This was to be posted on Saturday, but due to circumstances beyond our control we had no internet available until today. So with that… here is Saturday’s late post…
This story begins…
October 1980
“I just found out that children are being flown in from South Korea and they are searching for prospective parents,” my husband said.
I realize the possibility of raising another child exists.
“But, there is one concern,” he hesitates, then adds, “these children have disabilities. What do you think?”
Me, visually impaired, mind a disability? It never enters my head that it could be more difficult to raise a child with a disability because of my visual impairment. Instead, I think, “Why not? After all, a child is a child and all a child needs is love and guidance.”
“A doctor at Shriner’s Hospital cares for children with disabilities. He finds groups of orphans in different countries, then, searches for parents wanting to expand their families.
They gave me the name and number for the caseworker. We need to schedule an appointment.”
Events moved very quickly. That evening, a psychiatrist, and psychologist, named Sid and Priscilla, come to interview us.
“Dr. McKinney searches the world for children that need homes. He has worked with Dr. Doolittle finding homes for orphaned children. He is a fighter, a fighter for the forgotten ones of the world. We’ve adopted eight children from several countries, ourselves.”
Pulling out a stack of cards, Priscilla hands them to us saying, “Here are pictures of ten children in South Korea waiting to be adopted. They have various disabilities.”
As we look through the pictures, they tell us what disability each child has. I keep coming back to a picture of a beautiful one-month-old baby girl born with no eyes… just closed flat eyelids. My heart connects.
“It would be nice to have another daughter,” my husband says, smiling.
Priscilla mentions that no one has expressed interest in this baby since she can’t see. She is tickled we want this baby.
“The babies should arrive any day.”
By the end of the evening, I feel that we have acquired new friends and eagerly await another child.
Our baby daughter could arrive any day. I rush around preparing for our Ginny (Guinevere). Finally, everything is ready, but no Ginny arrives. Thanksgiving arrives. Christmas arrives. New Year’s… Planes arrive from South Korea loaded with children assigned families, but none carry our baby girl.
Four days into the New Year is my birthday. Everyone acts uncharacteristically distant. I’m convinced that Ginny has arrived, and everyone kept it a secret as a surprise for my birthday. We go to an intimate restaurant for lunch and there are thirty of our best friends yelling, “Surprise!” Instead of being elated, I am disappointed Ginny hasn’t arrived.
Valentine’s Day… St. Patrick’s Day… I call Priscilla and Sid, or Dr. McKinney, several times a week. Communications with South Korea are sparse and cryptic. The best information arrives with the sponsors delivering the children to families on the Mainland and Hawaii. Each plane brings no news about Ginny. It’s as if she disappeared. Toward the end of March another plane is due.
“Any news?” I ask.
“No! But, a new group is arriving on the 28th. Fourteen children… all boys… One boy, two and a half months old, we are waiting to assign a family because he has serious medical needs. We don’t know how serious his condition is. He needs to be examined first.”
“Will they bring news of Ginny?”
“We hope so. Mrs. Boo, our main contact at the hospital, will be on this flight.”
“When will they arrive?”
“Saturday, 6:30 a.m. We should have news by 8 a.m..”
Saturday, March 28, 1981, 10 a.m.
At 8 a.m. I call. A child answers the phone.
“This is Helen. Are your parent’s home?”
“No!”
“Do you know when to expect them?”
“No!”
“Okay, I’ll call back at noon.”
“Okay!”
Saturday, March 28, 1981, Noon
“Have your parents come home yet?”
“No, but they called and said one of the children arrived quite ill.”
“Oh, did they say who? Or, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. They said they’d be home by 2 p.m.”
Saturday, March 28, 1981, 2 p.m.
Priscilla calls.
“The baby that arrived has spina bifida. On March 4 the doctors at the hospital where he was closed a hole he had in his back. When they did that, all the spinal fluid that had been seeping out the hole had nowhere to go. The circuits for proper circulation of his spinal fluid were not working and within four days his head started swelling. They didn’t have the medical technology to treat the hydrocephalus and decided they should air lift him to Hawaii.
When he arrived in Hawaii, his head was the size of a one-year-old; he couldn’t move; his eyes were frozen in sunset position; and they didn’t know whether it was too late to help him. He smelled like death.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
“No, Mrs. McKinney is taking care of him. We have to wait to see what Dr. McKinney decides. And, incidentally, with all that was happening, we didn’t get a chance to talk to Mrs. Boo about Ginny, but will in a day or two.”
“Okay.”
Sunday, March 29, 1981
I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby that had arrived so ill. I called Priscilla and asked about Ginny, then about the baby. No word on his condition.
“Did you talk to Mrs. Boo?”
“No. There was some sort of mix-up. We will tomorrow.”
Monday, March 30, 1981
Priscilla calls.
“Mrs. Boo doesn’t know which children might arrive next. She had no information about Ginny”
Disappointed to not learn anything about Ginny, I ask again about the baby who had arrived so ill.
“We don’t know. Would you believe he flew here in a basket with only a diaper, baby shirt, and a small blanket for warmth? I can’t imagine how he survived since they had one of the worst blizzards of the year and planes had been canceled for two days because of the severe cold and snow. And, to top it off he arrived without his immigration papers. Since he was so sick, when he got here, they rushed him through immigration quickly. Fortunately, they didn’t notice his lack of documentation, there were so many children (fourteen children, plus sponsors, in this group alone) to be processed. Because we didn’t have any documentation saying he could be in the States, we couldn’t hospitalize him. He’s at Dr. McKinney’s right now. But, we know we can’t put him back on a plane to South Korea. He won’t survive.”
Wednesday, April 1, 1981
Dr. McKinney has specialists examine the baby. Poor baby, desperately ill, no parents, and not even the proper paper work so he can be legally admitted to the hospital, let alone stay in the States. Thank goodness he’s in the hands of a maverick doctor who does not allow bureaucracy to stand in his way… especially when human life hangs precariously in the balance. After an examination and a CAT scan, it is discovered he has massive dilatation of the lateral and fourth ventricles of his brain. They can’t even see the third ventricle, and lateral ventricular dilatation is so pronounced there is little cortical mantle remaining. The spinal fluid increased the pressure in his skull to such a degree he has less than a quarter inch of brain left around the edge of his skull. He needs surgery. They hope he will survive.
Friday, April 3, 1981
Dr. McKinney breaks rules and admits him to the hospital long enough for surgery to be performed to install a shunt to drain the fluid in his brain.
I call Dr. McKinney and ask, “How is the baby doing?”
“We don’t know yet. Dr. Bergmanis is performing surgery today to put in a shunt to drain the fluid and relieve the pressure in his brain.”
“Let me know if I can help.”
After surgery he is taken to Dr. McKinney’s home until they decide what to do with him. The baby, facing an uncertain future, is moved again.
Tuesday, April 7, 1981
After three days with no word about the baby, Dr. McKinney calls while I am at work. He says, “There has been so much brain damage we don’t know whether the baby will live. Also, because the opening in his back was so large, it is doubtful that Min will have much, if any, use of his limbs.”
The details blur as I hear his name. “Min? Is that his name?”
“Yes, Min Chul Kim is his full name.”
He may be faceless, but his name plays softly in my mind.
“Some doctors think he might have survived even if we didn’t perform surgery, so they decided they had to relieve the pressure to preserve whatever brain function might be left.” Then he got to the real reason he called. “Would you and your husband like to have him?”
I’m surprised and honored he would even consider us, but don’t know what my husband will say. We didn’t plan to take on a child with such significant medical problems. His prognosis isn’t promising. He could be a vegetable, if he lives. But, mainly I’m concerned what this decision will have on our little girl.
As a thousand questions race through my mind, so does the reaction my husband may have. My heart has ached for this baby for days.
I ask, “How would this effect Ginny?”
“Not at all.”
It takes my heart about ten seconds to scream, YES! I swallow hard, take a deep breath, and wonder how I should broach this delicate subject with my husband. We want to adopt. We agreed to adopt a child with a disability. But from what I know about this little boy, we will be lucky if he even lives long enough to be adopted and if he does live they believe he will be as unresponsive as a vegetable. Despite this, I know I am supposed to meet him. I believe that with God’s grace I could handle the physical challenges we might face. But, my husband had been the recreation director at Shriner’s Hospital. He has first hand knowledge of what children with spina bifida need in the way of care. I don’t have a clue.
“Let me talk it over with my husband. I’ll call you back.”
I hang up the phone. He looks at me suspiciously.
“They want to know if we want the baby. What do you think?”
“I don’t want to discuss it.”
He bolts for the door. “I have to leave. I’m late for an appointment.”
I know, if we are supposed to have this baby, it has to be his idea, not mine. I call a friend from church, “They just called to see whether we want the baby with all the medical problems. Please pray that if we’re supposed to have this baby, he will say he wants him and he will place the call to schedule seeing him.”
Hours later, when he walks in the door, he doesn’t say hello or give me a hug, but says, “We’re going to see the baby. Call and see whether we can come tonight.”
I look at him, “No, if anyone is scheduling to see this baby you are; not me.”
He turns, picks up the phone and calls Dr. McKinney. “Can we come see the baby tonight?”
“Sorry, we’re just leaving for the ballet. But, what about tomorrow afternoon… Would that be all right?”
“Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow at 2 p.m.”
Wednesday, April 8, 2 p.m.
The next day, at 2 p.m. sharp, I arrive at Dr. McKinney’s home. I don’t see my husband’s van. I can’t enter without him. What if I fall in love with the baby and he doesn’t want him? I sit in the car and wait. Almost two hours later he arrives.
“I got caught on a job. Sorry I’m late.” Relieved, I give him a hug and we walk to the door of their home.
In the middle of the room is a crib holding a tiny baby just eleven weeks old… he’s the scrawniest human I’ve ever seen with the thinnest arms and legs imaginable. His head, partially shaved, covered with a horrible patch, looks even larger than the 47.5 cm. it is. It’s so huge and out of proportion with his tiny body, I wonder if he could have possibly had a normal head when he was born. The ominous sick smell of death permeates the room.
As soon as I see him, I know I love him. And, I KNOW (that deep KNOW that only God can give) he will survive if I just hold him. He’s so tiny; so helpless; so alone. As he cries the soft mew of a lost kitten, we connect and I know he’s mine. I touch his remarkably tiny fingers, so weak they remain limp. His eyes, barely open, stare vacantly, looking down.
Oh, you poor, baby! Your poor mother! How devastated she must have felt when you were born with that gaping hole in your back. Was she uneducated? Did she feel she was being punished? Or, that you were being punished? But, she must have loved you so much: though she was probably confused and frightened when she took you, her newborn son: your back open, spinal nerves exposed, oozing spinal fluid, to a hospital, and left you there. She knew it was your only hope to have a full life. She wanted to make sure you weren’t forced to become a thief or prostitute to survive. I believe she loved you so much she knew that your only chance to survive was through a hospital.
I look at my husband. What are his thoughts about this child? Actually, at this point it doesn’t matter what he thinks, unless he directly orders me not to take the baby. It’s too late… our souls have connected
He looks at me and says, “You know you’re the one who’ll have to take care of him, don’t you?”
I nod.
“They say he’s going to die before he’s four and even if he does live he’ll just be a vegetable,” he continues, listing the problems I’ll face.
“I really believe he will live and even if he is a vegetable, I know God will give me the strength to care for him.”
I hold my breath waiting to see what my husband will say. After what seems like an eternity, he looks at me and says, “As long as you know he’s your responsibility, I think it’ll be okay. Bring him home. I need to get back to work. I’ll see you later.”
I hug him as tears of gratitude fill my eyes. I know this baby will not be a vegetable. I know with that deep unquestionable knowing that he has a “Reader’s Digest Condensed Version” of a brain and he will be fine mentally. He might not walk, but he will be a joy, our joy. I just know I need to get him in my arms and hold him and never let him go.
As I talk with Mrs. McKinney, I learn a negligible amount about this birth defect known as spina bifida. I watch the baby, touching him gingerly, wishing I could figure how to pick him up, so I can hold him snugly in my arms. Finally, fully convinced, picking him up must be close to impossible, I stop Mrs. McKinney and ask, “Is it possible to pick him up?”
Easily, she tucks one hand under his head, one under his body, and lifts. As she does, a pitiful high kitten-like shriek comes from Min’s mouth. I wince at his pain. Mrs. McKinney asks me to sit on the sofa, then, before I can stop her, she lays the baby on my legs. I hold him this way for a few minutes, cooing and caressing gently, but I know he needs to be cuddled and held. I try to turn him so I can place him in my arms, but as I slip my hand under his head and start to lift him, I feel weight and the plates in his head shift in the fluid. The weight of his body is so totally out of balance with his head. His head’s tremendous weight makes his body feel light as a feather (his total weight barely over 12 1/2 pounds., most of that head weight). Again, as I move him, that pitiful high kitten-like shriek fills the room.
I ache, knowing I’m hurting him each time I move him, but I know he needs to be cuddled and loved, even more than not feeling the pain from the rubbing plates in his head. I hold him close and know I won’t let go for long… ever again.
I snuggle him close telling him, “You’ll be just fine.” I hold him cautiously; not sure what hurts him. Afraid that if I let his head slip his neck could break, but more afraid that if he isn’t held and cuddled, he will give up and die. If he dies, that’s God’s business. My job is to give him every reason to live.
I ask, “Mrs. McKinney when I can bring the baby home?”
“Don’t you want to think about it for a while before you make a final decision?” she asks.
“The decision is already made. He’s to be our little boy… if you agree.”
“It’s okay with us, if you’re certain. Could you do me a favor? Can I keep him until about 7:30 so my neighbor, who saw him when he was really sick, can see how much better he’s doing?”
“Of course,” I agree, especially, since I realize I need to find a car bed, or something level in which to transport him. He has no muscles to hold himself even partially upright, let alone support the tremendous weight of his head.
Since we have been waiting for Ginny his nursery is ready. But, I haven’t planned on caring for a medically fragile child (At the time, I didn’t even know what medically fragile meant.). Racking my brain, I remember our pastor’s wife mentioning she has a car bed. A quick call, a short trip, and I find a car bed to transport Min home. Anxious to hold him, I cannot wait until seven-thirty. I go to pick him up a little before seven that night. On the way home Min cries out like a lost kitten with each bump in the road.
And on the cool, quiet evening of April 8, 1981 my life turns into a wonderfully disquieting adventure. Little do I know that this child will be the catalyst to help me fulfill dreams I haven’t even dreamed…
P.S. We never learned what happened to our Ginny…
