My Little Boy

Today I visited my little boy. Little? Well, not really. He’s all of 17 years old now. He’s tall and well built and he needs to shave from time to time. 

The problem is – he never got to grow up. 

 

I watched him run down the corridors when he was in class 8, his laughter trailing behind him as he dodged his best friend. He had come off the football field and he was grubby, his face glistening with perspiration, his face alight with mischief. He looked like he had worked up an appetite, but I wasn’t in the least worried – if he’d finished his own Tiffin, he’d probably just nab someone else’s. That’s how it goes – a way of life In St. John’s.

 

Gradually, however, one began to notice a change in him. The light seemed to die. Was I imagining it, or was his gait less steady, his speech ever so slightly blurred? I prayed I was wrong. But then his mother came in to meet me. It seems Adi was suffering from the rarest of rare medical dilemmas – his body had ceased to produce an enzyme.

“Just one enzyme?” I asked hopefully. “Then it couldn’t be so bad, could it? Surely there’s a synthetic one available that can be injected as a substitute?” 

The answer, however, left me bereft of words. It seems that there was no substitute and that this enzyme is responsible for the white and grey matter of the brain responding to each other and triggering the motor reflexes of the muscles. 

Adi was losing control of his body.

Despairingly we watched our little boy struggle. His steps slowed, his speech slurred and gradually he faltered to a brave halt. Adi was now confined to his bed. He could no longer respond to auditory or any other signals, no matter how bravely he struggled to do so. The frustration and pain were palpable – the desperate need to answer - willing his useless limbs to work and the soundless cry of despair as even his voice failed him and silence filled the vacuum of his life.

Soon he was confined to a hospital bed, tracheostomy in place. Even his eyes had ceased to obey him – rolling violently around as his body convulsed with the effort to remove the accumulated mucous trapped in his windpipe. I watched, my heart pounding out its own rhythm of fear, as it was suctioned out and his thrashing subsided for a brief period only to begin again when the slime collected once more and the whole sad story repeated itself in a terrifying cycle of hopelessness.

And then something strange happened. 

I spoke to him, calling his name out loud. They had told me he did not respond to such signals any more. But I could have sworn he heard. A stillness came upon him, the rattling cough diminished and a sense of peace seemed to steal across him. Was I imagining it? I don’t know. But I continued to call out his name, stroke his face gently and speak to him of everything and nothing. I told him we loved him and had not forgotten him. I told him his friends often spoke of him and they missed his cheerful presence in the class. He was never very talkative, but he had a calm presence that made his peers take notice of him and I told him how the class missed him. Then I hugged him and left.

Later that day his mother called to say that Adi had had a peaceful day after a long time. 

I hadn’t imagined it. 

From then on I tried to visit Adi as often as I could. His class organized visits by the boys and when the class photographs were taken, Adi’s image was morphed into it. His friends were unwilling to leave him out. “It won’t be complete without Adi, ma’am,” they said. I agreed.

 His mother wept when they presented it to her.

Adi lay and listened.

Christmas came around and I dropped by to say ‘hello’ to my little boy. Our church was praying for him regularly and I wanted to tell him that. To my surprise, I heard Christmas Carols playing in the room. His mother told me how Adi had always loved Christmas and had insisted that a Christmas tree be put up each year. I noticed a tiny Christmas tree on the ‘fridge. I offered to bring in some friends – we were in the middle of doing our caroling rounds. Three of us came to sing for him. We sang his favourite carols and said a quiet prayer for him. Adi quietened down immediately. 

The medical experts can say what they want. I knew our child could hear us.

The years have rolled by since then. Adi’s classmates are in Class 12 now. In between I have gone to see my little boy and watched him grow. The selfless love with which his mother waits on him, leaves me humbled. Her unfailing cheerfulness and her belief in the prayers being said for her son, are a lesson to me in faith, patience and fortitude. She tells me how she has grown as a person and I have watched fascinated as she has counseled the attendants of other patients with a calm assurance and wisdom that has made a distinct difference in their demeanour.

So today I visited my little boy again. To my shame, it has been almost a year since I have seen him. I have no excuses to offer. The fault is mine and mine alone. But what I saw made my heart sing. Gone is the terrifying restlessness. His eyes don’t seem to roll so violently. He seems to be waiting for something. Then the door opens and Adi’s father walks in. 

 

                                                He hugs his son.

 

                        And I see Adi smile!

They say the age of miracles is over. They lie. I know with absolute certainty that Adi hears me. I also know that someday Adi will walk again. 

Why? 

Because I believe in prayer. I know there is a God in heaven who listens when we speak to Him. I also know He answers.

Will you pray with me?