But suddenly it was December!
The children descended on us, home from college with their dirty-laundry bags, undone term papers, and “Is that all the cookies you made, Mom?” comments as they devoured everything within sight.
And the holiday spirit fell on everyone.
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One evening I outdid myself with the evening meal. Swiss steak, smothered in a rich onions, gravy, fluffy mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole, and a Caesar salad. the family ate with their usual display of enthusiastic praise that always seemed to spur my culinary efforts well beyond my normal talent. We chatted around the table, talking of no-account things with the easy banter and roughhouse humor that a grownup family is most at home with.
“Christmas is really for little children,” I tossed out my prelude to our “We just can’t afford to do as much this year for Christmas” pep talk which was scheduled for its annual delivery.
“You’re absolutely right, Mom! And we four kids have decided what we want. It’s kind of a joint gift.” Diane was building us up; I felt it coming. “And, Dad, since you have the most pull with that bewhiskered old man, Santa, how about you dropping a hint that we’d like him to pack Melissa in his bag and bring her home for Christmas!”
We had talked about it that afternoon, but somehow I didn’t think Paul would ever approve. Our course had been set; there was no turning back, and he would think----oh, what would you think, Paul?
Well, he just sat there, kind of stunned-like, and then his soft gray-green eyes began to glisten as he said just two words, “Why not?”
Three days later, Paul and I were at the children’s home in Ohio to pick up our small one for her Christmas vacation. I was as nervous as any new mother packing Melissa’s baby clothes for her two-week visit. the child-care attendant I had grown to love an respect for their labors of love stood around quietly hunting up the missing shoe or the sweater Aunt Mabel had sent. We finally jammed a goodly supply of baby items into our bulging suitcase.
“ You’ll never bring her back----we know.” They nodded wisely and knowingly.
“Oh, but we will. We believe this is the best place for her---here in her own world. You’ll see.”
But they only smiled the more sadly and kissed Melissa with a great tenderness. They were her mothers, and now the parting was theirs I held her all the tighter.
The ride home was so different this time. Melissa was coming home. I said it over and over deep down, a kind of emotional war chant. No matter for what period of time this was today and we were together. Tomorrow might never come.
The family had been busy in our absence. The third floor room next to Bob and Dave’s had been a combination study and guest room. Now it held a baby’s crib and an emptied chest of drawers.
Diane and “Scubie”--who had come to live with us after both of her parents had died--had added all the little-girl things: stuffed toys, frilly lamps, and a pink-and-blue blanket that had been Martha’s.
That evening, when the house was at last still and Paul and I were quietly doing the “cat-out, dog-in, light-off” routine, we heard a rhythmical pounding coming from the direction of Melissa’s room.
We bounded up the stairs, and stood in her darkened room, lit only by the small night light on the dresser.
She was half awake, crouched on all fours, rocking back and forth banging her head on one end of the crib methodically. The room was filled with her pitiful monotone chant, a cross between a cry and a moan.
Paul moved her head away from the end of her crib and stood there soothingly patting her diaper-padded bottom while her rhythmical protests grew weaker. She finally surrendered again to the need for sleep, and we crept out of the room.
We slept that night with our door open.
The next few days were filled with the wonder of Melissa. She was literally descended upon with all the stimulation and attention that a household of six could manage, and she sat with open-mouthed astonishment at some of our antics. But she did not laugh; neither did she smile. Her tongue protruded and we noted it with dismay. She took no interest in the toys we forced upon her but was content to rock back and forth on her haunches and suck her thumb.
We made an appointment with a famed neurosurgeon in our area.
“What is it that you want to hear from me?” He was direct and heartbreakingly blunt. “That she is afflicted with Down’s Syndrome is obvious----a chromosome count is not necessary. She has all the facial appearance of a mongoloid.”
We sat in front of his desk, Melissa on Paul’s knee, and we looked at him helplessly.
“It there nothing then that we can do to help her?”
“Throw away her playpen, let her creep, let her discover things for herself, offer her all the stimulation you can. Treat her as your other children.”
“Do not permit it. This motion traps her in a world of her own making, and she will not related to her surroundings. Divert her.”
And divert we did, consistently and exhaustingly. But something was beginning to happen. Melissa was coming alive. She started to creep and discover things all n her own, and each accomplishment was greeted with wild approval. Melissa was leaving her valley of apathy.
Christmas was something else that year. Since our children had long ago passed the age of “see and grab” anything on the Christmas tree, we had decorated a bit more lavishly with little thought to what was on the lower branches. Melissa discovered them all----the little treasures, the fragile baubles. Like Humpty-Dumpty himself, they all came crashing down, never to be put together again. But we were so enthralled at her progress that it seemed little enough reparations.
Before the holidays were over, she held our six hearts in her chubby baby hands. We dreaded the moment of separation. If only there were a home closer. Was this so be our commission? we wondered. Was Melissa our “marching orders”?
