MADRID – “Dad, I can’t breathe properly,” Lorenzo told me Monday morning — after four days of persistent dizziness, a headache that wouldn’t go away, and an ache in his ear.
What started as a jellyfish sting at the beach ended, once again, in the emergency room, navigating a fog of doubt: Could it be the rock to the head? An ear infection that didn’t heal properly? An allergic reaction? When does information help, and when does it just spiral into panic?
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I had planned to write about something else entirely. But life happened — and swept away my plans like a wave. And then I realized: even if this was personal, it was also something universal.
It could’ve been serious — but it wasn’t. At least, not after endless uncertainty. Still, last week, my time belonged completely to my kids. And when they went to sleep, I passed out too. I had nothing left in the tank.
Last week, we went camping on the beach at Rovies, in Evia — a Greek island about an hour from Athens, and the first place we lived after arriving in Greece back in 2020.
Lorenzo, six and a half, got carsick on the drive Tuesday. But once we arrived in Rovies, he was fine — sweeping jellyfish out of the sea with a net alongside two new friends he met on the beach as the sun was setting.
I couldn’t shake the worry.
On Wednesday, while he was playing in the water with three teenagers, a jellyfish stung him. We learned what to do: rinse with saltwater, not tap water, then apply baking soda and vinegar. If the reaction gets worse, head to the ER.
On Thursday, León — his two-and-a-half-year-old brother — threw a rock at Lorenzo’s head during a scuffle over ownership of a particularly large rock. Irene and I were in a meeting, and the boys were with a friend who was camping with us. I couldn’t shake the worry — just how hard had the rock hit him?
That Thursday, Lorenzo began to say he felt dizzy, had a headache. By early Saturday morning, Irene had left on a trip. When the kids woke up, Lorenzo felt even worse.
His pediatrician, who had treated him with antibiotics for an ear infection just a month ago, told me to keep him home for the weekend: no screens, no beach, no sun, and definitely no physical activities. So we played a lot of chess — his newest obsession. It’s fascinating to watch him play against himself when I need a breather.
But I didn’t like the outlook. It’s still hard for me to accept that an entire weekend could pass without having time for anything except chasing after my kids, prepping meals, doing laundry, organizing the week.
It’s a tunnel that reminds me of the pandemic: days melt into one long, unbroken stretch where time blurs, hours fuse together. Even at night, when I finally collapse into bed, one of them gets up to ask for water, then the other one needs to pee, and then the first one is up again with something else.
Anything can seem dangerous. Everything can end in tragedy.
I figured that by Monday, Lorenzo would be better — ready to go to summer camp. But no. He woke up with the same headache, the same dizziness, the same earache. And now he added: “Dad, I can’t breathe properly.”
Googling symptoms didn’t help much: hearing loss, speech delays, serious infections, brain injuries, jellyfish venom that could require urgent medical attention.
Information is helpful — to a point. But when you fall down the rabbit hole, it turns against you: anything can seem dangerous. Everything can end in tragedy. And how much does all this feed our fear narratives — here and everywhere?
My anxiety snowballed. Was it the rock? Could the jellyfish have triggered something delayed? Was the ear infection not fully healed? His pediatrician was out of town but urged me to find someone else. He had to be checked.
After dropping León off at summer camp, I spent the rest of Monday morning searching for a pediatrician. I called over a dozen. Most were away or not seeing patients. Finally, I found one. He gave Lorenzo a check-up, said things looked fine, but sent us to the Athens Children’s Hospital — an hour away — to rule out trauma from the rock.
I started writing this on Monday night, in the ER waiting room. It was the only moment I had left.
While I watched other parents — mostly moms — carry their kids through the hospital halls, some screaming, some limp in their arms, the whole scene pulled me out of my own story. I started thinking about how demanding it is to parent without a net. Without nearby, extended support systems. In this nuclear family model that runs on sheer willpower and fatigue.
The physical toll of parenting — sleepless nights and constant motion — gets compounded by the mental noise. The unending uncertainty. The endless questions without answers. The anxiety from too much knowledge, and still not knowing.
At the hospital, the surgeon found nothing. He ordered an X-ray, which came back clean. But Lorenzo still felt terrible. Same symptoms. We were sent to a pediatrician — sharp, efficient. She took one look and decided he didn’t need to be in the hospital. We were out in under a minute.
“Are you sure he’s eating properly?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, he eats fine. He drinks lots of water too.”
“And where’s the mother?”
“She’s away. She’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“Well, there you go. By tomorrow night, he’ll feel better.”
I thought about asking what she’d say if the mother were dead — should we wait for her to rise from the grave? Or if Lorenzo had two dads. But instead, I focused on the only thing that mattered: Lorenzo wasn’t seriously ill. None of the worst-case internet diagnoses had come true.
It was late. But instead of heading straight home to collapse in bed, we walked to the corner for souvlaki. We played a game of chess.
The next morning, Lorenzo woke up better. Recovered.
And his mom still wasn’t home yet.
