My child

Martin was born with serious brain damage because the obstetrician postponed a Caesarean until it was too late. A wild boyhood with bruised knee caps, treetop houses, camp fires, basketball, Peter Pan, tadpoles in jam jars, and Jedi knights in a jam was all over before it was even started.

For many hours Martin's brain was deprived of oxygen that left him both physically and mentally handicapped. These handicaps are compounded by his continual physical lethargy. He suffers from asthma and epilepsy, and I have lost track of how many times we've been to the hospital during the last 12 years.

While Martin has many sounds, he is unable to communicate in words. He has cerebral palsy, so he's confined to a wheelchair. He has poor eyesight, uses a diaper and is dependent on me to tube-feed, bathe, dress, and entertain him. At two or three in the morning, Martin wakes up and doesn't sleep again until midnight the next day. He attends a special school; otherwise he's always at home. So it's a great relief to both of us when Martin visits his foster-family or his father.

You might think that I would harbor bitterness and resentment because of my situation; however, I'm grateful for my child! Today I'm an entirely different person, mature and serene, wiser and stronger.

Martin is a gift. What we have together is very beautiful and intense. Maybe because we live with death everyday. According to the doctors, his days are numbered. Martin does have his cheerful days with laughter and high spirits, but his life is also full of pain and discomfort. So there are quiet moments when I whisper in his ear that it's OK if he doesn't want to be here anymore.