Ill at Ease With Role of Fill-In Parent
How do you parents do it?
I’m sitting at home Saturday in the late afternoon, with nothing more to do than see who won the Heisman Trophy, when the phone rings. It was a friend of 25 years, calling from New Jersey to say his son Dan, a college freshman, missed his flight home for the holidays because he was sicker than a dog in his dorm room in Valencia. Could I “check things out?”
No problem. I phoned Dan.
“Dan, how you doing?”
“Uh-h-h.... Not too good.”
“Do you need anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Want me to come get you?”
“I think so.”
Two freeway-clogged hours later, I’m staring at what I described to his father as a “crumpled mass of humanity,” obviously quite ill and weak. Dan slept all the way back to Huntington Beach, oblivious to the fact he was now reliant on someone who at midlife had never taken care of anyone other than a cat named Peaches.
True, I’ve crowed that I’d have been a fantastic father and lamented the missed opportunity. But my thoughts of parenthood are those of trips to the zoo, saying funny things and reading bedtime stories.
I forgot about this part.
With only chocolate syrup in the refrigerator, I stopped for soup, crackers and 7-Up, adding bread and peanut butter for myself. I skillfully prepared the soup and crackers. Dan nibbled and then eyed my peanut butter sandwich. I fixed him half a sandwich.
In hindsight, a crucial error.
Two hours later, ominous noises emanated from upstairs where Dan was sleeping. En route to the bathroom, he’d walked into my bedroom closet instead. Reversing course, the sick, disoriented lad headed for the hallway but bumped face-first into a wall.
By the time he made the bathroom ... oops.
Never mind the details, other than to say I’m now down one bathroom rug and several cleaning rags. “Maybe we should light some incense,” Dan said, sheepishly.
Sunday began auspiciously. Freezing the night before, Dan now was roasting. Good, he was getting over the chills.
Feeling like a good care-provider, I added applesauce and Jell-O to his diet, the latter a treat I hadn’t made in 35 years. For reasons still unclear, the powder didn’t fully dissolve in the bowl, and Dan refused to take a second bite. Offended, I was tempted to serve him more chunky peanut butter.
He watched nighttime TV with me and hit the sack about midnight.
At 2 a.m., with me in a dead sleep in the spare bedroom, he knocked on the door.
“My fingers are tingling,” he said. I was stumped for a reply.
“I don’t think I can stand up,” he said, sinking to his knees in the doorway. “Why don’t you try some Jell-O?” I suggested. He returned to bed.
Later I found Dan in a near stupor, huddled fully clothed under a blanket. I spoon-fed applesauce to him. I sensed his recovery had ended.
Way out of my league, I called 911. Five paramedics soon were in the bedroom giving Dan oxygen and wheeling him into an ambulance for a trip to the hospital, with me trailing behind. I phoned his father and told him things were going great.
One very slow IV drip and several tests later, a freshly hydrated Dan and I left the hospital around 6 a.m. Dan went back to sleep; I went to work three hours later.
By Tuesday, Dan was nearing his old self. On Wednesday, he flew home to New Jersey. Dan bought dinner Tuesday night; his father thanked me profusely.
No need to thank me, fellas. All in a day’s work.
By the way, who won the Heisman?
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Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821 or by writing to him at The Times’ Orange County edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by e-mail to dana.parsons@latimes.com.