E-Male
From Tiny Acorns

As I sat next to Eric, holding his hand while the Anesthesiologist put him under, I was struck by how the last time I was in an operating room was almost three years ago to the day, when he was born under the cloud of an emergency C-section. It was an eerie feeling, almost having come full-circle, and as his mother and I sat in the waiting room, I reflected on how I had not worried about him in this way since he was released from the hospital for good, two and a half years ago. The Emergency Room visit for stitches, even the hospitalizations for acute asthma attacks, were different somehow. I don't know if we had become blasé about his health in the ensuing years, or if the OR setting, with the crowd of gowned staff and overabundance of ominous equipment, made us question whether he had come as far as we tend to think.

But after an anxious few minutes, the doctor came out to reassure us that he was fine, and when we were ushered back to see him in the Recovery Room, any apprehensions that he was the same frail child were dispersed immediately.

We were met with crying as we entered the room, but not from Eric. No, he was in a nurse's arms, looking only vaguely disturbed that his folks were nowhere in sight. As he settled into Mom's lap, it was almost as if he was listening to the nurse's spiel and deciding to defy all expectations, once again. "He might be cranky for a half hour or so after he wakes up." Or he might be as serene as a little copper-haired Buddha. "He might not have any appetite for a while." Or he might scarf down a Popsicle and immediately begin asking for marshmallows and doughnuts, etc.

We took him home, and watched him tearing around the house, playing with his brother and acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened (which, given his history, maybe it hadn't). And the events of the past week that had been rattling around in my brain began to coalesce into something: a mental portrait of Eric, not as he was, but as he is.

Not as a fragile 28-weeker who weighed only 1080 grams at birth, but as a sturdy toddler; a trifle short but solid as a rock. Not as a child who couldn't eat and had to be fed intravenously, but as a ravenous kid who can polish off three cups of yogurt and ask for more. Not as a newborn whose only means of interacting with you was through his soulful eyes, but as an expressive three-year-old who talks a blue streak, and spontaneously bursts into song.

A three-year-old who never fails to chime in with "I'll go, Dad," when I ask if anyone wants to run an errand with me. A child that laughs at the least little thing, and adds a "That's funny, Dad" by way of explanation. A three-year-old who is prone to giving hugs and kisses, and frequently uttering a reassuring, "I love you, Dad" when you least expect it. A child who emerged from the crucible of the NICU with the sweetest disposition imaginable.

I have a theory that people who experience terrible hardship can be affected in one of two ways: they can be scarred and allow the experience to negatively impact their lives, never recovering; or they can learn from the ordeal and become stronger for it, consciously dedicating themselves to rise above the incident. Eric is young, but I firmly believe he falls into the latter category.

As I write this, we are approaching the Judeo-Christian holidays of Chanukah and Christmas, and I am struck by what a remarkable gift Eric is, as are all our children. There are children who are doing better than Eric, and there are children with greater challenges than he faced and continues to face. But I thank God every day for my family, and the purpose they bring to my life. And I suspect most, if not all, of you do too.

If I can leave you with one thing, I would like it to be hope. Had anyone asked me three years ago what I wanted for Eric, I would have said "For him to survive just another day," but secretly, I had faith that he would do so much more than that. And he exceeded my expectations. These fragile little babies have depths of resilience we can scarcely imagine.

Find that small glimmer of hope, and hold fast to it. For Eric is a constant reminder that the trite cliché is true; from Tiny Acorns grow Mighty Oaks.

page  13                    back to index                    go to next page