When I was a youngun, I went away to college and had too much fun. After this colossal failure, my parents had me come home and enroll in a Catholic nursing school just outside of Chicago’s South Side. They made it clear – do this right or we are done with you.
So I did.
While there, I did a several-weeks-long rotation at
La Rabida, a wonderful hospital for severely disabled, abused and chronically ill children on the shore of Lake Michigan. I can’t recall today if it was six, eight or twelve weeks, but for the first half of it we were assigned to one patient, and were to change to a different patient in the latter half.
My patient for the first half of the rotation was Joey, an 18-month old bundle of love who entered the world with many strikes against him. He was born without a lower jaw and tongue, and with other throat malformations rendering him permanently incapable of speech or normal eating, drinking or breathing. He also had myriad internal problems that I can no longer recall specifically. He had a twin that was born dead, with even more profound abnormalities.
Joey and I hit it off instantly, and as time went on I became very attached to this child. I had never seen a little guy with so much against him attack life with such joy and aplomb.
He loved to play and laugh, and found almost everything funny. With a trach, though, he couldn’t actually laugh out loud, and with no musculature in the lower part of his face (lacking a jaw), he had no smile either. The light in his eyes and movement of his cheeks combined with body language and the rhythmic rushing of air in and out of his trach constituted his laughter, and it was just as joyful and contagious as anyone else’s.
I remember him once becoming upset about something in the group playroom. He was receiving his feeding at the time, through his tummy tube, hanging on an IV pole. He sought me out, pushing his pole, crying his silent cry through his trach, tears springing from his eyes. We hugged and spent time making whatever it was all better. That’s about my only memory of him crying. He took everything like a pro – suctioning, dressing changes, anything – and got right back to being a little boy.
When it was time to change patients for the second half of the rotation, I begged my instructor to let me continue to care for Joey, as we were getting along so well and I felt he was making progress with me. The staff supported me, and she allowed it.
Joey and his deceased brother were born to a single teen mom. I spent much time teaching her how to administer the tube feedings, care for his trach, etc., in preparation for her to take him home and care for him. She was a bright girl and seemed to learn quickly, but I heard later that she decided she didn’t want the challenge of bringing him home and gave him up for adoption.
Right then I decided that as soon as I was able and successful, I would adopt this sweet boy.
Fast forward –> Dad died, I graduated, Mom died, I worked as an oncology nurse for awhile, then got married and moved to Florida.
Less than three weeks after I arrived in Florida, the following appeared in the
Orlando Sentinel newspaper:
The text says, “Joey was born without a lower jaw. He breathes through a tube. He eats through a tube. On Friday, the 3-year-old will leave the Chicago hospital where he has lived since he was a few days old. He is being adopted. Charlene Williams said she and her husband Willie, parents of six children, will be ‘Joey’s moral support, be there for him, be there just to love him.’”
This was God speaking to me, here in the
Orlando Sentinel, letting me know that Joey was in better hands, thankfully.
I can’t tell you how many tears of joy I cried over this picture. A miracle.
