This is an amazing story by Timothy Dalrymple. Beautiful stuff. I was going to put it on The Reader but it’s just too good. It’s called “Why We Have Children:”
I hate the memory of it. I hate it.
I hate how stiff my daughter’s body felt in my arms that night. I hate how vacant and soulless her face had become, unmoving save for the veined whites of her eyes as the irises fluttered up under the skull.
It happened on a cold October evening, when an early snowfall still covered the streets north of Boston. We parked beside our friends’ home, and I noticed the flush of red in my daughter’s cheeks. I checked her brow—it was hot. I should have done something more, but I thought perhaps she had simply over-heated in her coat and car seat. So I took her inside and watched as she tried to play. On most days our daughter, thirteen months old, was an overflowing wellspring of energy and laughter and fleet-footed enthusiasm. On this day, something seemed off.
Do yourself a favor and read the rest at his blog at Patheos.
February 1, 2011 at 3:55 am
This is beautiful. Thanks for posting!
February 1, 2011 at 3:59 am
The article was by Timothy Dalrymple, according to the byline.
February 1, 2011 at 2:46 pm
I can relate to his experiences and realizations. One daughter had a febrile seizure, which was alarming to say the least. Another daughter (micro-preemie = rough start to life = weak lungs) had a cold that could have killed her, and got to spend her second Christmas in the hospital, just like her first.
It really puts things in perspective, watching your child struggle to breathe, not knowing what is happening, not knowing if she'll survive.