In Memoriam Michael Paul

He would have been thirty years old today, my second born, had he lived. These days I don't think about him as often as I used to. But on his birthday and deathday, I am always aware of him, remembering his sunny smile, his thick dark hair, his boisterous voice, his zest for life. And whenever I am in Ballston Spa, my mind automatically gravitates toward Powell-Wiswall Cemetery and the rose granite marker with the little lamb on it, marking his resting place near the statue of the angel.


He should have been born in early November of 1978, before the Thanksgiving rush. In typical stubborn fashion, he refused to enter the world without coercion. I had gone so long past my projected due date that the doctors decided to give a little help, and so it was that on December 6 I found myself in a room at the hospital huffing and puffing into a paper bag trying to make this child be born!

There was no way I could have known what lay ahead for him, the pain and illness he would endure. I only knew that when at long last I held him in my arms, I loved him dearly and completely. From the very beginning, things were bumpy. He weighed a hefty nine pounds and I had undergone a C-section after hours of hard labor, so I couldn't lift him easily. He didn't nurse well and cried agonizingly for long stretches.

Somehow we survived his baby days until the big meltdown when he was two. We almost lost him then. Had I not been gruff with the doctor, we would not have been in the hospital when his little heart gave out the first time. Despite their best efforts it was days before he came out of the coma and weeks before we knew if he would survive. We spent endless hours at Albany Medical Center running test after test trying to discover what was wrong, watching him repeatedly plunge to the brink of death only to improve and seem fine. At last they decided he had Addison's disease, and we struggled to understand the implications of caring for him. There would be no cure. Only a downward spiral to extinction.

Frantic to make it better, we investigated every possible (and quiet a few impossible) treatments, alternative medicines, faith healing, light therapy, herbs, chiropractics, acupuncture - you name it and we look into it, searching for that miracle cure. I left no stone unturned. Some things helped and we continued them. Other stuff was sheer quackery and we let go of it. I was desperate enough to follow every lead.

And we did make some progress. The quality of his life was not as dire as the doctors predicted. He never went blind or evidenced mental retardation. He didn't die at the age of four or five. But he never got better either. In the end, though we had ten delightful years with him, one frozen morning in January of 1987 we lost him. It is a day I will not forget, a haze of freezing rain, ambulances, our pastors being with us at the hospital, the wrenching truth of sitting by the body watching him so still, so unmoving.

The first year I was adrift, unsure of so much, in shock. As I sorted through a maze of emotions, figuring out how to grieve, how to deal with life, I would sometimes hug his favorite stuffed animal, hungry for his scent, missing his sunny smile, his endearing way of looking out of the corner of his eyes. Sometimes for a brief moment, I almost thought I could sense his presence though of course I knew he was not really there. I was surprised by how many people in our apartment complex (many of them retired or living alone) came to tell me how Michael used to help them by taking out their garbage for them or walking their dogs or just checking in with them and chatting. I had no idea he was doing that.

As time flowed forward, the grief softened, the tears flowed less frequently. I stopped imagining that I glimpsed him in the grocery store or at the playground, stopped thinking I had heard his voice calling me, stopped berating myself for not having done enough to save him. I never asked the "why" question - it seemed irrelevant to me. I didn't need to ask the "where are you, God" question because I felt His presence with me continually in very tangible ways.

Looking back, if I had known then what I know now, I would have spent a whole lot less time trying to find a cure and a whole lot more time playing with Michael, reading to him (although I did quite a bit of that), taking him to the park every sunny day instead of from time to time. I would have greedily gobbled up as many moments with him as I could without driving him crazy. But I didn't know then that it's senseless to try so desperately to hang on to life.

I shall see Michael again, all in good time. I am in no hurry. But today, twenty years after his passing, I can celebrate his life with joy, remember his zest for living, learn from his good heartedness. Here's to you, Michael. You accomplished much in your short life. I hope I can do as well at caring for those around me and at just plain enjoying life. I love you much and I miss you. Mom