October 2005                                                     The Megaphone                                                                    Page 3

His Life

by Julie (Stout) Crim

                                  
It was a snowy, cold, damp, wet Good Friday. It was a day of mixed emotions never to be forgotten. I'd lost five different babies over the course of a few years, all at 5 1/2 months gestation, and now I was about to give birth to a full term pregnancy.

Living in a Muslim country, I had a devout Muslim doctor who had seen me through a difficult nine months. We were about to know the reality of a new child in our family and I didn't care if it was a boy or a girl. My only question . . . is he/she healthy?!!! That had been a major concern for the past 40 weeks. I would know in a few moments.

Besides being Good Friday, today was also Ramadan, the highest of all Muslim sacred holidays. Throughout the city and over the entire land, many babies were being born on this, the most special holy day of the year. It is every good Muslim wife's wish and duty to present her husband with a male child born on this sacred day, Ramadan. For me, a Christian, it was purely a coincidence.

All went well in the delivery room and in no time at all the baby was making his presence known. Finally, a viable and healthy child! Thank you God! My doctor jokingly said, "What waste, a Christian baby born here today." He was 8 1/2 pounds of demanding noise. In due course, we went home and settled in to diapers, night feedings and rocking chair time. He was healthy, grew and was a son any mother and father would be proud of, I certainly was. He gave us joy and laughter and taught us about parenting.

One and a half years later, carrying duel citizenship, he entered his native country, the USA, and continued a life of busyness, learning all he could of bugs, building roads in the dirt and sand, creating monsters from paper, tinker toys, Lincoln logs and Tonka toys. He loved toy trains and big ones too. He learned cookies were good and marshmallows were better, but Oreo cookies were the best. He proudly splashed and swam with the sharks underwater in the bathtub and chased lions and tigers around his backyard. He climbed trees and fell out of them too.

As he grew his interests changed along with the length of his legs and arms. By the time he was 11 he wanted to know where the ultimate "end" was. How far or how long could he do something before he couldn't do it any longer. For example, from how high could he jump out of a tree without breaking something. No, he never broke a bone although I often thought it would come to that.

One time I took him and his friend camping. They brought board games, comic books, toys, bicycles, popcorn and candy bars. There was a medium size pier out over the lake. The boys got the grand idea of seeing how far and how fast they could ride their bicycles off the end of said pier right into the lake. No one else was around so they had a good time that day, using up lots of energy. The water was not too deep and their bicycles were easy enough for them to retrieve.

We had an old fashioned bridge not far from home when he was about 13. Sometimes the kids would jump from the side of the bridge, just above street level, landing with a splash and a swim. A few brave souls would climb to the top of the high structure and jump off. No mother would approve of this and I squeezed out a promise from him of never ever doing it.

Some days later I opened my daily paper ... and what do I see?!! A large picture of a familiar bridge, the one we had our talk and promise about and it was smack dab in the center of the front page. The picture, taken by a state trooper, captured a boy in mid air a split second after jumping off the top of the bridge. The caption below the picture named the boy. He couldn't deny it and didn't say a thing when several of his privileges were withdrawn.

That summer turned out to be his last care free one. In the fall of his 14th year he became diabetic. Words can not describe how devastating that was for him. Neither my words nor his doctor's made any impact. His best friend was like a twin brother. They were so much alike. Both were planning to join the Air Force after high school. But alas, they discovered no diabetic can enter the military, even though there are plenty of jobs well suited for them. Well, they weren't going to be put off so decided to be policemen and go to police academy. They joined the local junior police organization and rode with real cops once a week. How exciting and fun it was! . . . but . . . all good things come to an end and this happened much too soon. No where in America can a diabetic carry a gun. Back to square one.

It seemed there as nothing me or his family could say. Even his best friend had no influence although he tried and often. One day followed another and his grades began to slip. He didn't care. He knew it all, or so he thought, when it came to taking care of himself. None of my experience with diabetes was wanted or taken.

I believe the lowest time came the day he walked out of school. We lived 16 miles from his high school and he walked home. He begged me not to put him back there. I didn't. We tried private schools . . . no good. When he was 17, he decided on his own to take the GED test. He did and passed the first time.

This gave him some desperately needed confidence. I remember a day when he was feeling bad. I put my arms around him and told him I loved him so very much. He pulled away and said "I know, but you're just my mom and you're supposed to love me."

His father bought him a jeep so he could hold a job. Never afraid of work, he enjoyed working and he especially liked having his own money. But the nature of the the boy was still the same and now he had a vehicle with four wheel drive. Let's see what this baby can do in the mountains. He rolled it more than once that I know of. Eventually the jeep was sold and a truck replaced it.

At age 20, he took a job as a cabinet maker's apprentice. This man did more to help his self confidence than I ever could. He was a quiet man and spoke softly. He had the patience of Job and didn't hand out praise unless it was earned. They started out with drawers and my son made over 40 drawers before he heard praise for doing good work. He'd worked for this man about a year and a half and had progressed to making some very nice pieces of furniture. Most things were made to order but there was always a few things in the showroom to sell and see as examples of their work.

   
The county fair is always a big affair in that part of the country and the furniture maker had had a booth there for several years. The man asked my son to work at their booth at the fair. We were surprised to see that the cabinetmaker had brought a couple of things made by . . . you guessed it, my son. One day a young couple came strolling by and stopped to admire a corner cabinet my son had made. He overheard their comments, all very complimentary about the fine workmanship in the piece. He began to think differently about himself and his abilities. Life was really looking up when the couple came to the shop and placed an order. 

About this same time he'd taken a good look at the bosses daughter and the chemistry of true love began to grow. Months and then a year and more came and went and soon we were planning a wedding. What a lovely wedding it was. I look at the pictures today and see a freshness in those faces of hopes and dreams for the future. Our children were 18 and 23. How good God's plan is that we don't know the future.

After the honeymoon, they set up housekeeping and life was good . . . well, almost. There was still the diabetes to cope with. After the third or fourth seizure, she threatened to leave unless he took better care of himself. He would for a while and then slip back into old habits, eating whatever he wanted and meaning to take insulin later or taking too much insulin and forgetting to eat and seldom checking his blood sugar levels. He was stubborn and wouldn't even take his doctor's advice.

About two years after the wedding, we heard there was to be an addition to their family and in due time the circle of family was made larger with the birth of a daughter. She was a healthy baby with dark hair. I thought her beautiful. He adored his child and took good care of her.

The day came when he was no longer able to work. His kidneys were failing and dialysis was the norm until a kidney transplant could reverse his health. Life continued as he became Mr. Mom and reveled in the position. The child thrived and at some point became a caregiver to her daddy. 

His wife was the breadwinner and busy all the time. She met her breaking point, kicked him out and divorced him after ten years of marriage. Eventually they remarried. No matter what, she still loved him.

Dialysis became a large part of their life but it wore on this young man more and more, year after year after year.

They lived in Oregon and the transplant, when it happened, would be in Portland, six hours away. We had it all planned out. When the call came, they would leave within minutes. The suitcases were always in the car, winter and summer. Talk about stress . . . Whew! He carried a cell phone all the time.

The call came and like clockwork the plan was put into action. I got a call while they were on their way. I was in Las Vegas, called the airline and would leave the following morning.

The next morning brought one of the worst phone calls ever. An infection had been found in his body and the transplant was cancelled. The kidney went to someone else.

He had infected scratches on his arm from one of his three large dogs. I and others had suggested, more than once, that he find other homes for the dogs. The answer was always no. He never believed they were the cause of the disaster and so the dogs stayed put.

A year later there was a similar incident, a trip to Portland. This time there was an infection under a toenail. He was taken off the transplant list until he could get his act together or else.

At that time I was living in Anderson and we often talked on the phone. He asked me to come home and live with him. I could have a tiny bedroom and do the housework and cooking.

One of the biggest no-no's in preparing for transplant was smoking. "Are you still smoking?" I asked. The answer was yes. So I made him a deal. I'd come back for a visit when he quit smoking for at least a month.

Some said my tough love policy went too far. But if I made life easier for him while he was doing so many things wrong, how could we ever get him ready for the transplant? There comes a point where we must be responsible for our own lives. All the family in Oregon including in-laws had babied him, giving and giving until he felt it was their job to get him healthy, not his. He skipped out on his dental checkups after I'd spent several thousand dollars to get his teeth ready for the surgery. Dental infection was the cause of one transplant denial.

Everyone was at their wit's end. Nothing inspired him to take a part in his care.

I traveled west for a visit in May of 2002. Defensive and silent, it was a one sided visit. As I look back over time from today, I can only guess his wife needed someone to blame and so it was me who her wrath come down on. He calmly sat there with smoke in the air.

I returned home feeling beaten up and, of course, wondering the questions of so many mother's over the ages . . . where did I go wrong? Over the course of his illness, I had consulted counselors and clergy, doctors and caregivers. Their advice was one and the same. Care always begins with the patient. I told him I would be back in a year or sooner if he could do better. He sat there silent. If I could have somehow gotten into his head and understood him better.

I continued to talk to him every week. As I look back on it, something changed. The following August and September we seemed to talk more than usual, he calling me at least half the time. He seemed to be more interested in the world around him. We seemed to have more to talk about. I'll never know.

On the morning of September 23, 2003, my daughter called to say he was dead.

End of story . . . almost. My daughter-in-law was angry and raged to anyone that would listen. It was all my fault. If only I had done this or that. I suppose she needed and apparently still needs someone to blame other than him. I'm not there so I get to be "it."

I haven't seen or spoken to my granddaughter since the day of the funeral. We lived in their hometown for five months last summer trying to make contact. That was a total failure.

I'm taking the advice of the professionals and going on with my life. Some days are too hard to describe. Seldom does anyone know what's going on in my head. I do my best these days to keep it between God and myself.

I had a long talk last summer, while in Klamath Falls, with his long time doctor. He reminded me of several other young people I had known that had the same early ending.

A member of our own Panther Den had worked in a very large city as administrative head of the city wide dialysis centers. She told me as kindly as she could that young people in general usually don't do dialysis well, year after year. They grow impatient and give up. That's exactly what he did.

Well, I believe he's out of pain and I pray he's happy. I do wonder if he's met his siblings that never had a chance to live in this world. I guess in time those and other questions will be answered.

But for now, I, and his family have our good memories and they are precious.
     

Shawn William Duffitt
03/24/67 to 09/23/03

Julie (Stout) Crim '57
Yuma, AZ