly, expending considerable energy looking over their shoulders and laughing. After ten minutes or so, I called out to them. “Boys, I need a break. You are too fast for me.” I was truly a little breathless.

“Yeah, you not catch us, Daddy,” Ethan shouted, breathing hard, repositioning one of his hearing aids that had worked its way atop one of his ears.

We said goodbye to Ethan’s playmate and left for an 11 o’clock audiology appointment. The speedup session served its purpose. It wore Ethan down enough that he was willing to leave the playground without a fuss. He was happy to sit in the stroller, chattering away about this and that for the three-block walk to the hospital.

It was 10:45 when we reached the lobby, giving Ethan time to play with the interactive kid displays and me to pick up an iced mocha at the coffee shop in the corner. Trailing him from one display to the next, I sipped my coffee and responded to his ongoing commentary. Between queries and excited musings, I daydreamed about how I was going to get a little shut-eye.

It had become an obsession. I was always on the prowl for a suitable nap spot--and they were everywhere for someone with my napping dexterity. I could fall asleep without difficulty in the most uncomfortable positions: in cars, moving or parked, doctors’ offices, on park benches, even during yoga classes. The final resting pose was a given, of course, but I had even dozed during non-resting poses.

The importance of naps for me was not lost on Ethan. The previous fall, while visiting his grandparents, he had constructed a nice little cabin out of Lincoln Logs. A figure stood in an upright position on the outside, while another lay prone on the floor inside. Grandma asked him who the figures were, and he responded that the one on the outside was Mommy on her way to work. And the figure inside the house? “That’s Daddy,” he said. “He needs a blanket and pillow.”

Our yearlong experiment in sleep deprivation began shortly after his second birthday when Ethan stopped eating much solid food and was consuming mostly only chocolate milk and decaffeinated iced mochas. Dr. Hollinger found a dime wedged vertically at the surgical site, where they repaired his esophagus as a newborn. We were terribly embarrassed that it could be there for perhaps two months before we suspected that something was stuck in his throat. To our surprise and relief, Dr. Hollinger and his staff did not alert child welfare officials. Instead, they flew to our defense, saying that because sometimes food could pass unhindered, and because he was often able to cough up anything that got stuck, there was no way to know something was lodged there. Our embarrassment only grew when Ethan asked for a decaf mocha after waking up from surgery. The crowd of doctors, nurses, residents, and medical students around Ethan’s bed had all just laughed, agreeing that an iced mocha would have been nice right then.

Dr. Hollinger said he had a large collection of things he removed from kids’ throats. It was particularly not surprising for a kid like Ethan, because the scar tissue in his esophagus did not grow normally and to be stretched surgically in a procedure called a dilation a little at a time. We took Ethan to Children’s at 530 am for a dilation twice a week between Thanksgiving and mid-January.

The outpatient surgical center became our home away from home. We got to know the staff and shared jokes and personal stories. Ethan padded around in his Elmo slippers holding a stuffy, exploring the surroundings and exchanging greetings with patients and the staff. Before putting him under each time, Dr. Hollinger showed him the instrument used to stretch the scar tissue. After carefully eyeing the round metal band and various other equipment, he nodded with a smile that he was ready for the anesthesia. Afterwards, we visited some more, and Ethan was treated with popsicles.

The downside, of course, was that the surgeries wreaked havoc on our schedule. Besides getting him up at an ungodly hour, the anesthesia left him groggy and listless afterward. Spending much of the afternoon slumped in a kiddie Barco lounger, dozing on and off, he roused around dinner time, stayed up late, and woke up early the next day. He was revved up and going full steam all day without a nap until the next dilation.

Interspersed among the dilations, moreover, were a number of respiratory infections, which, whether mild or severe, were especially hard on Ethan, because of his papery airways. Rather than remaining firm upon exhaling, Ethan’s collapsed, producing asthma-like symptoms when the inner walls of his airways were covered in secretions. Someone with healthy airways could dislodge gooey particles by coughing. For Ethan, this was like trying to dislodge something sticky from the inside of a plastic newspaper sheath by shaking it violently. He coughed and coughed and coughed with little to show for it. Even after the fever broke and his lungs cleared, the cough continued. Medications that soothed airways only accentuated the tendency of his to close, so there was no relief from the pain. And concern that coughing might allow stomach acid into his lungs through his laryngeal cleft meant that he and I slept fitfully in a reclining chair together for weeks at a time.

Finally, there were the oral steroids Ethan took to reduce the inflammation in his airways. They did the trick, helping him breath We were grateful for that. Their side effect, however, was considerable nervous energy and irritability. Poof, calm, sweet Ethan became STEROID BOY! Frantic, irritable.

Desperate for sleep, that was the state I was in when we checked in for his appointment. My body ached, my head was throbbing, even my eyes hurt. It was like something inside me was trying to get out, pressing against all my joints. Only sleep would calm the beast and relieve the internal pressure

While Ethan was fitted for new hearing aid earmolds, I daydreamed about being in solitary confinement, or how I imagined it to be in my despair: an hour in the exercise yard with twenty-three hours alone in my cell with some books, napping now and then.

Walking to the car afterwards, Ethan chattered away about robots, while I thought about what Janet had said after Ethan was born, that I was good in a crisis. The big things took all my energy, completely occupied my mind, giving me purpose, direction, and keeping anxiety at bay,

I struggled with the little things. Diarrhea? How bourgeois! An ordinary kid ailment that completely overwhelmed me. "What the hell?" I yelled the first-time liquid poop came streaming out the sides of his diaper. Later that same day, it happened again, taking me, astonishingly, completely by surprise. "What’s wrong with you?" I screamed, shaking the sides of the car seat. I had reared back immediately then, horrified by the startled look on his face. I definitely wanted to avoid a repeat performance.

I ran down my options. The easiest one was to let him fall asleep in the car. I could pull off into the lakefront park and settle into a nice snooze myself.

A bizarre incident the previous winter suggested the lakefront was a nap-free zone. Both of us were sound asleep in the car. Suddenly, I was awakened by a loud tapping sound. Startled, I looked over wide-eyed at someone standing at the driver’s side window. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Are you both okay?”

I nodded, a little bewildered, as I watched him run down the path. He must have thought it was a murder suicide. He had no idea how close we were to that. Me killing him for waking us up, and then me killing myself in despair about not getting a nap.

I began mulling over other options. I could drive straight home and let him fall asleep along the way. Pull into the garage, open the windows, and turn off the car. With the big side doors open, he would very probably continue sleeping comfortably. With the warm weather, however, our neighbors would be on their back porch watching TV. It would be hard for me to fall asleep listening to Gerry Springer at high volume. And if the Cubs were playing, they would be screaming at the screen.

If he fell asleep on the way home, I could try to pick him up, carry him inside, and let him sleep on the couch or ideally upstairs in his bed. This often worked when he had been sleeping normally. In his current state, though, I was not confident I could get him inside without him waking up.

The most difficult option was the only realistic one. I had to somehow keep him awake during the ride home. I set him in his seat, gave him some yogurt, and opened the trunk to see what I had to keep him busy. I was in luck. There was a Power Ranger. Concerned that it was still not enough, I resumed rummaging. That our trunk was an automobile version of Mary Poppins’ bag was confirmed when I found a bag of chocolate coins underneath some beach toys. “Ohhh,” I said, as though I’d stumbled upon a long-lost family heirloom. "Thank you, Lord." 

I put the Power Ranger and the coins on the front seat where he couldn’t see them and drove off down the street. Ethan paged quietly through a comic book, then stared out the window. We had entered phase I. Stopped at Belmont and Sheffield, I handed him the Power Ranger.

His eyes lit up, and he began talking excitedly. First an inventory. “Charlie has my green Power Ranger, Daddy, while I have Tommy’s red one. Tommy has my blue Power Ranger. The blue one is the best. Did you know that Daddy?”

“I do now,” I said, wondering how much sleep the average Power Ranger got each day.

“The blue ONE, Daddy, is an SPD Ranger.”

“Is that better?” I asked. Though I knew the answer, I wanted to keep him talking.

“Yeah,” he said, looking out the window.

“Why is it better?” I inquired with a quizzical look.

A truck went by his open window, so he didn’t hear me. He turned back toward me and opened a new topic, acquisitions. After we covered what he and others wanted to get, he looked out the window for a moment before continuing. “Tommy has a purple Shadow Ranger, Daddy,” he said with raised eyebrows.

“Shadow Rangers? That sounds bad. Are they bad guys?” I asked.

He exploded with excitement, listing the various colors, outlining their capacities, and describing the manifold threats they posed to decent citizens everywhere. The Power Rangers, thankfully, remained steadfast, our last line of defense.

As we drove along the cemetery north of Irving Park, the talking tapered off, and he began staring silently out the window. His eyes started to droop as we approached the light at Montrose. I put the bag of chocolate coins in the small storage compartment between the two front seats and called his attention to them by rooting around inside. “Where is that darn hand sanitizer?” I said in a stage whisper.

He noticed the bag of coins as we slowed to a stop at Lawrence Avenue. His eyes widened as he blurted out, “Daddy, can I have one?”

“One what?”

“The gold thing. Can I have one, please?”

“What thing, buddy?”

“Right there, Daddy,” he said leaning forward pointing. “The chocolate!”

Save for the seat belt and shoulder harness, he would have been on the floor tearing the bag open. As the light turned green, I said, “Oh, you mean these coins?”

“Yeah, Daddy. Can I have one? Please!

"Sure Feller, once we get to another stop light.”

Stopped at Foster Avenue. I pretended I couldn’t get the bag open.

“Please, Daddy, please, can I have one?”

“Here, I almost have it,” I said, relieved when the light changed. “Oh, bummer. We’ll have to wait for the next light, Ethan. Sorry.”

I’m going to pay for this in hell, I thought, as I caught sight of an angel statute while driving by the garden store.

I sighed as we pulled to a stop at Ridge. I handed him a coin and put another at my side. I relished his look of delight as he unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. Did you see that, angel? See how happy he is? Surely that counts for something? Turning onto Glenlake Avenue, I gave him another one. “Thanks, Daddy,” he said

One of the rare golden moments of controlled sleep disruption, I thought, as we walked into the house. You keep your child awake long enough to get home for a proper nap, but with the gentlest of means. No tapping, poking, and prodding. Giving him a chocolate coin was not even a bribe in a strict sense, I told myself, though I would have been hard-pressed to justify that claim.

The hypocrisy was harder to explain away. What could be more comforting than a quick snooze in the back of a moving car? Yet the person you trust the most in the world is trying to keep you awake, so that HE can get some sleep.

Putting our stuff down inside, I asked him to go to the bathroom. “No, Ethan want cookie.”

Oh man. This does not bode well.

“Go to the bathroom, and we will eat a cookie while we read books,” I said.

He began to shake his head violently and kick his feet. “No read books, no read books, watch moody!”

I stormed out of the room, calling back over my shoulder, “Fine. Have it your way.” He continued kicking the floor and shaking his head. I went to the bathroom while the protest continued.

I came back into the front room with a new proposal. “Okay, we watch part of a movie after your nap,” placing emphatic stress on the words “part” and “after." "First, though, we read a couple books.”

We trudged up the stairs and settled into the reclining chair in his room and began reading. It was a rather busy book, not particularly interesting. Suddenly, he hopped up and scooted around the corner. I called out to him, “let’s read some more stories.” No answer. “Do you want to just go straight to bed?” I threatened. Silence. I got up and started looking around for him. He was in the closet behind the door to the upstairs deck, smiling. “Let’s go to bed,” I said, carrying him back to his room.

When I put him down on his bed, he fell fast asleep. I plopped onto our bed, closed my eyes, and started to drift off. I was pulled back to consciousness, however, when he began chattering in his room. There were sounds of things dropping on the floor, followed by silence. Okay, everything’s fine. Just relax. A few minutes passed with me staring at the ceiling. I heard the headboard of his bed bang against the wall and a few words that I couldn’t quite make out. I craned my neck to look over toward his room, hoping, in my distress, to send a relaxation beam in his direction. The ruckus stopped. It worked, I thought, a bit surprised and intrigued. I should use relaxation beams more often. Then I heard a very quiet whimper. I decided to try to ride it out. Absent distressed calling out or intense crying, I saw no reason to intervene.

He upped the ante. “Help me,” he called out. “Help me, Daddy.” Okay, I sighed, that was addressed specifically to me. I had to go. He had somehow gotten one of his feet caught in the small gaps in the back bedrail.

Once he was freed, he dropped down in a crouched position and said, “Sorry, Daddy,” into his pillow.

“It’s fine,” I said, still annoyed. “Just please try to go to sleep.

“Okay, Daddy,” he said. He dropped down from his crouched position and laid face down on his bed. Turning his head up from his pillow, he said, “Mommy and Daddy’s bed, sleep in Mommy and Daddy’s bed.”

“Just go to sleep,” I responded, quickly leaving the room.

Once in our bed, I tried to send another relaxation beam his way. Again, to my surprise, it worked. There was silence.

I began to doze off, but he started talking again, followed by some rustling. I waited for a while before deciding to get him up. Walking to his room, I quickly revised my plan for the rest of the day. Perhaps he will just go to bed early. We could watch an entire movie together and try to get through the rest of the day without major incident.

I picked him up. He was motionless in my arms, his eyes closed. I collapsed in the chair with his head on my shoulder. I planned to stay just long enough for him to fall into a deep sleep. He was pant-less, holding a paper mache chair in one hand and an empty movie box in the other. Despite the heat, I grabbed a blanket, and we settled into a very warm cuddle. I craned my neck to accommodate his long frame, astonished at how much he’d grown. He was breathing very deeply. I looked down at him, then drifted off to sleep.

About an hour later, I woke up to the sound of our dog barking loudly in the hallway. How did he get inside? I wondered. “Wait a minute,” I muttered. We don’t even have a dog. The barking was coming from the neighbor’s dog in the passageway between the two houses, the sound wafting up through the open window in our hallway.

Still groggy, covered in perspiration, I wrapped a blanket tightly around us. With my chin resting on Ethan’s golden mop of hair, I drifted back to sleep.