For the Big Red Dude

Eighteen years ago today, at 23 minutes past midnight, I gave birth. It had been a textbook pregnancy, resulting in Kevin appearing on his due date, and the first indication I had that he had arrived was the nurses exclaiming "Look at that red hair!". It was a little while before anyone thought to mention that he was a boy-- that glorious hair took all the attention.

Should I have caught on at the hospital? He had an unusual cry--like a tiny sheep's bahhhh, and I could always tell when his bassinet was being wheeled down the hall towards me. He had ear tags, a glioma, and a lack of ability to suck--not a good thing in a newborn who really can't take nutrition any other way. After we went home, it wasn't long before Kevin developed his very first infection and raging colic. Oh boy. Colic. Six months of screaming, four months of going in to work with very little sleep in my history.

Then one morning, I awoke in the morning to the sound of silence and the realization that I had not been up in the night. Horrified, I ran into the nursery, convinced that my baby had perished in the night, for what other possible explanation could there be? No, Kevin had just been sleeping, and he woke up then and smiled at me. Glory be!

Colic had fled, but within a few days the constant illnesses began. My dad had videotaped Kevin on a regular basis, and it breaks my heart to watch them now because you can almost see Kevin go downhill as infection followed infection. At nine months I began to say to the pediatrician "There's something wrong here", but it wasn't until his second birthday that anyone else agreed with me. Every weekday off for years was spent in the office of one doctor or another-- the pediatrician, specialists, hospital clinics-- and there were times when I didn't think we'd get to keep him; surely one of these infections, one of these seizures, one of these weeks of fever would take him away, surely more than seven years of intestinal issues would take their toll and his body would give up.

Kevin is a little over six feet in height now. He's goofy, happy, sunshiny, and (except for the whole progressive neurological disease thing) quite healthy. The bright red hair still shines, his eyes twinkle, and he has friends wherever he goes. I am frequently astonished at the number of people who really deeply care about Kevin and what happens to him, and profoundly grateful too. He will never drive, never get married, never have that independence which we all wish for our children. There will always be caretakers, appointments, and "durable medical equipment".

So to all the therapists, audiologists, doctors, nurses, case managers, social workers, special teachers, teachers aides, Sunday school teachers, camp counsellors, friends, relatives and even perfect strangers who have given time, help, and love to Kevin, we give our deepest thanks. You'll never know what a difference you've made.

And to Kevin--Happy Birthday, sweetie. You are my sunshine indeed.

Love, Spud.