Father

Author: Jiming Lindal

A Christian, who likes to write

Writing about my father on Father’s Day stirs a wealth of emotions. My father was not a perfect man, but he was someone who loved me unconditionally. He led me to the Lord and loved me with a love similar to that of our Heavenly Father, so much so that I never feared God growing up—I only felt close to Him.

In my life, my father played an essential role.

He was the one who led me sing hymns and taught me to pray when I was four; he was the one who wrote notes to the teacher who humiliated me, defending my dignity; he was the one who prayed for me before every exam; he was the one who bought groceries and cooked to keep our household running; he was the one who convinced my mother to give me their savings so I could study abroad; he was the one who supported me from out of state when I lost my job in Los Angeles; now, he's the one who reports American news to me over WeChat video calls, using his humor to make me laugh…

But what shook me most about my father was his unwavering love and faith.

I was nine at the time, participating in the filming of a movie called Homecoming, directed by Bao Qicheng of the Shanghai Film Studio. I had a speaking role in the film. Because the film was expensive, the director rehearsed extensively, and actors were expected to get it right in one take. I practiced my lines repeatedly under tremendous pressure. The work hours were long; I often stayed up until midnight and sometimes returned home as late as three or four in the morning.

Soon after filming ended, tragedy struck me due to the intense workload. One day, I collapsed at home. My vision went completely dark—I couldn't see anything at all. I tried to speak but couldn't make a sound. I heard my mother calling my name: "Duoduo, Duoduo…” Her voice was full of despair, but I couldn’t respond. I didn’t know what was happening, and at the time, there was no 120 emergency service to call.

Later, my mother told me I had suffered a seizure—an epileptic grand mal. Epilepsy clung to me like a demon. I never knew when I'd suddenly collapse, and the episodes became more frequent. It was a dark world surrounded by darkness. I would look around in the blackness and cry out in my heart, "Help me! Help me!" But no sound came. I was the terrified little girl, trembling, curled up in a corner.

My parents were overwhelmed with anxiety about my condition. My mother, a television director, was often away filming and busy even when she returned. My father became the sole caretaker, taking me to Shanghai Children’s Hospital.

They hooked me up to machines—electrodes pasted all over my scalp—to observe my brain waves. The test was called an EEG. The results showed abnormal discharges in the right side of my brain. I had to undergo the test repeatedly.

Each time I took the EEG, I saw my own reflection through a glass partition—my scalp covered in metal electrodes, wires sticking out of my hair. I looked like an alien, someone completely out of place in this world. At school, I was ostracized. My classmates avoided me like the plague. Teachers said the medication had made me dumb and fat.

I trembled at the thought that darkness could descend at any moment. I feared the humiliation of having a seizure and collapsing in public, feared losing my ability to speak, feared never seeing my parents again, feared writing “epilepsy” on a college application and being rejected; I couldn’t swim, feared drowning in water if a seizure struck.

“Duoduo, come take your medication.” At 7:30 a.m., my father called before school. Around 4 p.m., after I placed my backpack by the table, he brought a glass of water and pills. “Take it,” he said, smiling gently at me. My father gave me pills every day on the dot and never missed a dose. Before the medication ran out, he would ride his bicycle an hour each way to refill it at the children’s hospital—the medication bottle was never empty.

Whenever I had to get an EEG, I’d hold my father’s hand on the bus ride to the hospital. I knew I’d be wired up again, metal electrodes pasted on my head, wires sticking out of my hair. I’d watch the EEG paper slowly spit out of the machine, showing the brain currents being tested again. Helpless, I’d look into my father’s eyes, filled with despair. “Duoduo, don’t be afraid,” he’d say. Meeting me was his steady gaze, which seemed to say: We’ll get through this together. Epilepsy has no cure, but he never gave up. His faith sustained me. And behind him, we both leaned on a greater Father above.

My father didn't just accompany me to every EEG; he also befriended Dr. Pang from the pediatric neurology department. He constantly updated Dr. Pang about my condition. Based on that, Dr. Pang would adjust my medication schedule and dosage. My father ensured that I received the medication with the least side effects. Whenever he returned from seeing Dr. Pang, he'd say, "Dr. Pang said… Dr. Pang said…" And he'd tell me that Dr. Pang believed I'd recover.

When he learned that fruit could help counter the medication's side effects, we never ran out of fruit at home. "Here, the apples are just in season—I peeled one and put it on your desk," he'd say. "Today, I bought some lychees. Let's peel and eat them together, okay?" he'd say. Every day, I had at least half a pound of fresh, seasonal fruit.

When my father learned that strenuous exercise could trigger seizures, he approached my P.E. teacher and asked for exemptions from certain activities. “It’s hard to make exceptions…” the teacher said. “Please, try,” my father pleaded. “Jiming’s health is the priority. Here’s the doctor’s note…” He handed over the note he had long prepared from Dr. Pang. The teacher nodded. “I’ll consider it…” In the end, thanks to my father’s urgent persistence, the teacher agreed.

Under my father’s care and with the doctor’s guidance, my seizures became less frequent. I went from fearing collapse, convulsions, and the silence of darkness to gradually gaining confidence in recovery. I seemed to see a light in the darkness, and I was walking towards it, getting closer and closer.

Eventually, I didn’t have any seizures for some time. My father said, “Dr. Pang says the medication still shouldn’t stop.” So he continued preparing my pills each day, calling me twice daily to take them and biking two hours round-trip to the hospital for refills when they were running low.

And so it went, day after day, year after year—more than a decade passed. When I was in college, one day, my father returned from the hospital and said, "Dr. Pang says Duoduo hasn't had a seizure in so many years—she can stop the medication." He spoke with a gentle smile as though a significant burden had finally been lifted.

To this day, I have never had another seizure. It's a miracle. Anyone who has experienced grand mal seizures knows that epilepsy is a lifelong condition, incurable. Throughout the treatment journey, it was my father who consistently showed me his enduring love, faith, and actions, which nourished me and helped me better understand how our Heavenly Father loves us with everlasting love.