Life is a gift, and then we die

I was walking up the stairs when I started hearing my child scream.

Initially, I thought it was a cat in agony. But as I walked through the door I saw her, turning around in the floor contorting with the pain while my ex negotiates with an ambulance.

I grabbed my child while I waited to hear if we’re driving to A&E or whether we’re waiting.

My daughter, just 5, is now screaming into my ear “daddy, it really hurts, can you help me, please help me”.

Copious adrenaline and cortisol are now flowing through my body and I am full of purpose talking to her, guiding her through the pain and reassuring her the doctors will make her better.

But as this is happening, I am well aware of how I am living through an existential moment I’ll never forget.

I am responsible for my child, but I operate none of the intricate and mystical mechanics going through her body. She knows there is pain, but has never faced this kind of pain before. She is full of hope I may help, and the truth is that beyond driving fast and breaching the circulation code to save a few minutes getting to the hospital, I am well beyond my capabilities to genuinely help her.

Not only that, but as bigger hurdles than a chest infection masquerading as appendicitis come – and, worse than that – as our deepest existential fears start dawning on her, I will also be able to do little else than confirming them for her.

But that’s it – we get sick, we die. Our bodies are weird and break. We can’t protect ourselves ultimately, and neither can we protect others. But let’s have a good time and help others do the same.