Holding Up the Sky_final EPUB 9.12.25

The day-to-day demands of care for Kathryn crowded out attention I had given so lavishly to Alana in her first years of life. The fatherhood role obliged me to be like Janus, the twofaced Roman deity. One face toward Kathryn looked to the careful ministrations of medications, monitoring of color, temperature, and pulse, and scheduling time for her physical and speech therapy.

The other face looked in the opposite direction to attend to Alana, who needed another kind of loving care. She was bombarded by demands no one her age should have to cope with— a dying baby sister, the death of her grandfather—all in a few months. Worse still, Linda and I frequently had to leave Alana with friends to visit medical specialists or get lab work done for Kathryn. Bright and articulate, Alana seemed to absorb the emotional beating she was taking, but signs of stress soon popped up.

One afternoon, Linda and I found time to dedicate to Alana. Relishing our presence, Alana began to dance. We were her audience seated on the sofa, giving her our undivided attention at last. She strode into the room, proud and upbeat in her favorite raspberry-colored leotard. She twirled, arms out at her side, her head cocked back, dancing a made-up dance. She spun around in lazy circles and began to sing. The first and only line in her song sent my heart through the floor.

“My beautiful world is falling apart,” she sang. She turned repeatedly around the room, singing with a bright smile on her face with no apparent recognition of the gravity of her words.

“My beautiful world is falling apart.”