Focus

If you searched the internet for "people who worry too much about stupid stuff," you'd probably find me right at the top. It never fails. I'll be sitting in a meeting, some small, insignificant bit of information will be bandied about by others at the table who don't give it a second thought. Immediately I spring to attention, focus on that insignificant bit of flotsam, and race off (sometimes physically, as well as mentally) in another direction.

It's not just work where insignificance comes to bear on my being. If I'm driving, I'll focus on the guy who I passed ten minutes ago. It'll be some idiotic observation like, "man, he was driving slow," or "I didn't know someone could fit their whole finger up their nose like that!"

You know. The most insignificant, unimportant of the Useless-Drivel you find on this page.

It doesn't take much to change things like that, at times. Times when you take your child to the doctor's office to "check" on something that has been worrying you. Human nature dictates that our "moments of clarity" are separated by so much filler. That filler, of course, is the "ho-hum" of our everyday lives. I don't think we (humanity) are meant to maintain this "focus" for extended periods. Focus is overrated. Focus means being hyper alert. Focus means you direct your attention-both divided and undivided-toward that area.

Nothing like hearing your son may have a brain tumor to bring the whole "focus-o-meter" into 20/20 clarity.

When our oldest son's pediatrician relayed phrases like "simply precautionary," "highly unlikely," and "he's fine, we're just making sure" all we heard was:

"Neurological."

"Tumor."

"MRI."

I came back to work that evening after the appointment, and tried not to think about what may-or may not-happen to my oldest son. I came in, looked around, and told one of my co-workers "I can't do this right now. I'm going home to be with my family."

There's nothing like a seemingly eleventh-hour plea with God to get your heart racing. A lot of people told me I was overreacting, that "everything will be OK," and "oh, he'll be fine!"

It's really easy for those people who aren't faced with a direct threat to the life of their firstborn to say that. Of course I'm not talking about the words of encouragement our family gave to us. They're exempt from my derision in this matter, because they suffered along with us.

For almost two weeks we wallowed in absolute agony thinking about an all-too-uncertain future. It was in my most private moments when tears would fall, when I would pray, yell, plead with God that my son be spared from harm. I would say "God, let me bear this burden, if it's your will. Please don't take my son." It'd be easy to look at me, hear me saying this, and think I was overreacting.

I was overreacting to a possible outcome. It's better to be safe than sorry. It's better to make an attempt to curry favor with "The Big Man" at 11:30PM than at 11:55PM....when it may be too late.

As my wife and I took our oldest son, whose third birthday was only three weeks away, to the hospital so he could have an MRI, we would glance at each other and look away quickly. As if moments of direct eye contact would cause our fears and hopes to come rushing out of us. Neither of us wants to be weak in front of the other. More importantly, neither of us wants to be weak in front of our children.

He took his medicine that would sedate him, sat on mommy's lap, and talked to both of us about the things he found important (his bear, whether or not he would allow his younger brother to play with his toys, his favorite uncle, his mommy and daddy).

After his test, he lay sleeping on his bed. I went to his pediatrician, and a nurse told me it would be "Monday at the earliest."

"Like hell," I muttered. I told the nurse I understood it wasn't her fault, apologized for my language, and briskly walked back to Radiology to demand results. Once there, I think I scared a nurse who had been nice to us. I apologized again, and said "Ask the radiologists if they have children, and if they'd be willing to sit helplessly over an entire weekend to find out whether or not their child had a tumor."

She agreed, and left. Moments passed, and she came back.

"Both radiologists looked at the test, and both said there was absolutely nothing there (that shouldn't be)."

I almost collapsed. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. I smiled, breathed a little easier, and thought about the juicy steak I would be enjoying soon at O'Charley's. That night, he was back to his normal self. We removed him from the "Pedestal of Sainthood" (as in, he could do no wrong) over the last few days, and put him back into the "you scream and yell, you go out with daddy and sit in the car" category. Sure enough, he acquitted himself in the fashion of the latter. He wasn't happy about it. I was as happy as I could be.

I haven't been as focused lately. I've started noticing idiots on the road when I driving again. I've also returned to picking up the subtle body language of those around me....something I'm actually pretty good at, by the way. I've started playing my X-Box 360 again, and I don't take long glances at my sons like I'll never see them that way again.

For now, my son will still grow up. He'll throw baseball with his old man out in our backyard. He'll yell at his brother (until his brother finally punches him in the head....which wouldn't be a bad thing). He'll tell us he hates us. He'll drive our car. He'll fall in love. He'll have kids. He'll make me a grandfather.

I promise, when these times finally arrive, I'll lapse back into the hyper vigilant mode of focus only the true and raw moments in time with your children can bring. I'll remember those (as I'll remember my most recent) moments of focus with a clarity undimmed by years and age.

Until those times arrive, however, I'm just going to drift off. Wake me up when they get here.