Jim stepped out of the room, and I was alone with my son. The nurse had turned the lights down: only digital displays lit Erik’s face. His ventilator hoses gurgled quietly. The monitor display blinked—134, 132, 133—steady, steady.
I thought of disconnecting the ventilator and pulling every IV line. I wanted to take Erik in my arms and let him die. I was convinced that he would only suffer, that he’d been terribly violated. But I couldn’t do it. I wrapped his swollen fingers around my thumb and began to sing to him.
At that moment I knew Erik’s life was on a course unchangeable by human hands. Understanding that, on that most terrible of nights, set me free.
Three mornings after his heart had stopped, Erik opened his eyes. I filled a basin with water and sponged him, wiping away bits of blood and adhesive. His skin felt rubbery, his muscles toneless.
He was moved from intensive care to a medical wing on November 23, a day shy of four weeks old. The effects of the virus had subsided, but not before consuming half the strength of his heart. What was left could keep him alive, but it wouldn’t be enough for him to grow.
During the next three weeks, Erik returned slowly to himself. He smiled—first at Jim, me, then at anyone who looked his way. On December twelfth, Dr. Walsh removed his feeding tube. That night Erik nursed, staring into my eyes, as though remembering the brief time we’d had before he got sick. I felt elated; he was mine again.
Yet every day we struggled with the possibility of losing him, with loving and letting go. No one knew how long Erik would live. His doctors talked about a transplant.
The morning of Erik’s discharge, Dr. Walsh took him for a sonogram. We waited in our son’s room, listening for the sound of bassinet wheels on linoleum.
When they came, they came fast, the glass top of the bassinet rattling noisily. Dr. Walsh banged the door open. His face was flushed. “Eighty percent!” he shouted. “Eighty percent!” Erik’s heart was functioning at eighty percent!
Jim unhooked Erik from his monitors and tossed him in the air. Nurses and residents crowded into the room. Someone brought balloons and cake. We turned music on and had a party.
The doctors called it a miracle, and it was. I think of that when Erik snuggles against me in the morning, when he races his cars across the floor, when he rides with Katie on her two-seat tricycle. I think of the miracle most at night, when I rock him and sing, and he sings, too.
Twice a year we return to see Dr. Walsh. Everyone at Boston Children’s Hospital knows Erik as one of the sickest babies ever to leave the ICU. A crowd gathers to watch him play blocks in the playroom.
Today Erik is four. He is quick to laugh and slow to cry. He is naughtier than his sister is. He floats sneakers in the toilet and scribbles in books. He loves Big Bird and bulldozers and hates baths.
There are no signs of brain damage. His heart strength is at 90 percent. Outside the hospital Erik looks like any other child. At the park where he plays, he usually runs for the swings, but sometimes a mud puddle catches his eye. He stomps and splashes. Water sloshes over his boot tops; bits of mud dot his face. He looks like any other child, but I know he is a miracle.
Cindy Anderson
7
MEMORABLE
MOMENTS
The happiest moments of my life have been the few which I have passed at home in the bosom of my family.
Thomas Jefferson
Generations
Cradling my pregnant stomach, I plop down on the cushioned porch swing like a sack of potatoes, and elevate my swollen feet on the armrest. I relax and feel the summer heat mix with the cooler air of upcoming twilight. It is peaceful in the country. It has been a fun but tiring day at our annual family reunion, filled with tons of food and multiple verses of “You Are My Sunshine.” Eating and singing are the two things my family does best, or at least with the most zeal.
Only my grandmother and I are left back at the house. The rest of the family opted to go to the movies. Hearing the sound of clinking glass, I gaze up from my comfortable nest into the kitchen window. I study the aging profile of my grandmother. Seventy-five years old, full of arthritis, yet proud, she still will not let anyone else do her dishes. She is the hardest worker I know, always tending to everyone’s needs before her own.
I used to try to change her selflessness. I remember a conversation when I attempted to open her eyes to equal rights. “Really, Grandma, you never do anything for yourself. Now that Grandpap is retired, it would only be fair that he help out with the household chores.”
“But I enjoy my routine,” she had responded, confused by my frustration. “Besides, I like to keep busy; it keeps me young.”
“You could at least get a dishwasher,” I had encouraged.
“If I had a dishwasher, what in the world would I do after dinner?” After that conversation I stopped trying to enlighten her to the nineties.
Taking in a deep breath, I continue to drift back in time to my childhood memories of the summers I spent at my grandparents’ house. After dinner, my grandmother and I would sit on the porch swing and needlepoint. The rainbow colors of thread mesmerized me. I would line them up like a big rainbow and try to fit every color into my stitching. That was over fifteen years ago, before arthritis attacked her fingers, making her hobby too painful to pursue after a long day.
I hear the water turn off in the kitchen, and then the voice of my grandmother calling through the screen. “I think I’ll let these dishes air dry. That’ll give us more time together before the others get back. Give me a minute to change into my housecoat. Okay, Mom?”
Mom? I am confused for a moment until I realize she is referring to me. “Sounds good,” I answer proudly, my heart skipping a beat as I feel my first step toward membership in the motherhood club.
My grandmother returns in her worn flowered housecoat. “Here,” she smiles, handing me a present. “This is for the baby.”
I open the package and look inside. Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls stare back at me from perfectly embroidered faces, just like the ones she handmade for me twenty-five years ago. Speechless, I look at Grandmother with tears in my eyes, comprehending the pain she endured in her hands to make the dolls.
“I’ve made every grandchild a set of Raggedy dolls. I’m not about to stop now,” she explains directly to my belly.
I never felt closer to my grandmother. The little human being growing inside me bridged our generation gap. I have a new respect for her. Before now, I never gave her much credit as a role model for today’s woman. As it turns out, I was looking in the wrong places.
Sherrie Page Najarian
I Was Chosen
It was time for bed and I really didn’t mind too much. It meant Mommy would smooth my sheets and crawl in my bed with me. I’d snuggle in her arms and she’d rub my hair and tell me how much she loved me. If it wasn’t too late and Mommy wasn’t too tired, I might get to hear The Story before we said our prayers together.
I never grew tired of hearing her tell The Story. It was so special because it was about me. Mommy would begin by saying, “Your daddy and I always wanted a baby. We wanted one for so long, and we kept praying that I would get pregnant and have a baby. But after several years when I didn’t get pregnant, we began to realize that God had something even better for us. He decided that he was going to give us a very special baby—a baby that another lady was not able to take care of. He wanted parents who would be just right for this very special baby. Guess who that very special baby was? You!”
“Mommy, tell me about the day you got me.”
“Well, Tucker,” she would continue, “That was the most exciting day in my life! It began when the telephone rang, and a voice on the other end said, ‘Mrs. Freeman, your beautiful baby girl has just been born. Would you like to come see her?’
“I called your daddy at the office and he raced home and got me and we hurried to the hospital. At first we stood outside the window where all the new babies were and just looked at them, trying to
figure out which one was you! When we got to the end of the row you turned your head and looked at us and seemed to smile!
“We couldn’t wait to take you home and introduce you to our family and friends. When we drove up to the house, there were lots of friends who had come to bring you presents! You have always been such a gift to us. Why, the smartest thing Daddy and I ever did in our lives was adopt you!”
Each time Mother told me The Story she got excited. She never tired of telling it, and I never got tired of hearing her tell it. From the beginning she made me feel that being adopted was tremendously special, that I had somehow been chosen.
When I was about seven months pregnant with my own child, my mother came to visit. It was one of those really uncomfortable days, and the baby was kicking me non-stop. As I groaned and held my stomach, my mother said, “It must be amazing to feel her kick.”
Suddenly, it dawned on me that my mother had never felt a baby inside her womb.
“Mother,” I said, “come and put your hands on my stomach. I want you to feel your grandchild.”
The look of awe on my mother’s face as she felt her granddaughter kick in the womb was so precious for me. I realized that I was able to give my mother a gift she had not been able to experience personally. She had given me so many gifts and finally I was able to share a very personal one with her.
Tucker Viccellio as told to Susan Alexander Yates and
Allison Yates Gaskins
THE FAMILY CIRCUS By Bil Keane
“We came from Mommy’s tummy.
But Joseph is adopted, so he came from
his mommy’s heart.”
Reprinted by permission of Bil Keane.
Keeping the High Watch
Almost home, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, I had just enough time to change clothes before jumping back into the car for a forty-five mile commute to meet a real estate agent who was showing me a property in my soon-to-be “new neighborhood.” As luck would have it, I got stuck at the longest stoplight in the area.
While waiting for the light to change, I caught a glimpse of a rather large low-flying bird. A very small bird appeared to be nipping at the large bird’s tail, as if in attack. But after watching awhile, I realized that the larger bird was the mother and surmised that the small bird was her offspring taking its fledgling flight. Suddenly, the baby bird lost altitude and fluttered erratically, obviously unable to stay aloft. The mother swooped down and lifted the baby on her back into the windless clear-blue sky, and then pulled away again. The baby awkwardly regained its flying ability with the mother only inches away. Slowly the mother moved a few feet to the side, and then a few feet below. Baby was doing just fine.
I was so mesmerized, I didn’t notice that the light had turned green until the cars behind me started honking their horns. I drove slowly, observing my birds. Watching this momentous occasion for baby and the loving, protective measures by its mother had suddenly become more important than any scheduled appointment. So it would delay my meeting fifteen more minutes. This was life!
I thought back to when my baby took her first steps. Initially I held her hands and then, ever so gently, I released my grip, but kept my hands close enough to catch her if necessary. My eyes swelled with tears. I felt such love for this mother bird who nurtures and was now helping to release her baby to follow its own life path. I thought again of my daughter, now grown with a nine-month-old baby of her own, experiencing these same kinds of poignant moments that only a mother can understand.
We release our young so many times, in so many ways: we help them take their first steps; send them off to school; watch as they go on their first dates; wish them well as they go away to college; and give them away in marriage. But we never release them from our hearts.
Mom and baby bird were soaring freely as I approached my garage. Now with no time to spare—I raced for the door. The phone began to ring. My first inclination was to let the machine answer it, but I somehow felt compelled to pick up. Another five minutes down the drain, I thought.
My daughter was calling from her home, fifteen hundred miles away, with news that her son, my grandson, had minutes earlier just taken his firsts steps. I began to cry. I believed that I had been there in some beautiful, unexplainable way, God had shared the moment with me.
I called my real estate agent and had her rearrange the appointment for a few hours later that day. I went for a walk on the beach and sat awhile, just gazing at the horizon. Talking a deep breath, I looked up. Birds soared overhead, and my grandson had started his journey through life. Carefully, I hoped, one step at a time.
Eileen Davis
Grandpa’s Surprise
My husband has a rather portly build, with a sizable potbelly.
When our daughter was expecting her second child, my husband and I went to her house to take care of her three-year-old girl.
The first night, our little granddaughter made the rounds to kiss us all goodnight. After she kissed her mother’s cheek, she then kissed her mother’s tummy, bidding the unborn baby goodnight.
She ran down the hall to bed, then suddenly ran back to the living room, stopping in front of her grandfather. She bent over, kissed his belly and announced, “I forgot to kiss Grandpa’s baby goodnight!”
Ruth M. Henshaw
Reprinted by permission of Ronald Coleman.©2000 Ronald Coleman.
[email protected] Love Notes
One sunny afternoon in May, when pink azalea, purple wisteria, and white dogwood painted our backyard in vibrant colors any child would love, my husband, Allen, called to tell me that finally a baby might be available for us to adopt.
We wasted no time contacting the attorney handling the case. We quickly discovered the deadline was now. The birth mother would collect the applications that afternoon. With the clock ticking, I answered the questions about why we would make good parents.
Several weeks went by, with no word.
One rainy afternoon at the post office, I saw Cindy, who worked with the attorney. I asked, “Have you heard anything?”
With downcast eyes, she answered, “I’m sorry. The birth mother picked up the applications, but she has disappeared.”
Disappointed, I relayed the news to Allen.
Over the months ahead, I pondered what might have been and wondered about the birth mother.
In December, I received an unexpected phone call from Cindy. She exclaimed, “The girl is back in town, and she has selected you and Allen!”
Our lives had never been more chaotic. We both had full-time careers and Allen had added the extra duties of becoming mayor of our town. Still, we were thrilled about the “possibility” even though we were warned over and over not to get our hopes up. But how could we not?
So the countdown began.
At once I wanted to order nursery wallpaper, until Allen pleaded, “Please, Debbie, no decorating and no baby shower. You’ll be too disappointed if it doesn’t work out.” Instead we took care of the financial and medical arrangements. A social worker inspected our home—and us. There were mandatory physicals, including checkups for venereal diseases.
This last experience led me to ask our attorney to obtain a family health history from the birth mother. The request resulted in a series of notes that bounced back and forth on index cards between the mother and me. Eventually our correspondence shifted away from discussions of health. She asked, “What do you consider a happy home? A good education? Appropriate discipline?
Little by little, I began to think like a mother. Together we were preparing for the birth of the baby—hers and mine.
And oddly enough, this stranger turned into a friend.
Though neither of us wanted to meet, our notes revealed that we shared similar interests, such as the theater, walking on the beach and reading. Even our printing looked identical. I also discovered that she was articulate, humorous, mature and selfless in her desire to provide a loving family for her baby.
One cold February day, I received a jubilant call from Cindy. She said, “Congratulations, you have a baby girl!”
“Is she okay? How is the mother?” I was ecstatic. “They are both fine—just fine,” Cindy said, laughing.
Tears streamed down my face, I called Allen. I could barely get the words out. “We have a baby girl.”
Within hours word of the baby spread through our small town. Friends loaned us a car seat and a cradle. Onlookers watched as we raced from store to store piling our buggy high with pink diapers, tiny smocked dresses, sleepers and pastel blankets.
Meanwhile, the birth mother held the baby, making sure she was healthy. She was adamant that no one adopt her but us.
“This little piggy went to the market,” I said as Allen laughed. “And her nose looks like yours,” I said. In fact, our baby did look like him.
As I dug into the hospital’s gift bag, I saw the final letter from my friend, tucked beneath the baby wipes and the lotion. I wasn’t able to open it just yet.
Falling in love with the baby came naturally. But I did not expect to feel love for a stranger when Allen and I decided to adopt; and I did—I came to love the birth mother. Thankfully she would always be our bond.
So with tears flowing, I read her love-filled note, which ended, “I gave her life, now you give her love.” My note back would have said, “We always will!”
Debra Ayers Brown
To Our Baby Girl
We both love you, and
We both have hopes and dreams for your future.
She carried you in her body for nine months;
I carried you in my dreams for five years.
She labored through birth;
I labored through INS, social workers and foreign law.
She is nature;
I am nurture.