The Racer’s Edge and Other
Stories
By
Louise Hart
© 2001. All Rights Reserved.
About the Author
Author,
poet and photojournalist Louise Hart has been writing since she was five years
of age and has been published since she was thirteen. She is a former teacher and journalist and
was previously named Poet Laureate of Greater Lawrence by the Greater Lawrence
Chamber of Commerce.
Some
of her other works include: Prayers for the
A
native of
Introduction
“If you would have love, you must give
it away.”
That adage was one of many dropped
like soft, velvet rose petals on visitors by my grandmother, a former Lowell
Mill Girl who was chosen by her fellow workers to recite to them as they worked
at their looms from sunrise until sunset.
My grandmother like her mother before her was blessed with an exceptional
memory. However, while my
great-grandmother memorized and could recite from the works of Shakespeare,
Poe, Dickens and the Bible until she died at the age of 93, her daughter quoted
verse and common sense adages from which her fellow workers could draw wisdom
and values.
Like many other such adages, when one
first hears it, it appears to be only a catchy observation and simplification
of the art of living. Like all good
adages, it contains a nugget of truth that once planted in one’s mind, germinates,
roots, grows and flowers until it begins to color how the listener sees the
world about him. Ultimately, the
listener begins to analyze the phrase.
Through analysis, the listener comes to understand that to give love,
one must first so love oneself that he or she has love to share and give to
others. One who does not love oneself
cannot love another. To love oneself,
one must accept and believe in oneself.
The stories that follow explore the
many permeations of love. The stories
are written as the mother, daughter, neighbor and others related them. To protect their privacy, I have not used
their real names or places where they live.
I have, however, attempted to present their stories as they lived
them. In The Racer’s Edge, love brings a
professional go-kart racer to the edge of success. It is the day of a critical, must win race. The championship for which he has sacrificed
and worked is within his reach, but only if he can first believe and trust in
himself. Whatever happened in the third
lap is left to the reader to decide. The
mother standing at the spectator’s wall seems to be seeing the race from the
eyes of her son. Is she, and if so,
how? It is an exciting finish that may
leave you wondering as it did all those who experienced it.
In the Magic of a Garden, love in all
of its many facets and hues flowers in a corner of a yard next to a country
road. For years, only the gardener knows
its secret. With pathos reminiscent of
Tennessee Williams, she cultivates the garden and its secret message. The secret remains hidden in plain sight
until tragedy strikes down the gardener.
Only then is the message of the garden revealed through a promise kept. When it is, it grants a wish to another.
If the beauty of love given away is
realized in the garden, its patient, unconditional, overcoming nature leads to
a surprising dying declaration in Lady, I’m Glad I Knew You. Its power to sustain life is revealed in
Stewed Tomatoes from SS Pierce and the second part of the adage is contained in
Aunt Hannah’s Satchel.
In the last story, love proves its
ability not just to sustain us in this life, but also, to survive (and
surprise) us. Two women search for answers.
One relies on her faith; the other seeks to apply scientific methods. Both receive answers, although in ways they
could not have imagined.
Table of Contents
About
the Author
Introduction
The
Racer’s Edge
The
Aunt
Hannah’s Satchel
Lady,
I’m Glad I Knew You
Stewed
Tomatoes from SS Pierce
Three
Purses and a Bouquet of Roses
Additional
Sources
The Racer’s Edge
The bond between parent and
child is often strengthened by adversity.
This seems especially true when children are or have been seriously or
critically ill. Such conditions are
believed to heighten not only the bonds, but also, the nonverbal communication
between parent and child to enable the child’s survival during critical
times. This communication linkage once
established often seems to last long after the condition or conditions that may
have brought it about. Certainly, that
may explain the events that follow.
Whether or not it does is left to the reader. The following is the mother’s story in her
own voice. She attests to the fact that
the events occurred. Except to attribute
them to the bond between parent and child, I cannot otherwise explain them.
My name is Cullie Ann Wentworth and
this is the story of my son, Rex. Rex
was born by emergency caesarian section as I entered the seventh month of my pregnancy. Neither he nor I was believed to have any
chance of survival. According to the
doctors, I was never supposed to be able to have children. From the first, they told met that the fetus
would never survive or be born alive.
They were almost right. Both my
son and I almost died. I had had three
instances of hemorrhaging, thirty of threatened spontaneous abortion, a
kidney/bladder shutdown, severe acute anemia, my teeth and hair were falling
out and I was acutely toxemic. There had
been no signs of life, no fetal heartbeat and no movement. The doctors were so sure that the fetus was
dead that they had ordered four sets of x-rays taken. The x-rays showed a large mass. They were uncertain if it was a kidney or
tumor. My chances of survival were set
at only one in a million and diminishing by the hour. The fetus, if viable at all, was given only
one in ten million chances of survival.
The doctors explained that if they waited, my chances would soon be no
more than one in a hundred million. The
fetus’ chance, if any, might improve to one in a million but that improvement
would be at a cost of my life.
“In short, you are saying that I am
dead or deader,” I can remember saying to the doctor. It was over twenty years ago now, but I can
still see every detail of that moment. I
was perfectly calm. I do not know
why. Perhaps it was that I knew that
there was nothing I could do to change it.
“It does not look good,” the
gynecologist answered honestly with a serious voice and downward glance. It could not have been easy to tell a young
woman that she may not only have lost her baby, but also, possibly her life. He
was clearly uncomfortable as he continued in a consoling, fatherly tone. “I would like to say wait to give the fetus
any chance he might have, but the risk to your life may not be acceptable. If you are to have a chance, we must operate
immediately. You are young and may be
able to have other children, but I cannot guarantee your life if we wait.”
I have always wondered what higher
power or force sustained me through that meeting and what followed. In spite of the doctor’s words, I had an air
of peace and self-assuredness about me.
As it had throughout my pregnancy, an inner voice told me that this
doctor, like the others whose advice that to abort the fetus to save my life,
was wrong. That voice assured me that my
fetus was alive and would survive. It
was with that assurance that I thanked the doctor now as he gave instructions
for me to be admitted to the hospital immediately for surgery. I was only allowed enough time to go home to
pack a few personal items to take with me.
Those items did not include any
clothes for the baby. My husband, Bob,
and I had never bought a crib or made any of the other preparations that occupy
expectant couples. There was no nursery,
no toys, nothing to indicate that our family would soon include a baby. I had been too ill to shop and Bob never saw
the point. He regarded shopping for a
fetus that was never supposed to be born a waste of time. From the first, we had been told that the
fetus would never survive. Six doctors
had refused to accept me as a patient.
They claimed that my pregnancy and medical condition presented too high
risk for their insurance. When I refused
to undergo an abortion, they advised that I go to the university medical
center. The center was many miles from
where we lived. Bob refused to drive
me. He knew that I could not go by
myself. I was hospitalized for almost a
week during the third month of the pregnancy because I had hemorrhaged. The doctors at the hospital had ordered me
not to drive for the remainder of the pregnancy. They did not consider it safe and worried
that the strain of driving could start me hemorrhaging again. I could not walk to the medical center. It was a city away. Hence, when Bob refused to drive me, it meant
that I was left without medical treatment for most of the pregnancy. No other
obstetrician in our city would accept me as a patient. We were new to the city and did not have a
family or even personal physicians.
With my growing incapacity, Bob not
only showed no interest in shopping for the baby, but also, he rediscovered the
single life. Bob was immature and had
entered the marriage for all the wrong reasons.
Saying that does not excuse him from responsibility for what he did or
did not do. I have just come to accept
that some people grow through adversity and others do not. Bob did not.
He was an alcoholic with psychological and personality disorders that
would in the end preclude him from married life. I was too young, too idealistic and too near
preoccupied with trying to survive and have a baby to understand that
then. I grew up a lot during that
pregnancy.
Before Bob and I married, I had led a
sheltered life. Bob was the first man I
ever really dated. Before he and I
dated, my whole life was my studies and work.
My studies meant everything to me.
I was an intellectual sponge. I
loved studying and was enthralled by every subject I had the opportunity to explore. The dean of students at the preparatory
school from which I graduated wrote in her recommendation of me that the school
had never encountered a mind or student such as I. They could not meet my intellectual
needs. She told the university in her
letter that from what they knew of me, I would take advantage of any and all
opportunities to learn and master any and all subjects presented. I was amazed when I saw her letter. She and I had not gotten along for I was the
one student in the school who had to work to pay for her education. The other students were all from wealthy
families. I was not. Yet, even though I worked many hours after
school, I set a four-year academic record that the dean told me had never been
equaled. I would continue to work and go to school after I entered the
university. My hard work would pay off
not only with my achieving academic honors, but also, with my early
graduation. In contrast, Bob was too
immature to be a serious student. It was
not that he did not have ability. He
did. He was very bright. He made National Honor Society in high school
and was awarded a full academic scholarship to the university. He lost the scholarship by failing to keep up
his grades and being caught drinking and gambling in the dorms. He was on academic and social parole when we
met.
We met because he had failed and thus
needed to take Chemistry for the second time.
He was enrolled in the engineering school at the university. Chemistry was a required academic course for
him. He needed to pass it to remain in
school. I was enrolled in the class only
because I loved science and was intrigued by modern Chemistry. The course was an elective for me. It was not required for either of my majors
or my minors and I already had enough credits to graduate. My academic advisor like my parents did not
understand my fascination with a subject so far distant from my liberal arts
majors. Because I did not have time in my accelerated academic schedules during
the regular school year, I decided to take the course the summer before I
graduated. I never regretted taking the
course for from the first day that I entered the class, I loved the
subject. The professor who taught the
course literally wrote the textbook on the subject. He was internationally known and a wonderful
lecturer. I sat in the center seat of
the front row in the lecture hall. I did
not want to miss even one word in any of his lectures. I studied, did my work as I always did and
quickly became the top student in the almost all male class. Bob almost managed to achieve the lowest rank
in the class. A student who failed to
show for almost all of the lectures and labs, however, insured that he did not. Bob hated Chemistry and was on his way to
having to take Chemistry yet a third time when we met. I was already tutoring several other students
in the class. I tutored him so that he
passed but I am getting ahead of myself.
The truth is that we possibly never
would have met or spoken to one another except for a chance misunderstanding by
another student who was trying to help me.
Anne was the only other female in the class. She and I had become friends as well as lab
partners. I was also tutoring her and with my help, she had raised her grade in
the class from a C to a B. Anne was
grateful for she had failed the course previously. She was a nursing major and the course was an
academic requirement for her. Anne
looked for ways to pay me back for my helping her. She knew that I was commuting to the
university. I did not have a vehicle of
my own. It took four buses and several
hours for me to complete the commute each day.
She had spoken to Bob and thought that he lived in the same city as I did. He did not, but we did not learn that until
after she had arranged for me to ride with him (for a fee). We still barely spoke. He had a cold demeanor that made it difficult
for anyone to approach him. Another
student named Mark had originally formed the carpool with him. Mark and Bob sat in the front seat of the
vehicle. I always sat in the back seat
and used the commuting time to review class notes or to begin homework. I was
working as usual that summer and had to go to work as soon as I arrived
home.
Mark was a pre-med student at a college in
Anne loved the taste of Irish bread
whether or not it was kosher. It was for
that reason that I had made her a loaf for her birthday and placed a candle in
the top of it. I presented it to her
after class. She laughed and loved her
“Irish birthday cake”. She was at the
same time upset. Our teen years were
almost over in a society that was obsessed with youthfulness. It was not that anyone over thirty was not to
be trusted. It was that at twenty, we
might be considered almost passé. Our
teen years, the best years of our lives, were almost at an end. Once past, they could never be recovered. Adulthood awaited and was quickly
approaching. Her birthday stood as
undeniable evidence of it. She was
disconsolate and carried on so, that I thought she approached the absurd. After all, we could not change our ages. The secret was to enjoy each age I counseled
although certainly I had had little time to enjoy any. Anne would not listen. She became even more distraught about her age. Since I could not reason with her about
growing up, I thought to humor her by jokingly agreeing with her that she was
correct. I thought that if I started to
sound as absurd as she did in her protests and crying then she would regain
some balance. I had to feign seriousness
as I told her that she was getting so old that I was going to bring a cane to
class for her to use to help her walk. I
put my arm about her as though to support her aged body. At first, it seemed to be working. She stopped complaining. Then, she countered by blurting out my
secret. Bob and Mark were walking in
front of us at the time and ignoring us as they usually did. Anne, after all,
had a boy friend to whom she was “almost” engaged. When Anne shouted how could I be calling her
old, when I was the same age as she? I
gulped and sternly whispered to her to shut up.
I almost put my hand over her mouth.
My eyes opened wide with horror and fright. Had Bob and Mark heard? Before Anne finished speaking, they quickly
turned their heads to look at us. I
caught what I regarded as a sinister, predatory grin and a gleam in both of
their eyes. My heart sunk for I knew
that they had. My safe ruse was
over. Now, I wondered, what is going to
happen and what am I to do?
Mark was the better looking of the
two. He, in fact, already had the
carriage and demeanor of a young doctor.
I possibly would have agreed to go out on a date with him had he asked. He never had a chance to do so. Within a week, Bob forced Mark out of the
carpool and as I would learn later, made his intentions clear about me (to
Mark). He did not tell me his
intentions, but he was suddenly talkative and friendly. In fact, he was almost charming. When I did not respond or encourage his
advances, he tried another ploy. He
asked me to tutor him. I was after all
tutoring Anne and any other student who asked for help he argued when I
resisted. If I could help him, I would
prove that I really could teach anyone.
I did not know if he was serious but I did know that without help, he
was definitely not going to pass. I
started to tutor him and after his grades showed improvement, he asked me out
on a date to celebrate. Bob may never
have been a serious student, but he had an iron will. I did not realize that it was a matter of
will with him. When I first refused his
advances, I had defied his will and become his challenge. He would win me over. Before long, we were dating regularly.
Bob and I were total opposites. I had not dated and lived in a world
sheltered by my intellectual pursuits. A
student of philosophy and great literature as well as math and science, I
dedicated any free time I had (after work and school) to community
service. When Bob and I met, I was
serving as an advisor and tutor to a youth group in Roxbury. I counseled minority students and worked with
them to help them establish and realize their educational and career goals. I
was working four jobs simultaneously to put myself through school and had
amassed enough credits to graduate early.
Although undoubtedly bright, Bob had problems, not the least of which
was alcoholism. I did not drink and knew
nothing of drug and alcohol addiction.
He would later be diagnosed, as a chronic depressive alcoholic and
neurotic, but that would not be until after our lives had become a
nightmare. When we met, we were both
young and I was an innocent optimist who thought that I could change the whole
world. I would learn. After with my tutoring Bob passed Chemistry,
I continued to help him. I was soon
helping him write papers and tutoring him in other subjects. Like many overachievers, I, in fact, lacked
good self-esteem. In helping Bob and
others, I sought to prove my own worth.
I feared failure and was thus vulnerable. Instinctively, Bob realized my weakness and
utilized it to his advantage. At first,
he only thought to prove to Mark that he was superior. I was booty in a game of one ups man
ship. Then, he saw advantages. Soon, we were in a relationship for which
neither of us was prepared. My
graduation from the university might have freed us, but I made the mistake of
attempting to use the occasion to break off the relationship. Bob took it as a challenge and defiance of
his will and Bob never tolerated either.
After I graduated, Bob’s grades
plummeted. He was not just placed on
academic probation, he was asked to leave the university. The
As I approached the seventh month of
the pregnancy, my whole body seemed to be failing. My hair and teeth were falling out. I was acutely anemic and worse, I could not
eat and was experiencing trouble breathing. I felt constant pressure on my
stomach and lungs. By chance, I found a doctor who agreed to see me. When he examined me, he could not detect any
fetal heartbeat. There had been no
movement or quickening as it is sometimes called. He decided that he could not wait to schedule
an ultra sound. Something was
drastically wrong. He was not an
obstetrician. He was an osteopath. He normally served as a family physician and
referred any difficult cases to specialists.
He would have referred me but when I reported that each of the
physicians he named had already refused to treat me because of my condition, he
was at a loss as to how to proceed. He
had an x-ray machine in his office.
Since he could detect no fetal heartbeat, he believed that the fetus was
already deceased. He needed to save my
life if he could. He took the
preliminary x-rays himself and then called the hospital to order more. He told us that he would read the hospital’s
x-rays over the coming weekend and call us on Monday with the results. We left immediately for the hospital. Within an hour of the completion of the new
x-rays, the doctor called us. He asked
Bob and I to come to his office immediately.
He needed to talk to us. What he
had to tell us, left Bob and me in shock.
When the additional x-rays were first ordered, I had had to cope with my
own fears. What had he seen on the first
x-rays? Why did he not order or feel we
could wait for ultrasounds? What would
or had happened to the fetus? If the
fetus was dead inside me, was my life truly in danger? Bob was no more supportive now than he had
been throughout the pregnancy. He was in
denial and refused to discuss what was happening.
After the first set of tests, I found
myself mothering, comforting and trying to prepare my husband for what was
about to happen. I had read the books
that I had found in the physician’s offices.
They may have refused to take me on as a patient, but that did not stop
me from taking and reading all of the literature they handed out. Bob had not.
When the technician at the hospital where the second, third and fourth
set of x-rays were taken said that the doctor would contact us within the hour
to discuss the results, I gulped. I
remembered what the doctor had said and knew that the change meant that
something was drastically wrong. The
doctor had told us that he was leaving his office to go play golf. He was scheduled to play in a tournament that
weekend. The doctor would not be leaving
the golf tournament unless my life was in danger. I felt a growing sense of panic inside
me. I did not know what was wrong but I
knew that something was seriously wrong.
Bob ridiculed me and accused me of overreacting. Bob was still in denial for the news was not
what he wanted to hear. He avoided
reality by denying its legitimacy. I
thus faced the reality of what was happening to me alone as I had each of the
previous crises in the pregnancy.
No one besides my husband and me knew
of the pregnancy. The doctors had been
so unanimous in their opinion that the fetus would never be born alive and
because there had never been any movement or sign of life, we decided not to
announce the pregnancy. If the baby
started to move, if we felt its heart beat or if I made it to the seventh month
when if alive, the baby might prove the doctors wrong, then we would tell our
families. We had no desire to announce a tragedy. Tragedy is personal. When it attacks, we like other living things
often close in to try to protect ourselves.
Besides much of my early life had been consumed by an older half
sibling’s overwhelming health problems.
Her problems exacerbated the problems of my family and left all of us
scarred for life.
It was now December. The holidays were quickly approaching. I would enter the seventh month of the
pregnancy just before Christmas. Bob and
I had decided that we would announce the pregnancy during our holiday calls to
our families. It would make the holiday
that much more joyous and help us overcome the distance between us. We looked forward to surprising them, for if
I made it to Christmas, we were certain that somehow the baby would make
it. When the doctor ordered me into the
hospital, Bob wanted to call our parents immediately. I asked him not to do so. What was there to be gained? They were 4,590 miles away from us. Their was no way they could travel to reach
us before the surgery. All he would do
with his call is make them worry about what they could do nothing about. Besides, I needed all of my energy. I could not deal with any problems they might
have or their asking why we had chosen not to share the pending tragedy with
them. In hours, I could be dead or the fetus
could be dead or we could both be dead.
I detailed what my wishes were in each instance. Only if by some miracle, all the doctors were
proven wrong and the baby and I survived, only then, should he call our
families. Otherwise I asked that he not call my parents until after the
holidays. I did not want to enter
eternity or live the rest of my life hearing how my doomed pregnancy had
spoiled his parents or my parents’ holidays.
Bob agreed. I was relieved for I did not know what I would say to
them. If I said goodbye, I would be
admitting my own mortality. I was barely
into my twenties. I knew that it was
possible that in just hours, I would no longer be, but right then I did not
need to be reminded of that possibility.
I wanted to focus my energy on surviving. I made a list of baby items Bob would have to
buy - if the fetus survived and another list of what to do if the baby, I or
both of us did not. Bob stuffed the
lists in his pocket without looking at them.
There would be time enough for that later.
If I was to have any chance of
survival, the doctor counseled that he must operate immediately. He wanted me to go directly to the hospital
from his office. Bob protested that I
was not prepared. The doctor told him
that he should take me to the hospital and then go back to our apartment to
pack a few things for me. Bob protested
that he would not know what to pack for me or where to even find it. Our apartment was only minutes from the
hospital. He would drive me home so that
I could pack the suitcase myself. Bob assured the doctor that we would meet him
at the hospital within an hour. The
doctor was surprised but thought that it might help to calm Bob by agreeing
with him. While I located and packed my
own suitcase, Bob occupied himself by looking over a list of baby names. I had made up the list when I was a teenager. I had always known that I wanted
children. Bob laughed at my choice of
names, but finally settled on a name that was a combination of two names that I
had loved. Our son, he announced, would
be named Rex Allan. The name meant King
of Peace or Harmony, a hopeful name that would prove perfect although we could
not know it then.
Within hours, even before the doctors began the
operation, my situation would turn critical.
As the hospital attendants wheeled the gurney down the corridor toward the
operating room I looked at the ceiling.
The experience was chilling for I recognized the view from the
gurney. I had seen it many times in my
childhood. It was part of a nightmare
with which I awoke screaming night after night.
One night, my mother had to waken me for I literally kicked a bureau
across a room and was screaming in my sleep.
When my mother shook me awake, I described the dream. My mother could not understand the
dream. It seemed innocuous. I said that I was lying on a cart or bed that
was moving down a long corridor that was whiter than any room I had ever
seen. In the dream, I could not get
up. I could only look at the ceiling as
the cart moved. “What is frightening
about that?” Mother asked puzzled by my reaction to what seemed a
non-threatening situation. “I do not
know,“ I answered confused and crying. “It is just that I could feel that as I
looked up at that ceiling something bad was about to happen to me. It scared me.” My mother told me to go back to sleep.
My mother was not in the hospital on the day my son
was born. To try to calm myself and
avoid looking at the familiar ceiling, I closed my eyes. It did not work. My body began to react to one of the
medications that had been administered to me in preparation for the
surgery. The medications were supposed
to relax me. Instead, my blood pressure
suddenly rose from 90/50 to over 200/125.
All I would remember was crying out half in delirium, “My head is going
to blow. Help me, please. My head is
going to blow.” I passed out as I heard
the doctors and nurses running toward me.
When I awoke, I was on the operating table and the doctor was making an
incision in my abdomen. The anesthesia had
not taken effect and I felt the scalpel cut my skin as the doctor cut me open
from my navel down to the pubic area. “I
know the doctor has to hurry, “ I said with a strange calmness given the pain
of the incision to the anesthetist who was standing near my head, “but do you
think you could ask him to wait until you give me something to dull the pain.”
“You felt that,” the doctor answered with surprise and concern. “Yes,” I answered, “I felt the cut, but it is
all right. I know that the doctor did
not mean to hurt me.” The surgeon held
up his hands and signaled the anesthetist to give me more painkillers. He tried to explain that they had only given
me enough to suppress the pain because they were trying to limit the fetus’s
exposure to the anesthesia. “I know,” I
said, “my mother is a nurse. It is all
right. I can take it.” I dealt with the
pain by watching the reflection of the operation in the metal portion of the
large florescent light that was angled about the incision wound.
The doctor had problems attempting to deliver my
son. The mass the doctors had identified
on the x-rays earlier was a large fibroid tumor. The doctor joked that now he knew why I had
not aborted the fetus, “You put in the plug”.
I started to laugh but when he next called, “I can’t get the baby out”,
I almost sat up on the table. Even with
an anesthetic block, I could hear the panic in the doctor’s voice and it evoked
even more panic in mine. The mood became grim as the doctors worked as quickly
as possible to excise enough tissue from the tumor to allow them to remove my
son. For all the trouble the
obstetrician went through to try to save my son, my son responded by squirting
the doctor in the eye. The doctor uttered a swear, noting that this was the
first time in thirty years any baby had urinated in his face, much less his
eye. I apologized with relief showing in
my voice. I could hear my son’s first
cry as the anesthesiologist administered the general anesthesia to put me to
sleep. In total, it took the doctors over two hours to deliver my son and another
four or more hours to finish removing a large benign tumor the size of another
baby from my uterus and abdomen.
I have always been grateful that we both
survived. However, the effects of his
early birth and the circumstances of it impacted my son’s development after
birth even more than it had before. The
medical community now recognizes a number of conditions as resultant from early
birth. They have means to cope with many
of these. They had not and did not in
the case of my son. Whether because of
his early birth or the x-rays or for other reasons, my son was born with an
impaired immune system. In consequence,
he has had thirty-four instances of bronchitis and/or pneumonia and three or
four of cellulites. I cannot recount the
number of times he stopped breathing or almost died.
Sometimes when I read how doctors now accuse a
parent of making a child sick, I am incredulous. How any parent could endanger a child is
beyond my comprehension just as I do not know why doctors now appear to immediately
suspect parents. In my son’s case, I
cannot name all of doctors who told me that he only lived because as his
mother, I would not let him go. I am not
a martyr and I do not believe that what I did was anymore than what any parent
with a chronically ill child would or does do everyday. As a parent, I wanted only what was best for
my son. Nothing more and nothing
less. I thus nursed him through each
illness, taught him to build on his strengths and urged him to pursue his
dreams to the fullest that his abilities would allow. This, I believe, is no more than what is
expected and what every good parent attempts to do. With my son’s special problems, this was not
always simple or easy. It was made even
harder by the fact that I was a single parent.
Bob rejected our son as imperfect. I do not know why. No human is perfect. Bob refused to have nothing to do with the
baby from the day he insisted that we leave the hospital early against doctor’s
orders. The doctors had wanted me to
remain in the hospital another three weeks.
They had told Bob that he could take Rex home in another week. Bob said later that he feared that my
insurance would expire. I had worked
until the doctors said that I could not work any longer. We had thousands in our savings account. It was the money I had saved for my education
from I was seven years of age. Bob now claimed that money and as he told me
later, did not want to risk losing it by having to spend it on the baby or me.
Bob lied to the doctors and me to gain my early
release. He told us that he had arranged
for a nurse to stay with me. He had not.
Moreover, when the baby cried on the way home, he had his excuse. He left me alone with the baby in the
apartment and said that he had a quick errand he had to complete. He was gone for over a week. I was left with thirteen clamps down in my
abdomen and a sickly baby to attend and care for all by myself. When Bob
finally returned, he was surly and distant.
When I asked him to feed and change the baby one night because I was in
too much pain to get up out of bed, he retaliated by throwing the baby. I was on my feet immediately. I never knew
how or from where I had summoned the strength, but I used my voice and went to
the defense of my infant son. I later
realized that I had reacted as ferociously as a mother lion or elephant in the
wild would to a threat to her cub or baby elephant. I had been physically, emotionally and
sexually abused in childhood. I would
later understand that like the pilgrim in the parable who thought to escape
death and instead ran to it, I carried the effects of that abuse with me into
my marriage. I would always be
especially grateful for my son for through my instinctual defense of my child,
I finally learned how to save and protect myself.
At the time, the abuse started, I was too busy
trying to keep Rex and myself alive to deal with Bob’s problems. Our marriage broke up. We would reconcile again and again. Bob would always be contrite until he had his
way. In time I would see through his
manipulations. When I did, our marriage
ended. Of his own choice, Bob was not
part of our sons’ lives. The irony was
that Rex and he would prove to have many interests in common. Bob was an engineer who dreamed of a career
in auto racing and trained as a pilot.
He lacked the faith in himself to realize any of his dreams. In spite of his early health problems, Rex,
unlike his father, would pursue and succeed at all of these.
One might think that the nonverbal communications
between parent and child would be stronger in infancy when a child lacks speech
or other means to fully communicate his needs and wishes, rather than later
when he or she has learned how to speak and use language. However, as my son emerged from infancy, the
bond and nonverbal communications between us seemed to become even stronger.
This was especially true after he nearly died of pneumonia when he was nine
years old. The doctor left him at home
in my care for as he told his staff more than once, my son was better off in my
care than in that of professionals in the hospital. He truly believed that and while the care of
a critically ill child is stressful and at times, fearful, for a parent, I
never questioned the doctor’s wisdom.
All I knew was that just as when I was pregnant, I always had faith that
he could survive.
As I nursed my son through repeated instances of
bronchitis and pneumonia, I seemed to grow antennae that sensed whenever he was
in danger or ill and when he was well enough to test his limits. I have met other parents whose children have
respiratory problems who marvel that I encouraged my son to fully participate
in, discover and develop his athletic as well as his academic abilities. Several athletic directors in elementary and
junior high schools also questioned my encouragement of my son’s interests in
sports. I always responded that I
believed in a mix of the Rousseau and Socratic philosophies to child
development. That is, that the parent as teacher serves as a guide and manages
new experiences in accordance with the needs, interests and abilities of the
child and encourages development of the mind as well as the body of the
child. Just because my son did not have
a healthy immune system, I told other parents and his teachers, did not mean
that he did not have normal interests and his own special abilities. He took
music lessons and played in the elementary and junior high school bands, not
because I thought he would be the next Al Hirt or ever pursue a career in
music, but rather, because he enjoyed it and playing the trumpet helped develop
his lungs and breathing capacities. I
was always grateful to the music director in the local elementary schools for
understanding my goals, encouraging and working with my son. For my part, I was the parent who was always
available to drive or chaperone band members, donate to and raise money for
band activities and who took pictures of and marched with the band at every
holiday parade. I was grateful for the
opportunity given my son. I did the same
for the chess club. I donated all the
boards and pieces needed by the instructor for the club when it started. My son learned and became proficient in chess
as a member of that club.
My son never played in any football league in town
or at school nor did he ever try out for track and field teams. He did, however, take classes in gymnastics,
skiing, bicycling, archery and riflery (for coordination), swimming (for
personal safety) and play soccer, baseball and some basketball. Many of these
were taken through the local YMCA because the classes and leagues there had an
open enrollment policy. I cooperated and
supported his instructors who were aware of my son’s medical history and
understood that he might need to take extra time out and needed to be allowed
to develop some skills at his own pace.
For instance, it took three years for my son to learn to breathe under
water. His swimming instructor gave a
party for all of the day campers at his summer camp the day my son finally
jumped in the water (over his head). I
cried for joy that he was now water safe.
I also stood and cheered through a whole season of soccer games played
in light rain. I was often one of the
only parents in attendance and certainly the one who shouted only positive
cheers of encouragement for the whole team.
I did not mind when it rained during a soccer or baseball game, for I
knew that my son could run in the rain without experiencing breathing
problems. Because he could, his coach
invariably scheduled him to play and let other players sit the game out under
umbrellas. The year his soccer team won
the league championship, it rained almost every weekend. I was thrilled for my son. He was so encouraged that during high school,
he tried out for and made the junior and then, the senior varsity soccer
teams. He similarly played in little
league and went on to play varsity baseball in high school. He was also on his high school and college
ski teams. He still plays soccer and
baseball every chance he gets and teaches skiing at a local ski school. He still rides his bicycle every chance he
has.
His athletic and other extracurricular activities,
such as scouting and model building, did not overcome his health problems. I dreaded his illnesses and my having that
antennae soon proved to my son’s advantage.
There are so many instances now that I cannot detail them all. Some, of course, I can never forget. For example, after the nurse at the
preparatory school that my son was attending called me at work one afternoon to
say that my son had the flu and had been admitted as a patient to the student
infirmary, I had a sudden feeling that something was wrong - dreadfully
wrong. At first I thought that it was just
a reaction to the news of my son’s illness.
It had taken four single-spaced pages to list his health record before
he entered kindergarten. By the time he
enrolled in preparatory school, the length of that record had increased
exponentially. That he and I joked about
it was probably a mark of our own acceptance that we could not change it and
gratitude that he had survived it. I was
grateful that he had and like him, I kept hoping that each illness, each
pneumonia, each attack would be the last.
The doctors offered no explanation and treated each of my son’s
illnesses as a unique occurrence.
Perhaps because they did, we did.
As that
afternoon progressed, I could not shake the uneasy feeling. When she had
called, the nurse had provided me with a list of the prescriptions that had
been ordered for my son. I tried to check them in my home medical guides. I
thought that knowing what the prescriptions were might help calm my worries and
shake off the growing sense of danger.
All but one seemed consistent with what had been previously prescribed
for my son during previous illnesses. I
could not find that one. His regular
pediatrician was not available. I
thought about calling his own doctor in the morning and checking with him, but
I had a persistent, nagging sense that I needed to do something now or else. Although I dreaded the trip, I drove the
nearly hundred miles to the school. The
nurse returned to her office after dinner to find me waiting. She tried to tell me that I need not have
come, but I told her that I had a bad feeling about my son’s condition. She responded that the doctor had visited him
and as she had informed me earlier, he had left prescriptions. My son was expected to fully recover within a
day or so. She had checked on him
herself before dinner. He still had a
high fever and deep cough but he had only been on the medications for a day or
so. It could be that it would just take
time.