I had been planning to write a post about my Dad's 80th birthday. I even started it and then, tragedy struck. I will get back to Dad soon, but I have to mention my beautiful son, Christopher.
On February 1, Christopher was brutally beaten by a bunch of thugs out to cause some violence by sinking their fists into my son's beautiful face. I will never understand such violence and, quite frankly, I never want to.
When I got the call from the hospital at 1:30 pm, all the staffer would tell me was that my son had been badly beaten and that I needed to get to the hospital to sign for surgery. "How bad is he?" I asked. "I don't know, ma'am." "Is he conscious?" She didn't know. "Does he have brain damage?" "I don't know." "Can you tell me anything?" "He had a CT scan that showed no bleeding into the brain." "Then there is no brain damage?" "I don't know." "Will he survive?" She didn't know. After each question, I took deep breaths and blew out loudly, trying to stop the room from spinning. "I'm on my way...."
I ran to the living room window and scanned the neighborhood. Mondays are busy days in my neighborhood. Most of my friends are working. But John. John's car was in the driveway so I picked up the phone and called him. When he answered in his cheery voice, I frantically explained, again between exhaling huge breaths, what happened and that I needed him to come to my house to watch Liam for me. Pronto. He obliged and, as I raced around, blurting out instructions and throwing a pile of diapers at his feet and a big container of wipes, Liam woke from his nap.
I climbed the stairs, breathing deeply, and quickly changed back into "Nimmy." Ever-loving, happy, cheery, calm, ready-to-play Nimmy. Liam and I came downstairs and chatted with John for awhile as I gently continued showing John where Liam's things were. Liam clung to me like a baby koala bear, not loosening his grip until he felt certain that Nimmy and John had one goal: to play with Liam. During this time, my mind raced wildly, with me still not knowing what the circumstances were, and knowing I had to get to the hospital. In less than 10 minutes, Nimmy was able to don her coat, and slowly, quietly, slip out the front door.
Christopher was born on a lovely October evening, 1981. The evening before his birth, his dad and I prepared for bed. Christopher was accustomed to his father talking to him, through/at his mother's belly, offering advice and words of love throughout the pregnancy. That night, Druck said, "Listen, you. I'm ready to see you. And I don't want to go to work tomorrow. So come on out of there. Tonight!" And he did - or at least he began the journey into the world that evening. At 3:30 the following morning, I awoke with harsh pains and cramping not unlike the severe cramping I had during my endometriosis-plagued cycle. I began to get up to head to the bathroom for a pad when I stopped at the edge of the bed and said, "Wait a minute." I looked down at my swollen belly and realized what was going on.
I sat in bed for about 15 minutes, looking down at my sleeping husband, while the contractions came about every 5-6 minutes. Finally, I tapped him on the head and, when he sleepily opened one eye, said, "I think I'm having our baby..."
Now, over 28 years later, as I drove to the hospital for something much less pleasant, thoughts of my child swam through my mind. I spoke to God and said, "No. No. He has to be ok. No. You cannot take him yet."
When I arrived at Detroit Receiving Hospital, I raced through the halls, frantically following signs until I got to the information desk. When I got to ICU, there was one nurse in the room. I ran to the edge of my son's bed and began spewing questions as I scanned his face for some familiarity beneath the badly beaten visage before me. His lips were swollen three times their size and both eyes were blackened and swollen shut. Dried blood encrusted his broken nose and I saw that he was on a ventilator. The nurse did not know any answers to my questions. She had just come on duty and hadn't yet looked at his chart. I asked her to go and get someone who could answer my questions as I flung my coat into a chair and gripped the rails of the bed. She asked me if I'd like some water and I said YES. AFTER YOU CALL SOMEONE TO TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON. PLEASE.
Christopher is like a sleeper movie. A 4-D drama/comedy/romance with incredible twists and turns accompanied by beautiful scenery, brilliant colors, and eloquent language. In many of these movies that we call life, people get married, have children and raise them. Most kids are just kids. But Christopher was not simply a cookie cutter kid who went to school, played sports and did his homework. The movie just kept getting better and better. From an early age, he possessed a perception and depth that takes some people years to gain, if ever. And his love was, and is, bigger than life itself.
In ICU, as machines beeped monotonously, my eyes darted from my son's face to the doctors and back. And back again. Finally, I had some answers. Orbitol fractures, fractured jaw, nose fractures, multiple facial fractures. No brain damage. No cervical spine damage. No internal organ damage. He would live. Now, finally, I could collapse into the chair and wait for my husband to arrive who was speeding to the hospital from New York and was, at the time I contacted him, still two hours away.
He was always a quiet kid, but one who knew what he wanted. During family gatherings, he'd politely engage with the adults and played hard like a kid, but was never out of control. Never whined about what he didn't have. He knew his parents worked hard - his mom worked full-time, managing a Boston law firm, rushing home each day to gather up her children from after-school care, bring them home, talk to them about their day, prepare dinner, and help with homework afterward; and his dad who was working even harder, completing his postdoctoral fellowship through Harvard's Department of Genetics and Massachusetts General Hospital, trying to fit in time to provide his children with some semblance of normalcy through the rigorous demands that life required at the time.
When my husband arrived, I had to go downstairs to allow him up. Only two in ICU at a time, and Christopher's fiancee' was holding steadfast vigil that would take an army to pull her away. I stepped off the elevator and saw Druck pacing. I motioned harshly with my hand for him to come and he hastened to my side. I saw the tears in his eyes as his face screamed a kind of pain that was only saved for the worst possible things in life. "He's OK," I said, calmly. "He's going to live. He has no brain damage. But he doesn't look so good. Go on up." Druck nodded in acquiescence, raced to the elevators, and was gone.
Growing up and even now, Christopher has always respected his friends and family and would never speak harshly to them or about them; he is devoted, loyal and trustworthy.
One day, after playing at his friend, Ben's, house, having taken his baseball card collection with him to trade with Ben and another friend, he came home - quiet, but clearly distraught. I studied my son for awhile as I sat in the living room chair, asking him about his time at Ben's. He avoided eye contact and was quieter than usual. Finally, I said, "Bub, what's wrong. Something is wrong." My dear, sweet 10 year old flung himself into my lap and sobbed uncontrollably. Ben and the other boy had taken some of his cards forcibly, and there had been a tussle. Christopher didn't fight back. In this instance, my son respected the friendship more than fighting over some cards and took their cruelty like one wiser than his years, got what cards of his he could, promptly left, and walked home. He demanded that I not call Ben's mother and I didn't. I knew he didn't want to suffer the ramifications any child wishes to avoid when their mother calls someone else's mother. But I swore to myself that if it happened again, Ben would be receiving a phone call from my husband.
As any parent can attest, until you are a parent, you just don't get it. Becoming a parent changes your entire life. You take better care of yourself. You make sure the doors are locked. You get excited about poop. You get excited about potty training. You are brought to a new level in life where you remember how beautiful the simplest of things are: patiently watching a bug crawl across the pavement and hurrying it along with a poke of your finger, or re-learning what the color "sienna" or "periwinkle" is. Giggling at the tickle of a leaf across your skin, or racing to see the luminescence of a brilliant moon on a summer's evening all bring back a lost naivete and interest in the world that only a child can bring alive again.
Two days after the incident, Christopher's nurse was tending to him and talking to me and Christopher's fiancee, asking if we were able to piece anything together. But Christopher hadn't really yet been able to speak. I said, "Whatever happened, I don't think he fought back. Maybe he was unable. Look at his hands and his fingernails. There are no marks," I said. And, suddenly, he spoke. A whisper, but he spoke. "I...didn't...fight....back." Emily and I rushed to his side and leaned in. "Sweetheart?" I said. "Do you remember anything?"
"I ... didn't fight back." Eventually he relayed that there were too many of them. He just focused on protecting his head. Christopher didn't fight back. He knew better. He focused on self-preservation before fighting a bunch of thugs and took the brutal beating, knowing there was no way he could get away and focused only on survival.
Driving to the hospital that day, I wondered if I had done everything I possibly could, said everything I needed to say to my son during his life, in the event I might, indeed, lose him. While we all have regrets in life and there are things we might have done differently, I felt comfortable in knowing that every phone call with both of my children is always ended with an "I love you," and my regular text messages emphasizing my love for each of them were received and acknowledged with a return, "I love you too."
Touching and hugging and looking into those beautiful brown eyes had been a way of life for over 28 years. I knew that if I lost him, I hadn't failed at telling him how much I loved him and how much he meant to me.
The first day after his surgery, my husband had already arrived at the hospital. I walked into the room and my son was sitting in a chair, his head cocked to the side, studying me through a small slit in his right eye. The other eye had not yet opened. I sat in the chair beside him and he watched me, tried to read me, waiting to see if his mother's face would show him that it was going to be OK. I reached over and gently stroked his arm and his hand and said, "It's going to be OK." Tears rolled out of each corner of his eyes and I knew my son needed to hear that.
Thankfully, Christopher is on the mend. Prayer is powerful and he is recovering quicker than expected, thanks also to the fact that he works out almost daily and eats right. And love is powerful. Hope is powerful. Still, these character tests come in and out of our lives now and then, perhaps as a reality check. And so, I ask you today, have you told a loved one, "I love you?" Have you not let too much time lapse in between hugs and the look that says, "you mean everything to me?" Don't let it go too long. Because they are so worth it. So worth the time, the effort, the look, the touch, the note in the lunch bag or on the kitchen table, the special dessert, the smile and, yes, even the tears.
Say what you need to say.
Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma
