I hope when I grow up, I can be more like my son.
That thought came to me tonight when I came downstairs and saw my son’s iPad and iPhone lying on the couch next to my office.
At first glance, that may not seem like a big deal. But when you know the story behind it, you realize just how much it says about him.
A few days ago, I noticed he had been sending me text messages and writing on Facebook either late at night or very early in the morning. Sometimes we would hear him yelling in his room, and we knew what that meant: he was working on his online Physiology class on his phone, during hours when he should have been resting.
We had always tried to limit screen time, but we realized it was time to do more than just remind him of the hours. So we told him that every night at 8:00 p.m., we would lock his iPhone and iPad in the safe, and he could have them back again at 10:00 a.m. the next morning. We assured him he could work on his puzzles at night and listen to his music. Once morning came, his things would be there waiting for him. I wanted to help break the habit he had formed, and I also wanted to make sure he had at least a couple of screen-free hours before bed so he could sleep better and not wake up in the middle of the night reaching for his phone.
We explained it to him, and he seemed to take it well. “This sounds fair, right?” we asked. And he answered, “Yes.”
So tonight, when I walked into the living room and saw his iPhone and iPad sitting there at 6:30—an hour and a half early—my heart just swelled with pride. In that simple moment, I thought again how much I hope to be more like my son.
Watching Dave blossom into the fine young man he has become has made me realize that this is not just one isolated moment. Again and again, he shows me the kind of person I want to be.
On the 4th of July, I was so excited to celebrate America’s 250th. We decided we should actually go out and watch the Tahoe fireworks for such a momentous occasion. Dave had been at Garritt’s, and we were waiting for him to come home so we could celebrate together. When they were about five minutes away, I got a text from Garritt and read the dreaded words: “Dave just had a seizure.” My heart sank. I think this is why I have become such a hermit nowadays. I used to be such a social butterfly—always making plans, always having people over, always doing something. But since the seizures, I rarely do anything. I rarely go out. I am no longer the hostess, always planning gatherings. When we do things now, it is usually last minute, because I can never count on when a seizure will happen. And it makes me angry. Garritt pulled up and told me, “It was a really bad one. I’ve never heard him yelling like that.” Dave was passed out, fast asleep in Garritt’s car. Ronnie and I sat on the sidewalk and talked with Garritt while Dave slept. Once he finally opened his eyes, Ronnie and Garritt brought him upstairs. He doesn’t weigh that much, but right after a seizure, Dave is dead weight. We got him into bed, and he fell right back asleep. After I got him situated, I felt the pity party starting in my head. Here we were, on America’s 250th celebration, and I was left with the aftermath: depression, worry, and sadness. I wished I could at least control that these awful seizures wouldn’t happen on holidays. But ironically, they always seem to. And yet, there was Dave—the one actually suffering—never complaining, just taking it all in stride. He never complains. He never gets angry at his situation in life. Oh, how I want to be more like Dave.
Earlier today, I was talking to Dave about the granite installation coming up soon. The installers had already warned me that the epoxy—or whatever it is called—has a really strong, toxic smell that can permeate the house for a couple of days. So I am arranging for Dave and me to stay in a hotel during that time, just to help prevent anything from triggering a seizure. When I told Dave, “I’m worried the granite installation could cause you to have a seizure,” he started to laugh. He laughed. What an amazing perspective he has on the monster I call seizures. I wish I were more like him.
Then tonight, when I saw the iPad and iPhone sitting on the couch, I shook my head and thought about how I would react. I would be such a brat if someone took away my devices. I would be so angry. If I had seizures and had to miss out on life, holidays, and so many other moments, I would throw myself the biggest pity party. I would complain constantly. But Dave never says a word. Granted, he isn’t really conversational, but he always seems to take everything in stride.
The man my son has grown up to be is someone I admire deeply. He is someone I strive to be more like. When I grow up—and before I leave this world—I hope I can be more like my beloved Dave.