Once, my wife Sarah was away overnight for one or another reason, and I agreed to let Dylan, all of three years old at the time, sleep with me in our room. It was something I disagreed with in principle—we had dealt with long bouts of his unwillingness to go to bed (or when in bed, to go to sleep) no more than a year before, and having so painfully established consistency and routine in our bed-going, I was loath to break from the habitual thing. Somehow, though, I was convinced.
He staked out his ground in the bed first, and I made sure the night light in the hallway was working and the bedroom door was left open a reasonable amount. Then I turned the light off, immediately darkening the room, and as I sat on the edge of the bed, ready to lie down, I heard Dylan say, “Daddy, hold me, so I don’t get lost.” I lay down, got my arm under his head and he rolled himself in for a snuggle.
But I couldn’t let go of his voice. Hold me so I don’t get lost. Lost in the dark, lost in a dream, lost in a moment of not knowing—not knowing where he was, where I was. In that second or two, he might have felt a brief tingle of fear, or the anticipation of fear, and he wanted to not feel that way anymore. It was my job to eliminate that fear, and all I had to do was lie down and roll over.
Of course, that was the easy part. In ensuing years, I would be called upon to do something similar, but in much different and more difficult circumstances. There’d be surgeries, bullying, heartbreak in various forms—times when his getting lost in fear was a very real thing. Most times, just being there for him helped; occasionally, though, it didn’t, and I’d have to give him encouragement, give him advice, make him laugh. There were times we’d cry together, and work through the fear. Sometimes his fear was my fear, too.
Hold me so I don’t get lost. In some ways, I still try to do this, even though he’s much older and, with a few exceptions, able to get himself through most fearful moments. But sometimes something wraps around his mind and won’t let go. My arm is figurative now; his calls mostly silent. For as long as I can, though, I intend to do my part.