My first baby had colic. Looking back, we were doing anything to survive.

• My daughter's colic started around three weeks old, or "Day 24," as we called it.
• Colic affects one in four babies, and they just have to outgrow it by six months.

I awoke to the roar of a vacuum that had been running for several hours.

Across from me lay my sleeping wife and baby atop the sheets of a still-made bed, just inches from the upright noise-maker. With a sigh and sleepy fingers, I fumbled with the "Off" switch and thanked the universe we did not perish in an electrical fire.

We had reached a new low in our battle with colic. The surgeon general does not recommend sleeping next to powerful appliances, but colic can make new parents desperate for anything that calms their baby.

Surprisingly, the medical mystery of colic affects one in four babies — a fact I learned via frantic, bleary-eyed research as a new dad many years ago. Its main feature is inconsolable crying for several consecutive hours a day, for several days a week, for several weeks or months. The average case begins at about three and a half weeks and lasts until they are about six months old.

The crying is much more dramatic than general fussiness. Our daughter would sweat, turn reddish purple, and scream primally as her body writhed for five to ten hours every evening, beginning at about 5 p.m.

What a welcome to parenthood. To make matters worse, I had just quit my university teaching position to be a full-time stay-at-home dad. Even though I was ready to bond with my newborn, I was nervous and clueless about childcare. Also, my wife would soon return to a brutal work schedule, and we were isolated from extended family.

Her colic started around 3 weeks

Our daughter's colic began at about three and a half weeks, or "Day 24," as we would later dub that sinister date. At first, we took her to the pediatrician and began ruling out causes of her obvious discomfort — like allergies, gassiness, food issues, or reflux treated with various medicines. After ruling out everything else, we had to accept the diagnosis of colic.

To our disbelief, our pediatrician informed us there are ways to attempt to comfort a colicky baby, but there is really no treatment — and definitely no cure. Sensing our growing anxiety, he added: "I worry more about the parents of a colicky baby than about the baby. The baby will be fine eventually."

Everyone had something to say about her crying

As new parents of a colicky baby, we had to endure an onslaught of inappropriate comments from nearly everyone around us. Here is a list of statements not to make to a mother or father of a colicky baby: "It must be something in your breast milk/formula," or "You have to change your diet/formula." This line of thinking once culminated in the rage-inducing claim: "It's probably just your nervousness as a new parent affecting the baby." Or there's "You probably hold her too much," or its evil twin, "You probably don't hold her enough."

The cumulative effect of such comments is plummeting self-esteem as new parents who seem unable to console their baby. In my case, the effect was compounded by those who would softly speculate that the baby "misses her mother." Thankfully, I discovered in my colic research that my frustration and helplessness were not abnormal, which helped my coping strategies immensely.

Even relationships are tested when you have a colicky baby

Another danger that colic poses for new parents is marital trouble. Fortunately, my wife and I were able to spell each other enough to keep our relationship intact. At one point, however, I had to issue a new family rule. Early one evening, I heard both my wife and baby crying upstairs — my wife due to engorgement, my daughter due to colic. As I reached the top of the stairs, I faced a terrible choice: Who do I try to comfort first? Later, my rule emerged: "Only one person in this family can cry at a time."

If there is a lighter side to colic, its intensity sometimes breeds absurdity. For example, I've always had great respect for the way our pediatrician handled one of the dumbest questions I have ever asked. It occurred at the end of another long night of uncontrollable crying. I explained to him by phone that we had tried medicines, feedings, sound machines, lighting arrangements, and even various mattress elevations to try to calm the baby, but nothing was working.

He replied: "What you are telling me is beautiful. You are doing a great job. Now, I would like you to add some rice cereal to the baby's bottle to help fill her up and get her to sleep."

Utterly exhausted, I could think of only one kind of rice cereal: "Do you mean like Rice Krispies?"

There was a pause. My wife looked at me, too tired to be disgusted. It quickly became clear that my words were no longer beautiful, and he gently explained the Gerber rice cereal idea to me.

In essence, there is a cure for the mystery of colic: time, albeit time that crawls. But even though colic comes with an expiration date, it is counterintuitive to have to accept there is nothing you can do to stop your baby's physical agony. In that sense, colic is trauma, especially for the new parent.

Happily, I can report that my firstborn's colic gradually ended after a few months. Also, we worked up the courage to have a second baby three years later, and she did not have colic. Our nights have been vacuum-free ever since.

Vincent O'Keefe is a writer and former stay-at-home father with a Ph.D. in American literature. Visit him at VincentOKeefe.com or on Twitter @VincentAOKeefe or Facebook at Vincent O'Keefe.