That's Life: A Lifelong Debt to St. Jude
My son Christopher's birthday is tomorrow, Feb. 2, and last week I baked and mailed chocolate chip cookies to him — a tradition that took root when he was a student at Williams College, far from our home in New York.But he inspired me to initiate another tradition many years before: contributing on a regular basis to St. Jude's Children's Hospital in Memphis, Tenn.
When Christopher, my first born, arrived I was ignorant of the practices followed in a hospital's delivery room. I failed to recognize that there was cause to be concerned when my obstetrician instructed a nurse to "Get Dr. Saphir right away." While that nurse scurried from the delivery room, another nurse passed my son in front of my eyes and then whisked him away.
A couple hours later, a nurse came to my bedside and said softly, "I noticed you were holding rosary beads when you were in the delivery room. Do you want your baby baptized now?"
"What's wrong?" I gasped, knowing we Catholics do not request that a newborn be baptized in a hospital unless its life is in jeopardy. "Your baby has the same respiratory condition (hyaline membrane disease) that the Kennedy baby had," the nurse answered. I was shocked as Patrick Kennedy, newborn son of President Kennedy and his wife, Jacqueline, had died.
After requesting that my son be baptized immediately, I called my husband, Bill, who had left the hospital about an hour before, happier than I had ever seen him. Bill returned to the hospital and stayed in the lobby that night, trying to rest on a couch, so I could take comfort in knowing he was nearby if needed.
Although Christopher was under the care of pediatric specialists who had much experience and success in ministering to premature infants, I was not satisfied that everything possible was being done to ensure that he would live. I agonized over that doubt, until I realized there was nothing else to be done, but pray. So pray I did, reciting an hourly novena to St. Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases.
I was only allowed to look at Christopher through a cold, dividing wall of glass in the hospital's nursery, where he lay in an incubator, tethered to tubes and monitoring devices. I wondered if I ever would cradle him in my arms. How unreal it all seemed. Fearful that one morning I might go to the nursery only to discover that the worst had happened, I waited until the other mothers with whom I was sharing a room had visited their own babies. When they returned to our room and said my baby was "breathing easier," or was awake, I hurried to the nursery. One afternoon when the other babies were brought to their mothers to be fed, one mother turned to me. "You can hold my baby," she said.
It was kind of her, but I rejected the offer. My arms ached to hold just one baby — the one I had loved from the moment I was aware it was growing in my womb.
After Christopher underwent a surgical procedure, his pediatrician, Dr. Saphir, reported to me that all had gone well and added, "Never have I seen a baby fight so hard to live. I believe he will make it."
Later, I shared that encouraging news with my obstetrician. Forehead furrowed in a disapproving frown and voice stern, he said, "It's not right to give you false hope. Your baby is still in critical condition and you should brace yourself for bad news." I buried my head in the pillow and wept.
Five days after Christopher was born, I was released from the hospital, as was then customary. How difficult it was to leave him behind. Without him in my arms, that day was far from the happy occasion I had envisioned during my pregnancy.
After endless days had turned into weeks, Christopher's condition improved enough for him to be discharged from the hospital. Wearing a colorful flowered hat and my Sunday coat, I, with my husband at my side, claimed Christopher from the nursery. As I held him for the first time, my cup runneth over with joy and gratitude.
I had not told my husband of a promise I had made to St. Jude. "If Christopher is spared, I will give every cent we have in the bank to a charity (we were saving to buy a car) and we will have him baptized Christopher Jude." We had decided to have Christopher baptized again — this time in a traditional church ceremony.
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Before revealing to Bill what I had promised to St. Jude, I spoke with a priest. "You made that promise in good faith," he said, "but you need not give everything you saved. Just make a donation that is above what you normally give to charity — a sacrifice." A day later, with Bill's approval, I mailed a check in the amount of $500 to St. Jude's Children's Hospital. Since then, I have given far more to the hospital than what we had saved for a car many years ago. But each time I receive a thank you for my contribution, a request for another donation and a photo of a youngster suffering from cancer is enclosed. My heart goes out to the child and his parents, and I am filled with a desire to do whatever I can to help them.
So, I place the request in my "To Do Folder," where I keep bills that need to be paid.
