It’s about 1AM when your oldest comes into your room complaining of abdominal pain. Your wife is closer to the door – a sleeping arrangement you selfishly effectuated precisely to spare yourself these kinds of interruptions – so she handles it. And you become groggily aware of parts of their hushed conversation, but you never fully wake up – in part because your operating system is programmed to allow your doctor wife to handle all medical (or quasi medical) issues, while you engage in the event of suspected intruders, spooky noises, or electrical outages. Besides, it’s probably gas. Or maybe it’s stress from her anxiety over midterms tomorrow, on which there is a possibility your perfectionist daughter could get a grade as low as 97 instead of 100 (gasp!). So you mostly sleep through this episode. And you don’t even really wake up when your wife whispers into your ear that she’s taking your daughter to the emergency room. Because your sleep-addled brain is convinced that this is either nothing and your wife is being overly cautious (silly doctors and their protocols), or this is nothing and your wife is bluffing to see if your daughter balks (silly teens and their drama). So you slip back under the tranquil waves of a sleepy ocean, never having truly surfaced from them in the first place.

Then it’s 5:15AM and you stretch your foot to the other side of the bed to find your wife gone. She must be at her insanely early boot camp. What motivates a person to leave a warm bed to do outdoor burpees on the cold ground is beyond you. But then you remember the episode earlier in the night. And you check your phone. And there’s a text from your wife. And your daughter has been admitted to the hospital with a likelihood of appendicitis.

And you call to talk to them both. And the ultrasound was inconclusive, partly because they caught it so early. And there’s another scheduled for 10AM. And she will be there for at least 24 hours while they monitor her condition. And of all things, she’s worried about scheduling her makeup midterms.

And you say all the right things, and reassure her that yes, seventh grade midterms will be handled in due course. And she shouldn’t worry about that crap right now. And she should rest and get comfortable. And you’ll be there once you drop the other kids off. And you discuss logistics for today with your wife. And of course you will relieve her after carpool so she can shower.

And then you hang up. And it’s quiet in your house. And you stare up at your dark ceiling, and the even darker fan that moves beneath it. And you don’t know what to do or how to be. And your thumbs start pecking out this post, partially out of habit, but partially because you sometimes don’t comprehend what’s happening to you unless you write it.

And you reflect on how terrifyingly fleeting and inconstant life can be. And how your security is an illusion. And how one night you can go to bed with your only lamentation being the end of The Colbert Report, and wake up the next day with your thirteen-year-old in the hospital and a myopic focus on what an ultrasound might say.

And it’s time to wake the other kids for school. And to explain with gentle words why their big sister is not here for breakfast, even though she is the one constant in their lives who is always here for breakfast. And to project a knowing calm, even though you feel anything but a knowing calm.

Here goes nothing.