I found this column and found that it matched my own feelings and experiences perfectly...
I suppose that the general Dad experience is one of anger and helplessness. Dads are supposed to be the protectors of their families. Burglars, thieves, cutthroats, and murderers lurk outside the gate, and will be dealt with summarily if they chance to invade our kingdoms. There is a powerful fantasy of defending the castle against all comers, even laying down our lives to keep our children safe.
A diagnosis of a grave illness is sneaky, however. A spy, an assassin that has entered our lives through the sewer grate. Suddenly we realize that the princess is held captive in her own room, with a knife at her throat, and we are standing helplessly, stupidly, in the courtyard with useless weapons in our hands.
At the moment of our daughter's diagnosis, my wife and I set out on different journeys to rescue our child. More like two different takes on the same mission, two complementary approaches. For Mom, it was about comfort. Make our baby comfortable, make our family comfortable, share feelings and insights with visitors, things she was willing to do 24 hours a day at the expense of her own health. For me, it was about facts. What, exactly, is the diagnosis? What are the odds of complete recovery? What will be the results of the surgery? Where will we stay? What about the insurance people? Who will feed the dog?
Interestingly, the doctors told me not to read books. Current therapy and practice are advancing so rapidly, that a book is far out of date the day it’s published. So I went to the medical library at the hospital and read current periodicals and extracts. Good news. I asked tough questions at the doctor's conferences. Good numbers. I wrote regular newsletters so that we wouldn't have to tell the same stories over and over. Good work.
Meanwhile, my wife sat by our daughter's bedside and watched her sleep. She sat out in the hallway and talked to visitors, nurses, doctors, strangers, patients, janitors, technicians, maintenance men, pizza delivery guys until she was exhausted, and I knew we had to have a plan.
1. Analyze your strengths. Nancy was the caregiver, I was the utility player. She stayed at the hospital during the week, supervised our daughter's daily fight, and I stayed home and played Mom.
2. Allow your friends to help. When someone asks you what you need, tell them. Our friends did our laundry, mowed our lawn, cleaned our house, cared for our other children (took them Trick or Treating, swimming, to games, to sleepovers)
3. Try to keep the good and ignore the bad. While Mom was gone to the hospital all week, the other kids slept with me, had dinner with me, watched TV with me, and generally treated me with care. It was our job to be as normal and happy as possible.
4. Try to get some rest. Once we had established our plan, it had to produce good results for the patient. I told my wife that she was allowed to cry when she was not in the patient's presence, but she needed to be healthy and cheerful whenever she went in the room. Personal care is necessary for the patient's benefit. Take time off to sleep, shower, eat, and return with a good attitude. I came for the weekends; that was my time to relieve my wife, and take my turn on watch.
5. Accept the reality of your new life. One of the strangest results of our new routine was an incredible sense of peace for me. On the scale of values, weeds and bills sank to an all time low, and time at the hospital rose right to the top. At my most helpless, I found the strongest sense of God's presence. In my weakness, my only weapon was my time, my patience, and my support. As a man, it was humbling, as a father, it was transforming.
I don't mean to take away from the pain and difficulty of this experience; it was both painful and difficult. But I do believe that while this illness can destroy a family, it also has the potential to build one too. I think the bottom line rests with Dad. Dad's job as the warrior is to lay down his wants and desires, to fight with himself, and make the noblest sacrifice of his time so that his family might survive. In the end, it may be the best thing that you have ever done.
Joe, father of a childhood cancer survivor
