Happy Birthday my son! Has it really been twenty-seven years
since you came into the world and forever changed my life and heart? You are now the same age I was when you were
born; give or take a couple of days. And
that means I am now twice as old as I was then. Gads! How did THAT happen? It
seems like yesterday that I was holding you in my arms. My little miracle.
In my life, I have known many times of true magic. The day my sweet, grandmother Legg died was
my first brush with ethereal things. The
night your sister was conceived, the night she was born and the morning she
left us, were all heavily steeped in spiritual waters. The beautiful spring morning when your Pawpaw
fleetingly appeared out of the shadows of his own mind to tell me one last time
how much he loved me was perhaps the most breathtakingly magical moment of my
life. And the glorious autumn day when
Alex came to redeem me from the path of self- destruction I was on was nothing
short of miraculous. I still thank the
Universe and the God of It every day that he showed up on time.
But the moment when you (finally) drew your first breath was
as magical to my life as the wave of a fairy godmother’s wand. For that fragile breath was the catalyst that
transformed me from the free-wheeling, hard-rocking party girl that I was into
a responsible adult who had never truly known what Love was before that
moment. My life as I had known it came to
a screeching halt and I was catapulted onto the road of becoming the person I
am today. What a miracle that was.
From the beginning we called you the miracle baby. You were the baby who should not have been conceived. I was always told that, due to my severe
endometriosis, I would be lucky to ever have children. Still, I took my birth control pills as consistently
as the day turns into night. So, in
early January when I wasn’t feeling well, I figured I was coming down with the
flu. Surprise!
Then you were the baby who, according to all the
ultrasounds, was a girl. I was so
excited! Every paycheck saw the purchase of a pretty pink dress, sparkly little
outfits or tiny, baby girl, shoes. Your father was less excited. He wanted a boy so badly. Then in mid-July, with the nursery well
stocked with frills and bows in every shade of pink imaginable, I went to the
hospital in premature labor. The
ultrasound that day quite vividly showed your maleness. Surprise again!
And then you were the baby who shouldn’t have survived at
all. For all intents and purposes, you
were stillborn, the only sign of life being a faint, thready, heartbeat. It was several long, terrifying, minutes
before you finally drew a weak breath. Born with meconium aspiration and persistent
fetal circulation, the doctors gave you less than a ten percent chance to live
and said that if you did manage to survive, your quality of life would be
dismal. They told us you would have severe brain damage that would leave you profoundly
mentally and physically disabled. I will
never forget the callousness of the doctor who demanded that I “grow up and do
the right thing” and sign the order to stop life support. I am so thankful I listened to my instincts
and not to his “medical expertise”.
And you were the baby who defied the odds, again and
again. You didn’t just survive – you thrived.
Every time a doctor declared a life sentence on you, you proved them wrong. “
He’ll never lived” turned into, he survived. Because of the way you responded
in the pressurized cabin of an airplane, doctors now treat babies with persistent
fetal circulation in hyperbaric chambers, improving their life expectancy. “He’ll be hospitalized and on life support for
months” turned into “he’s two weeks old now, you can take him home tomorrow”. Severely retarded you say? Blind you say? At a year old, you were building complex structures
with blocks and could solve simple reasoning problems. You defied them again, and surprised the heck
out of me, by teaching yourself to read at 18 months of age. By the time you were two you were reading
first and second grade books, could write basic sentences, do simple math
equations, and understood abstract concepts like time and the fact that Mommy
was my title and not my name. When you
entered first grade, your teacher asked to have your IQ tested because you were
so far ahead of your class she didn’t know how to teach you. The psychologist who tested you was at first
disgusted, thinking I was just another mother who thought her precious darling
was the next Einstein. “It’s highly unusual to test children this young Miss
Adams”. By the time the testing was
over, he was ashen faced and clearly amazed.
“Average kid with Doting Mother” turned into “His IQ is higher than
MINE! And he’s SIX!” I asked for a copy
of the test results and, upon receiving them, mailed it to the doctor who had
proclaimed you’d be nothing more than a breathing vegetable. I attached a note
that said “Smartest carrot you ever saw!”
But it wasn’t just your super intelligence that set you
apart. From day one, your sunny
disposition brought joy to many burdened hearts. You could always cheer me up when I was down,
and miraculously, it was you who finally brought a semblance of peace to
Granny. The residents of the nursing home where I worked squabbled over who got
to spend time with you. Your classmates may have teased you because you were
different, but they loved you for your affable nature. For all your
intelligence, you chose to relate to others mostly with humor; always playing
the clown.
You had the serenity of a Buddha; an outer calmness that
belied the internal chaos going on in your mind. You rarely cried or voiced your displeasure,
even as an infant. You were happy and
agreeable and easy to reason with. I remember shopping with you one day and you
witnessed a little girl having a meltdown in the toy department. You looked up
at me and said “What’s her problem Mommy? Why is she so sad?” I explained that
she was angry because she wasn’t getting what she wanted. You immediately
walked over and hugged the little girl tightly and offered her your toy. I should have realized then what an empath
you are. Maybe if I had, I could have
somewhat eased your existence.
Throughout your life, people have declared that you were
destined for greatness; that one day you would change the world. Your granny was convinced you would be a great
scientist who would cure cancer. Pawpaw
believed you would be a brilliant mathematician and work for NASA. Other people’s predictions included President
of the United States (that one was popular), US Ambassador to_____ (another
popular one), best-selling author, meteorologist, astronomer, philosopher and theologian. I
always thought you’d be an architect or designer of some sort; a visionary
builder of dreams. Your sweet friend from the nursing home, Mrs. Teague,
perhaps said it best when she said “That child will do whatever he sets his
mind and heart on and whatever that turns out to be, the world will be better
for it. And I’m going to have a front row seat in Heaven to watch it.” And she was right.
Perhaps there are times when you feel far removed from
greatness, but know this my beautiful boy; there is no greater man than he who
walks through life in love, mercy, and kindness. One who has deep compassion
for his fellow man and who diligently applies himself toward bettering the lives of
others. One who loves whole-heartedly and unashamedly; striving constantly to
ease the existence of those he holds dear. One whose gentleness of spirit
brings calm to the chaos surrounding him. You may not feel your contributions have amounted
to much, but you don’t see how consistently you change the lives and hearts of
those you touch.
I can’t begin to express how proud of you I am. Yes, I’m
proud that you’re intelligent, capable and accomplished but I am MORE proud of
the fact that you have never allowed the hardships of life to get you down for
long; that you have faced challenge after challenge in life with grace,
strength and humility; that every time life has knocked you down you’ve come
back stronger than before. I am proud that you have not fallen into the cynicism
of the world nor allowed your heart to become hard and jaded. I am proud of the
way you live, and love, so fearlessly. I am proud of the way you stand up for
your convictions no matter who may say you’re wrong. I am proud of the young
man you have become.
No, you may not cure
cancer, sit in council with heads of state, write a best-seller, or fly to the
outer reaches of the galaxy, but you have changed the world my son; of that I
have no doubt. You’ve been doing it
since the day you were born. You began
with me. And I am so thankful that you did.
Happy Birthday. I
love you so much Heart of my Heart!
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