Our nearly nightly ritual is to wait out Julian’s garage working time, the seemingly endless breadth of hours that keep him fascinated and engrossed in some project of importance. To him. That’s one aspect of his challenges.
For example, it’s 10:39pm.
We’re waiting.
He always resolves his own pursuit to a satisfactory stopping point and comes in for dinner with a 50% possibility of a shower. He always feels like he’s accomplished something when he comes in at 8:45pm or 9:57pm or 11:23pm or, once in a while, 2:30am. Emotionally he’s released from whatever it was that constrained him to finish a task.
He’s content.
We’re exhausted.
But, again, he’s content and pleased with himself.
Every so often he’ll come in, when his workday is done, and complain of an ache, pain or physical botherment. He told me the other day of a sore toe and when the boot came off, the offending reason was obvious: an in-grown toe nail and the associated gore. We, the Devendorf-parental-council, are no strangers to Julian’s toe issues and podiatrist visits. Treatment begins with an epsom salt soak, you then scrounge up the prescribed antibiotic ointment left from the last round of foot concerns and call the doc for an appointment.
Which I did; all the above.
It was Friday afternoon, still early enough to set an appointment for Monday. The aforementioned parental council didn’t need to draw straws or arm wrestle; this was all my turn—Daddy was up for this doctor visit.
It turned out to be a heart melting event because of how we left Dr Phelps’ office.
Dr Rob Phelps has helped Julian before, caring for him well. Though we trust him, we were still concerned because the last time, after a similar, necessary toe procedure, Julian had a seizure. If you’re not accustomed to epileptic realities, seizures can occur with pain, fever, bleeding, or because it’s overcast on Tuesday. With Julian, pain and bleeding are triggers and he can even tell when a seizure is imminently creeping up on him.
Julian was on edge.
I was aware.
The doc and staff were reminded and focused.
And thankfully friends like Kevin O’Connor and Kenny Cheney came through.
I was smart enough, this time, to bring Julian’s tablet with him; the one that he uses to consume all 27 seasons of Ask This Old House and his ever-expanding playlist of tunes. While Dr Phelps did the needed work, even finding it to be a bit more extensive than first believed, Julian focused in on Kevin and Kenny and Luke Bryan and TobyMac and whoever else is on that device.
No seizure.
Nothing.
Thankfully.
Just a smooth procedure.
Then it was time to be socked up by the cute nurse (Julian always notices them) and walk to the car so we could drive through Whataburger on the way home. It was then, on the walk to the car, the heart melting moment hit: my 6’ 3” dude ferociously held my hand all the way to the car. He needed to hold on to Daddy and he was undeterred the whole way through the office. I walked with him, holding on to his hand just as ferociously, difference being I was choked up.
I probably gave up holding my dad’s hand some 43 years ago when I was around 4 years old.
Julian, at 23, still chooses to reach out for my hand or momma’s hand whenever he can.
Or when he feels unsteady.
Or when he’s scared.
Or when it’s overcast on Tuesday.
I’ll hold your hand, son.
Gladly.
(And the Post-Script: Julian can’t help but toss on a smile if there’s a picture being taken even moments before minor surgery.)
