I can think of a few times I've been caught in such a maelstrom - just off the top of my head...
9/11. A broken BC at 80 feet down in strong currents in a remote area of the Indian Ocean. That time in the early 90's when there were rumblings that a "Perfect Strangers" movie had been greenlit, potentially launching Bronson Pinchot's Balki into superstardom...
We've all been there. We all know how it feels.
Now, how about that specific moment when you realize that your fears definitively will not come to fruition? That palpable relief. That all-consuming and tangible relaxation of body and mind. That absolutely perfect sense of happiness that everything will be OK...for example when Bronson Pinchot instead signed on to star in another crappy, doomed sitcom, The Trouble With Larry.
When my daughter, Reese, was nearing her second birthday, she had already had a long and frightening history of some pretty nasty ear infections. The fact that she was clearly in constant pain with a seemingly unending supply of phlegm, equally distributed throughout her sinuses, was frequently compounded by her aversion to medication.
Now look, whoever thought it was a good idea to flavor baby medication, clearly has zero experience with children.
The first time Reese got an ear infection, her doctor prescribed an antibiotic, and when we picked it up at the pharmacy I was confused to see it was "Wild Cherry" flavored. I couldn't actually believe that this was intended for infants, and asked the Pharmacist for confirmation. "Yes, that's the only flavor they make," I was told.
Unfortunately, at that point in her existence (mere months old), the breadth or her diet had been mother's milk and powdered rice cereal with a little water. Talk about your flavor spectrums. Suddenly, we were sticking a funnel of viscous, tart, hot pink wild cherry liquid into her fleetingly trustworthy mouth. That look of pure shock on her face, followed by an instant decision that has lasted through today - nearly nine years later - never again to trust medicine occurred on that day at that moment.
Why don't they make plain flavored medicine for infants? Or better yet, Breast flavored? (Clearly this idea has applications well into the male adult years as well...)
So Reese didn't trust medication. And we had to fight her each time to attempt to help her ears improve. And we repeated this horrible cycle throughout the next year.
Finally, we saw an ear, nose and throat specialist who determined she needed to get tubes in her ears to allow drainage and end her pattern of infections. As many of you know, this is a fairly routine procedure; however, there's nothing routine from a parent perspective about watching your tiny young child be wheeled into an operating room on a gigantic gurney to be dosed with anesthesia - completely outside of your control.
But as scared as we were, Reese was absolutely petrified. The countless visits to the doctor leading up to this moment. The shots, pokes and prods - all of which she had fought from the beginning. The thick, runny, chalky, sour, unnaturally fluorescent antibiotics... She hated everything about this.
But, we got through it, and her ears began improving immediately.
Unfortunately, her disposition about doctors did not.
Every few months we needed to have her ear, nose and throat doctor give her a checkup, and every few months she was a trembling mess of nerves. She would scream, cry, beg, throw tantrums, mimic Balki...anything she could think of not to have to go to the doctor, as she was convinced she was signing herself up for pain, fear and hot pink medication from hell.
Thankfully, by the time she was four and a half, she hadn't had an infection in over two years, and we hadn't had to visit the doctor in over 18 months. So when we got the call that he wanted to see Reese to ensure the tubes had fallen out as she'd grown (the normal process), I sensed doom. It had been a long time since her last visit - true. But Reese's memory was solid. And her ability to overdramatize things was...Pinchot-ish.
But I was optimistic as well. I knew this wouldn't be a bad experience because this time all the doctor wanted to do was take a quick look in her ears and nothing more.
No prodding.
No poking.
No needles.
No choking...on medicine with an antifreeze glow.
I was confident this would go fine and that Reese would, for once, have a simple, positive experience with her doctor.
Unfortunately, Reese did not share my open mindedness.
The second she realized our car was heading in an unusual direction, she raised her voice with an accusatory tone, "Where are we going?"
I had no intention to hide anything from her (as if I could anyway), so I responded in a happy tone, hoping that she would be able to use my optimism and support to handle this challenge and not immediately decide to go down the path of panic.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! NO - PLEASE!!! I DON'T WANNA GOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
She panicked.
We got to the hospital, parked, and through hot, passionate tears, she adamantly refused to get out of the car. Of course, this was not an argument she was going to win, but I commiserated with her fear as I negotiated the choppy waters of parental responsibility. I wanted to make her feel better, end her pain, make her tears go away...."
"You are getting out of this car immediately!" Hmm, clearly intent and execution were being muddled by the heightened emotions...
I needed a different approach. Taking a deep breath, I sat next to her and calmly explained exactly why we were here and what was going to happen. I promised no needles, no medication, no discomfort at all, and most of all I promised that I would be with her the entire time - she could sit in my lap throughout the entire 5 minute checkup.
Her puffy, red face, staring straight ahead at nothing as I clumsily wandered through my soliloquy, finally turned toward me. She realized this was a battle she could not win - there was no way around it, no alternative solution. Without a word, and completely defeated, she got out of the car and took my hand as we walked to the doors.
A couple minutes later we had checked in and were sitting in the waiting room, about ten minutes early. I was secretly hoping that we'd be able to get in and out as fast as lightening; no need to prolong her both rational and irrational fears- get it over with.
But, of course, the doctor's office had no intent whatsoever to speed things along. We waited for over 40 minutes as Reese's disposition continued to become more and more frenetic. She was shaking, sweating uncontrollably, unable to speak at all, in the pure grips of deep, all-consuming fear. Forget about the countless colorful toys strewn about the waiting room or the half a dozen kids her age gleefully hopping around and having a wonderful time, she was a frazzled ball of anxiety.
She wouldn't speak, she wouldn't move, she wouldn't acknowledge my frequent attempts at support and levity. She was catatonic.
Finally, mercifully, we were called in, and you've never seen such a look of pure sadness on a child in your life. I picked her up and carried her in - shaking so hard I was having a difficult time holding on to her. And yes, once inside, the doctor took another ten minutes to come in. This was just plain brutal.
When he finally arrived, Reese couldn't answer any of his questions or acknowledge any of his attempts to help her relax. Shaking uncontrollably, sweating so badly that my own shirt was now changing colors, and looking around the room like a cat cornered by a rabid dog, she was an absolute mess. But all the doctor did, literally, was look inside each ear for two seconds, then proclaim she was doing great, and told her she could pick up a toy on the way out.
As I carried her out to the front desk, her mind clearly couldn't compute what had just happened. The receptionist offered up a basket of small plastic toys, but Reese was incommunicado. I selected one for her and we left with her still in my arms.
"Honey, you were so brave - great job!" I told her. "See - it wasn't so horrible, was it?"
She looked in my eyes as we waited for the elevator, slowly and finally starting to come back into the here and now. Her mouth struggled to move, "Y-y-y-y-ou m-m-m-mean it's over?" she squeaked.
"Yes hon, it's all over - you are a total stud! I'm so proud of you!" I replied as we stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind us.
The immediate sense of relief was astonishing. Her entire body relaxed, her entire being snapped back into existence as she took a deep breath, instantly determining that she was going to live, and all would be well with the world once again. She had survived.
Of course, all that crazy anxiety doesn't just dissipate into thin air. She had manifested her fears so deeply into her core, her entire body needed some type of release.
So it did.
She smiled weakly at me as I leaned my head in to kiss her...and then she projectile vomited on me.
Well, let's be honest here. She vomited on my face. And all down the front of my shirt and pants. A pure, honest and physical response to reaching the end of her deeply disturbing dilemma.
And the beginning of mine.
Of course, I joke - although I have to admit it's quite shocking to have one's face vomited on. Especially if that face is mine. But even I could see the humor in the situation, and laughed openly as Reese instantly was back to normal and offered up a, "Sorry dad."
But I was just relieved she was back to normal, and knew this was something I could laugh about for years to come. The elevator doors opened to four people patiently waiting to get in, and the looks on their faces made me laugh even harder. How could I not see the humor in this? It was incredible. After a quick stop in the restroom in a feeble attempt to brush off the largest chunks of vomit with scratchy brown paper towels, we headed back out to the car, then stopped at Dairy Queen for some celebratory soft serves.
I would have to say it was at that moment that I realized how much I loved being a dad: happy child, fear conquered, soft serve vanilla in hands, anxiety-vomit crusting on my t-shirt...it's a moment I'll never forget.
Hey, I'm not saying I want to do it again or anything...been there, done that. But there's a lesson in here, right? It's just like what we learned as a kid (and, coincidentally the lost third verse of "Lean on Me,"): "We all need somebody to vomit on..."
...Someone to lend a hand. Someone to be there. Someone to shoulder their fears... (I was going to say, "face their fears," but I didn't want to get too literal...)
And of course that's exactly what Russell did last night with Coach.
I know, I know - there's endless wonderful drama over at the Heroes side of the island, what with James's knee bending the wrong direction and one of my all-time favorite Survivors (Tom) getting the boot, but nothing can compare to the triumvirate of tremendousness: Coach, Rob and Russell. And with Russell clearly putting a target on his back, his moves in this episode were absolutely stellar.
Coach - an entirely different player/person this season compared to his last - is riddled with fears. Fear of being disliked. Fear of the lack of integrity. Fear of disloyalty. Perhaps a little fear of Jerri (can't blame him too much there). And Russell played to Coach's fears perfectly, sharing with him the immunity idol, and telling coach he is 100% loyal if Coach will be 100% loyal to him.
Now look, of course we all know that Russell is full of bullshit, but that's not the point. The point is, he needs people on his side, and approaching Parvati first was the exact right move. She's smart, she's crafty, she's manipulative...and she needs someone to partner with. Done. But two's not enough. And playing Coach turns out to be the easiest thing in the world. He is physically unable to lie. His entire being is based upon loyalty, trust and integrity, and he doesn't have the ability to compromise any of them. If Russell asks for his loyalty and pledges his own, he MUST abide - even if it means his own demise. Better that than to compromise.
Kudos to Russell for making a move that seems so simple, so brilliant, but that nobody had ever thought to attempt before. I loved it.
And like Reese, you could almost see Coach's fears dissipate into thin air. OK, it actually wasn't difficult to see - Coach friggin' bowed down to Russell for god's sake. But I wouldn't have been a bit surprised if Coach had simply vomited on Russell's face. Granted, I doubt Russell would have found the humor in it (or that the two of them would have gone out for some soft serves afterward), but I'm just saying...
So the next time someone vomits on your face, consider yourself lucky. You were there for them. You helped them overcome their fears. You gave the ultimate sacrifice.
...And maybe someday someone will repay you with an open invitation to their own face.
If they do, take it from Reese: vomit away. Vomit openly. But damnit, whatever you do, vomit proudly.
Until next week,
PB
I have had heard that story many times but didn't realize how truly gross and chunky it was in that elevator! ~PDF
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