The dreaded morning dawned; the sun rose, a tired breeze blew now and then, and the mockingbird, intoned his doleful message over and over. It was that morning that our twenty-three-day -old Melissa was to leave the sterile world of the hospital and enter her own special sphere of the retarded----500 miles distant. It was that dreadful, dreadful morning when our dear, sad family gathered in the driveway around our car to see face to face our small handicapped baby, to bid her good-bye, even before their hello’s were uttered.
They came wearing robes over their pajamas, in bare feet and with sleep-creased faces, and they huddled in silent homage around the white wicker basket wedged on the back seat of the car. They viewed her through the magnifying lens of their emotions as they gently pulled back her soft pink blanket and reached out to touch her small bare feet. Steve maneuvered his big thumb inside the clasp of her pink fist and stood mutely, his dark-brown eyes flooded with tears. How could it be that this small one, our baby so innocent, so seemingly perfect, was retarded?
Watching the tears streaming unchecked down my own mother’s face, I knew that she could not understand the wisdom of the impending separation. I could almost feel her grandmother’s heart reaching out to enfold this child with the broken wing. And my dear father, almost seventy- five stood somewhat apart, bewildered and reluctant to face the full impact of our decision.
“It is time now.” It was Paul, ringing down the final curtain on this desolate scene.
Our farewells were automatic; we departed without further fanfare. There is so much a body can stand.
It was a ten-hour trip by automobile, but Melissa never once cried. I cuddled her almost fiercely. Tears splashed down on her upturned face, and she blinked in wonder. I examined her face over and over, but each feature seemed perfect. Inside I felt tied in knots of agony. I did not know that I had the capacity to weep for such a long period. By the end of our journey I was physically and emotionally exhausted.
We we reached the small town and spotted the home set back from the road in a cluster of trees, I panicked.
“Please drive by,” I begged Paul. “I can’t do it.”
He pulled off the road and together we held our baby and cried. How long we sat there, I do not know. There were no audible words of prayer. But we knew that God was with us.
Melissa grew restless and Paul turned on the ignition. We drove back again to the square white house, very slowly.
There were three short steps in the front. We walked up numbly, like robots. Before our hands touched the doorknob, the supervisor met us with a smile and a cheery greeting.
“Well, if it isn’t our new baby all the way from Pennsylvania. May I hold her?
“My, if she isn’t the cutest little pumpkin. Mary, come here and see this adorable---” And so it went. It was like showing off any baby to adoring relatives.
Before we knew it we were in a nursery with three picture windows and twenty-two- stainless steel cribs. The babies ranged in age from one month to three years.----babies suffering birth defects, brain damage, and many crippled by cerebral palsy.
“Strange company to leave you with, my small one, but you belong here,” I whispered over and over. “This is your world.”
A yellow patchwork quilt was turned back on Melissa’s bed. We gratefully watched her stretch. Then we inspected the rest of the home. In one room we saw fourteen mongoloid children about ten to twelve years old seated around a low table. They were feeding themselves, sloppily but happily. Each had a big bib running from under his chin much like any family dinner table, everybody jabbering at once. Later we saw the same children in bathrobes and pajamas sitting on the floor in front of a television set.
Everywhere we saw signs of love and care. And our hearts were content. Here was a place where we could be sure that Melissa would be safe and happy.
It was not easy to leave her there the next day. When I bent over her crib to kiss her soft cheek, she was sleeping soundly. I looked at her for a long hard moment. It was as though I was ripping out my own heart as I turned and walked away. Our return trip was bleak. Neither of us felt like speaking.
When we thumped our suitcases on the kitchen floor, the first thing my eyes lit upon was our calendar. In bold black letter it spelled out the month, September, and the day, Tuesday, and the numeral, 3. And I drew in by breath sharply. It was as though time had stopped on the day of Melissa’s birth.
Under the date there was a Bible verse: “ I shall yet praise Him.” I ripped it off and stuffed it into my purse. Thank God for a mentally handicapped child? No, there will be no thank you for Melissa from me.
