Columnist
This memory of son and father begins in a hospital room. And although four years have passed, there is no danger of me losing that sense of place.
My wife and I were experienced veterans when it came to childbirth, so we were the coolest of customers on the morning our fifth and final child decided to make his entrance.
Because our doctor was still on his way to the hospital when we arrived, the obstetrician on call handled the preliminaries. I was plugging in the boombox, set to play the Roberta Flack ballads that my wife had requested, when the doctor pointed his chin in my direction. “Get him a gown,” he said to a nurse, “in case he lasts.”
In case I last?
I started to set him straight. But he was beginning a cursory examination of my wife, so I kept my indignation to myself. It’s a good thing I did, because my initial dislike of the doctor would soon turn to admiration, relief and gratitude.
The music hadn’t even begun when the doctor sprang from his feet and somehow landed with both knees on the gurney. “I’ve got a cord!” I heard him shout.
I recall a flurry of gowns, masks, syringes and whirring wheels, crisp commands and swift feet. Then I was alone in a room, not quite sure that I wasn’t dreaming. Roberta Flack was cooing sweetly.
Through an endless haze of silence and uncertainty, a nurse emerged. The cord was around his neck, she explained, he wasn’t breathing when they got him out. I heard bits and pieces, phrases that lingered. “Emergency surgery … intensive care.” She pressed my hand. “We believe he’s a fighter,” she said.
That was almost four years ago exactly. The tiny gasping fellow who once sprawled half-hidden in a tangle of tubes is now bright-eyed, broad-shouldered and robust, mischievous and playful.
During those desolate days in intensive care when I watched my son’s tiny chest expand and contract, I never failed to notice the somber scenes unfolding around me. Acknowledging the presence of parents weeping over infants who might never go home, I felt deeply, immensely grateful.
Years may pass, but that feeling of gratitude never leaves. Something always happens to let me know just how lucky I am.
A week before my son’s fourth birthday, someone else’s little boy died in a Washington, D.C., hospital. Nine-year-old Donte Manning had been hit by a stray bullet 4 1/2 weeks earlier, struck down while playing in front of his house.
The day after Donte died, 48-year-old Lewis Barber was fatally shot by police in Alexandria, Va. Armed with a gun, Barber spent his last desperate hours refusing to release a 9-year-old son whose company he feared he couldn’t live without. While I can’t condone Barber’s actions, I understand his worry.
Soon my family will gather round a homemade cake and sing to my youngest boy’s good fortune. Lungs that once struggled for breath will extinguish four candles in a gust of wind. Watching him, I’ll steal a moment to marvel at the ongoing drama of sons and fathers.
A former reporter for the American, Jabari Asim is a columnist for the Washington Post.
Carol’s Journal will return next week.