On short winter days, I remember a little girl I met over ten years ago. I was her home health aide, in other words, I was a babysitter for sick kids.She couldn't speak, walk on her own, had respiratory problems, and was almost completely blind, except she could tell shapes in light and shadow. I still picture her standing at the window of her house, barricaded into the living room by couches and other furniture so she wouldn’t hurt herself. She's a lean girl of five or six, propping herself up with one hand on a tabletop and one on the entertainment system. Her mother has combed her hair into three little ponytails, then twisted the hair into tiny barrettes. She is wearing a neat pink shirt and overalls. Her nostrils are already beginning to crust even though her nose has been suctioned twice. Her tongue is hanging loose out of one side of her mouth, and her breath comes out in raspy pants. She is looking through the slits in the window blinds, playing with the sun, rolling her head around on her neck, letting it trace a design somewhere, some surface. Instead of white and grey matter, I picture a screen like an etch-a-sketch where the ink is instead light, and the drawing is only pieces of spaghetti, some straight, some curled, with a splash, here and there, but she is smiling.
You can argue that she will never actually be happy, that she doesn’t understand what happiness is, or that this not living. She will never write, never make friends, never hold a job, never fall in love. And in so many ways, she does not exist. Although her mother and one brother who love her fiercely--then six, I watched him carry her from her stroller up a ladder and down the slide--would disagree. I had the same thoughts, quite often, and if I saw her now at 15 or 16, perhaps still in overalls, with a diaper bunching up underneath, I might still. But sometimes you have to let go of every sensible doubt, resist the clever comeback, the scientific rebuttal, and hope for that one small thing that for no reason means infinitely more than you think it should.
(Photo: courtesy of Mornby's photostream on flickr)
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4 comments:
To find God, some people climb a mountain. Others walk along the shore. Or spend time on their knees in church. All worthy pursuits. But if you really want to find God, look into the eyes of this girl. And watch her brother carrying her up that ladder. And witness her mother accepting the burden that has been visited upon her, and seeing this child as the great gift that she is.
A good friend had a niece who had a similar condition. She was the second youngest of five sisters. Their mother had died, and their father had raised them alone since they were in their early to late teens. He was hard on them, and between that and struggling to deal with the tragic loss of their mother at a tough point in their lives, none of them were very close to him or even each other, and none of them were particularly happy. They all married young and dispersed around the country. The youngest married at 22, and was soon pregnant. When the doctors detected serious abnormalities in the fetus, the father all but demanded that she abort it. But she didn't want to. And even though her sisters also thought she should abort, they rallied around to support her decision in the face of their father. Having the baby was almost an act of defiance for her. A girl was born with the expected serious abnormalities, much like the girl you describe. She was given a year to live. Each of the sisters went to visit the girl as often as they could, knowing how precious little time they had to do so. And even the father went a few times. The girl, though damaged, was adorable, and soon became the light of everyone's life. She lived a second year, but the doctors continued their grim prognosis. And a third. And still the whole family spent much of their vacation and many of their holidays each year visiting their little daughter/sister and her beautiful girl, who brought such happiness and meaning to their lives. When she turned 6, the father moved across the country to become the primary "nanny" for his granddaughter, with whom he had become absolutely smitten. When she passed away at 14 last year, the whole family gathered for a week-long celebration of her life and how she had brought such love into their lives and brought them so close together. She never wrote or held a job. But she existed. She was an angel from God, and she continues to exist in the hearts of those who loved her so, and in the great circle of sunlight she still shines upon them, taking them out of the darkness of their own short winter day.
tom
That's a beautiful story, and I'm glad you shared it, but this post isn't about being pro-life or pro-choice. It's about recognizing beauty and appreciating very small moments, even when life is hard.
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