The Budget of Paradox

July 27, 2023
Sophia,
“Free, White and 21” is something my mother used to say. It symbolizes true individual freedom in America. Is it racist? I don’t know; maybe a little. But she grew up in another era. And you’re growing up in Lynchburg. Either way, a little bit of racism is tolerated, I’m sure.

Morey’s birthday is not lost on me. Hard to believe she’s 21. I feel like an old man writing this, but I remember the day she was born. You probably know that Morey was born several weeks premature. I remember your mother called me at work and told me that her water had just broke, and she was in labor. She quickly went to the hospital in Lihue, on the east side island of Kauai. But I was way out on the Westside, and it was a long drive to reach her. I drove too fast and I didn’t even stop for red lights. I was panicked, but my panic had only begun.

Your mom holds Morey when she was just a few hours old.

After I got to the airport and bought a ticket, I remember standing at the gate. I think it was Gate 6; that’s the gate in Lihue where Hawaiian flights to Honolulu normally departed from. The boarding area has a wide-open view of the runways. I stood there and watching the air ambulance take off. At the time, I loved your mother and Morey very much. The people I loved the most were on that plane, and they were in danger. And all I could do was stand there, helplessly, and watch them take off into the night sky.

The next day, a doctor in Honolulu scared the Hell out of me by telling your mother and me that Morey could be born with terrible disabilities. She might be retarded. She might never be able to feed herself or use a toilet by herself. I was more than scared. I was living a nightmare.

The next day, July 27, 2002, at about 17 minutes past 1:00 AM, Morey was born. When they wheeled your mother’s bed into the delivery room, we were alone. But I was shocked at how quickly the room filled up. Suddenly, there were two doctors, five nurses, aides, assistants, respiratory specialists, neonatal specialists, lab technicians, and God knows who else. There must have been 20 people in the room.

They quickly put Morey in an incubator and started hooking her up to machines. They told us to come to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) when we were ready, but they expected your mom to sleep for a while first. But she couldn’t sleep. Neither could I. About two hours later, I was pushing your mom in a wheelchair down a long hall towards the NICU when I collapsed. I was overcome by emotion and exhaustion. Your heart can only race – and break – continuously, for a certain amount of time. At some point, your body will make you sit and take a break. The body keeps score.

Twenty-one years ago today…. it was the most frightening day of my life. And I say that as someone who’s been in two wars, and flown in a small plane, at night, far beyond friendly lines.

God Bless You, Morey, or Percy, wherever you are. You’re never too far from my heart.