My two weeks of leave between assignments at work was going to be restful time. I would get the kids settled into their summer routine, loaf at the pool, and field the occasional errand while reading my way through the “new book” shelves at the East Columbia branch of the Howard County Library.

Yeah. You can already guess how that's working out for me.

So far into week one, I've logged more hours at the hospital than at the pool. The odds are good that I will spend this time off scheduling surgeries for me and my husband.

Nothing life-threatening is happening here. But this was supposed to be my time at home with the kids.

Now it's just another teachable moment when Grandma takes Mommy off to the emergency room in acute abdominal pain.

"No, I'm not going to die, chucklehead," I tell my 8-year daughter later while on the phone from the emergency room. "I have some gunk growing in my gizzards where it doesn't belong, and it just hurts. But now they gave me some medicine and it won't hurt anymore until they figure out how to get it out of there. I'll show you a picture in your anatomy book later."

"I have cysts on my ovaries, and the Sea Monkeys are back," I tell the older kids. When I had a hysterectomy three years ago, we referred to my endometriosis as "Sea Monkeys" for reasons that escape me now. "They aren't dangerous. I'll be home in an hour or so.

"Yes, I am pumped full of drugs. I love you too.

"No, you cannot have extra time on the computer until your father comes home."

It's not just me showing wear and tear. Next week my husband will have an MRI and see a specialist at Johns Hopkins to figure out whether he needs another operation and, if so, what kind. Last year he developed some unfortunately located abscesses and cellulitis that landed him in the hospital for a week.

Three surgeons, four operations and 15 months later, he's still not healed. 

"What's been the hardest part of that for you in dealing with the kids?" I asked my husband later. I wanted him to approve the above paragraph since he does not like discussing the specifics of his condition.

Having approved, he thought for a minute. “The kids? I don't remember they asked me anything.”

“Are you kidding? They were always asking, 'Will Daddy be OK?' and worrying about you.”

“Maybe the hardest thing is they didn't ask me anything because they are scared,” he replied.

That could have been an opening for a crack about how the kids fear their father (and their grandparents, and their aunt, and probably the cat) more than they do me. But for people like my husband, it's hard to kick off a difficult conversation without an opening from the other side.

The flip side, of course, is that kids may not want to ask about something that's obviously upsetting Mom and Dad. Plus, when Mommy is normal one minute and talking through clenched teeth the next, is that because she's sick or because she's mad at me?

Grown-ups know how to discern between the routine health problems of middle age and serious illness. Kids still think every trip to the emergency room involves a genuine life-or-death emergency.

I tell the kids occasionally about my end-of-life wishes (palliative care, cremation, no folk music at funeral). But I'm hoping this is information they won't need for decades to come.

My husband and I both expect to recover from our midlife medical crises and return to our full-time work of embarrassing and harassing the children. We are lucky.