A Father's Love

Brian and I don't usually make a big deal over our birthdays and anniversaries and Valentine's Day and such. However, this year, this Father's Day, I want to make an exception. I can't do it through a family Father's Day outing to a restaurant. No gifts. No card even. I'm only able to give my words, which I use today to honor my husband and to express my deepest admiration for a man who has endured unimaginable challenges the last few months.

Several months ago, back when Tyler just had a “burping” problem, before his health spun out of control, I was a little bothered by something. Brian always made a special point to spend a great deal of individual time with Tyler. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that, but sometimes I could tell the other kids felt that Tyler was getting more of Daddy’s attention. When I brought up this concern to Brian, he replied, “I know I spend more time with him than the others, but for some reason, I just really know he needs it.”

Now I understand that he was right. While I was being prejudiced by my desire to keep things equal and make sure each child felt special, loved, and important, I missed the bigger point that Brian understood. He was sensing something I was unable to see. It wasn’t a matter of fairness. It was a matter of responding to that God-feeling that leads us as parents. Tyler needed more time.

Day by day, month by month, year by year, Brian was weaving a tether of love that bound the heart of this young boy to his father. Every outing to the movie theater, every minute spent playing on the Wii, every late-night tickling match was another strand spun into an ever-tightening bond of trust.

Now, Tyler is fighting the biggest fight he may ever encounter in his life. His brain has been attacked by a disease that is ferocious, terrifying, cruel, and absolutely evil. It has turned him into a frightened, cornered substitution for the sweet, giving, tender-hearted boy we once knew.

When we asked our psychiatrist a couple weeks ago why Tyler couldn’t talk, he gave us a very helpful analogy. It’s as if there’s a tiger with its fangs bared, growling, ready for the attack, right in Tyler’s face. In that situation, he wouldn’t be saying, “Mom, can I have some mac and cheese?” He’d be rendered speechless and would only be able to respond to the fight-or-flight urge. Tyler’s tiger is trapped inside his own body. That’s also why he lashes out physically. There’s such an intense battle, such an extreme anxiety that rises up within him, that he perceives no other option but to fight.

There are times I can see that anxiety mounting. It’s a growing terror that I see in Tyler’s eyes. It spills out through his shouts and banging on the floor. Then when Brian walks in the room, it’s as if all that anxiety that he’s been struggling to hold at bay gets released. He lunges at his father, attacking him, often ending in Brian being forced to restrain him as Tyler kicks and bites with everything in him. The adrenaline coursing through his body gives him strength unimaginable for a child of his size. At times it has taken Brian along with another grown man to restrain him. Brian’s arms and legs carry deep bruises and scrapes from Tyler’s outbursts of biting, kicking, and clawing.

In the aftermath of the outburst, as Brian wonders why Tyler would be so angry at him, I think of that tether Brian so lovingly wove day by day, month by month, and year by year.

When Tyler is tormented by that tiger in his brain, when every cell of his body is screaming out to fight away everything he can to flee the tiger, he sees his daddy. He doesn’t see a man he’s angry with. He sees a man he knows will love him no matter what. A man he can bite and scream at and bruise and scar, and he will not have to worry what that man will think of him. A man he trusts to still care for him and approach him with tenderness even when he’s unleashing the beast inside of him.

Brian embodies love to Tyler. That’s why Brian is bruised. Brian is safe. That’s why Brian’s body is carrying the scars of his love. The analogies to the love of our Heavenly Father are staggering.

So, today, I’d like to say thank you to the most wonderful father I could ever imagine for our children. Brian is strong yet vulnerable. Tenacious yet tender. Firm yet a soft place to land. He’s proven to be that for me for seventeen years. Now, because of our current struggle, I am understanding the depths of that love in new ways. It exceeds more than I could have ever imagined.

I love you, Brian Blount, and happy Father’s Day.