some thoughts

He couldn’t tell who it was that just walked in the door, but he knew by his mother’s reaction that he was who they’d been waiting for. Answers were finally on the way, and that brought some measure of relief, but no one could’ve prepared him for what he was about to hear–and experience.

Stephen had been weakened by a mysterious sickness that left him largely without motor control, and without any capacity for coherent speech. But as he lay there, he was thankfully amazed at how much comfort his mother’s gentle, rhythmic, touch brought him as she held his hand in hers. It was a bit of an emotional anchor for him while in such a vulnerable state–just a single point of contact, but it somehow gave him a sense that things would be alright. He didn’t understand it, but at this point he didn’t care to. He couldn’t do much more than rest his hand in hers anymore, and he was glad to just let her hand support his. His father didn’t say much, but when he did his voice brought further assurance–even though it was faltering. He remembered how often his father’s eyes conveyed so much care, so much strength. He always wished he’d had his father’s eyes, but everyone told him he had his mother’s. But all wishing aside, he was somehow glad that those eyes were another’s–an “other” who loved him, and to whom he could look for strength. He was thankful for his parents–more than they knew. And he knew that even though things were bad–and that even though they could get even worse, depending on what the Doctor was about to tell them–even despite all that, he knew they were there. He wasn’t alone.

“What’s the good word, Doctor Gelder?”, asked Stephen’s dad–as if asking in such a positive tone would somehow pre-empt any bad news he might actually have to share. Love does hope all things, after all.

“Well, I have some good news, and–well, I guess some potentially unexpected news. We ran some more comprehensive blood tests to widen our inquiry to include any possible genetic disorders, and it seems we’ve identified what could be the source of your son’s sudden regr–”, he caught himself, and with a caring eye toward Stephen added, “–ahem, sudden…change.” “And that’s the good news. But before I go on,” he said, turning to Stephen’s father, “may I ask, how old is your son?”

“16,” his mother responded immediately, “and turning 17 in just 3 weeks.” He couldn’t focus on her eyes, but Stephen knew by the sound of her voice that if he could, he was sure he would’ve seen memories of his past birthdays playing in slow motion in them like an old movie projector. He was so glad to have them here.

“I see,” said the Doctor. “Well, everything’s alright Stephen–I just need to speak with your parents in the hallway for a moment. We’ll be right back, alright?”

He struggled for a few seconds to get out the word “alright,” but couldn’t quite manage. It was a horrible new sensation, this loss of control over his words. No matter how hard he tried, speech evaded him. His body wouldn’t cooperate. The inability to communicate was far worse, he realized, than being in the darkest, most secluded prison. He gave up and offered a labored nod instead, and they smiled in acknowledgement. They tried to hide it, but he could tell it was hard for them to see how much control he’d lost over his own body.

“We found something a little odd in the blood work–something we weren’t expecting at all,” the Doctor said as he shut the door quietly behind him.

“What do you mean?” Stephen’s mother asked nervously, as she subtly took her husband’s hand.

“Well, when we were going over the medical history, you told us that Stephen is your biological son. That is, he’s obviously yours, ma’am, but if we’d known you weren’t the father, that would helped rule out some possibilities in the diagnosis. You really should’ve told us.” They just stared back at him.

Stephen was starting to get a little nervous. He missed the warmth of his mother’s presence, and was ready for her to come back in.

“But that can’t be!” she protested. A haze of confusion slowly descended over her husband’s face. He was dazed from the blow, but soon it would click. “I don’t understand!” she continued, angered that the Doctor would even dare insinuate that she’d been unfaithful.

But then it clicked. Her husband’s foggy disbelief slowly brewed into focused accusation. He’d been betrayed. His wife turned her protest toward her husband–”No–honey, I didn’t–I’ve never–I wouldn’t! There’s only ever been y–” She stopped short, lost her words, her focus, and then her balance. It was as if a an entire sea flooded through the hallway knocking her completely out of all emotional and physical stability. She stumbled to a seat across the hallway and fell into it abruptly.

Stephen tried to look out the window, but couldn’t keep his head still enough to make anything out. “I wonder why he wouldn’t tell them in front of me?”

His mother slid out of the chair and crawled to the wall. The Doctor’s face turned from pity to surprise as he observed her reaction. This wasn’t normal. Her husband’s anger at what all this could mean was eclipsed by his ingrained concern for his wife’s well-being. He went to her–guardedly–to find out what was wrong. She wouldn’t let him touch her. Her knees were pulled up tightly to her chest. She wouldn’t answer either of them, nor would she look them in the eye. They looked at each other, puzzled, then kept trying to console her.

Stephen’s arm began to twitch more vigorously than before, which made him uneasy. “I wish they’d come back and be here with me. Where are they?” The twitching continued to intensify.

“It was blue…” she said, her face buried in her knees.

“What? What was blue?” said her husband.

“The car. It was blue. It happened in that da**ed blue car,” she said. “I hate that car!”

“What blue c–where what happened?! Honey, please! What are you saying?”

“I didn’t think it could be! I thought it had to be you–it just had to be you! I just couldn’t even think–but now–” and she let out a deep sob “–it had to be. It couldn’t be!! But it must be…they said so…they saw the blood…”

Fear and anger overtook her husband as he began to realize what she was telling him. “Why didn’t you tell me! Honey! Why didn’t you tell me!” he pleaded. “I couldn’t let you know–” she cried, “I just couldn’t! I wanted to pretend it didn’t happen, so I just told myself that Stephen was y–” another loud sob filled the hallway, and she forced out the rest of the sentence: “–that he was yours.”

Rage overtook him. Visions of some unknown man attacking his precious wife filled his mind’s eye as he protectively–and a bit too forcefully–embraced his trembling wife.

Stephen’s body gave a sudden jolt that really scared him. “Oh, please let them come back soon! I need them!” His eyes darted toward the door, as best as he could control them. “Where are they?” he screamed to himself.

But no one could hear him.

“Look, I am terribly sorry for this situation, but we need to talk about your son.”

She let out a gasp of horror and pushed her husband away–”Oh, God! I remember his face now! Oh, God, no…!” Her eyes darted toward the hospital room door for a moment, then she turned pale and vomited on the floor. Her husband was now livid.

“Sir, I’ll call to someone to come and help your wife,” said the Doctor, “but–what about Stephen…?”

[Months later…]

“Rape is a horribly painful situation to live with, ma’am,” the counselor continued. “It’s just too hard. And having a living reminder of that atrocity haunt you for the rest of your life–well, no one should be expected to have to deal with that. You shouldn’t feel guilty at all for what you and your husband decided to do with the afterproduct of rape. For the good of your emotional health, and the well-being of your marriage, it was the right thing to do.” She took another sip of her coffee. “You have to believe that.”

—–

And yet, if Stephen had words, he would’ve screamed, “What does that have to do with me? I am ALIVE!”

–End.

Sorry for such a somber post, but I just saw a crowd of twenty- and thirty- somethings screaming their approval that abortion be kept legal. What worse moral indicator of our culture could there be? It’s unbelievable. As in, tear our garments and throw ashes on our heads unbelievable. Life is life; it doesn’t matter how people came to be. That they come to be is God’s decision. “Who are we to reply against God?”

Dear God, forgive us.