Strange as it may sound (and it truly seems strangest to me), this little book holds some special importance to me. My tale:
During my wife's pregnancy, this book was one of many children's books given to us
happy, expecting parents by well-meaning friends and relatives. I read the book a couple times, and quickly filed it under the "above average to good" category, at least in relation to the other children's books we were receiving (most of which are in the "abysmal" category). Its
blatant sentimentality caused a momentary lump in my throat, from which I quickly recovered; but on with my
maudlin tale.
A while later, about a month before my wife's due date, it was discovered that the baby was
pointing the wrong way (mecial term "breech"). To right the way the baby points, a procedure to
turn the baby around (medical term "version") is performed, and this procedure is preceded by an
ultrasound, so the physican providing the service can get a better feel for what she is working on.
This innocent ultrasound revealed a problem in the baby's brain, and a diagnosis of
hydrocephalus (comedians' term "water on the brain"), was issued. This is not a diagnosis to be
taken lightly, as this condition is normally accompanied by all manner of horrible physical and
cognitive limitations. At the best, we were led to believe some
brain surgery would be necessary on our baby to correct the problem. At worst, the baby had some serious
genetic disorder.
It's not my intention in this piece to go into the details of the
emotional distress such a diagnosis causes. A
mental handicap is probably the worst condition that can be forseen for one's child. It's easy to imagine what one would do in such a
circumstance, but when it happens - when the room is full of doctors and nurses pointing at pictures of your baby's head, and measuring, and whispering; and reassuring you that
in many cases things turn out "ok", and that this hospital has a
wonderful staff of experts who will be there "with you"; and afterwards you and your wife are driving home, having expected a quick and easy procedure as the pamphlets stated, only now
your world has completely changed, and tears are flowing, and you don't have any idea where or how you will eventually land - when it happens - suffice it to say, none of us can completely prepare ourselves for the finality of Nature's
caprices.
Shortly thereafter, I found myself staining some
unfinished furniture in my garage, furniture I had bought for the baby's room in a happier time, before the
world turned upside down. As I worked, I was thinking these kinds of thoughts: "I am a failure; I can't even reproduce successfully; why couldn't we have known earlier and not gone through with this; we two could be quite happy
childless; now my life is over, tied to a mentally retarded child...etc.etc.". Yes, I am sorry to admit that these are the
selfish, evil thoughts that were running through my head, as I carefully brushed
Minwax over a pine nightstand.
And then a few lines of poetry came to me. These lines
consoled me, made me realize my selfishness, made me realize what I must and would now do, made me realize how things would stand between me and this child, my son,
regardless of the outcome. Was this the
23rd Psalm? or
Byron? or
Shakespeare? or
Horace? or
cummings? or any of the other mountain of "serious"
literature I had consumed, or been forced to consume, in my 33 years?
No, the lines that pulled me out of that
pit of selfishness and despair were these:
I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
As long as I'm living,
My baby you'll be.