For Jackson
When we were children our first priorities were rather simple: steal cookies from
the cookie-jar, watch cartoons for hours while lounging around in our Disney decorated pajamas, and maybe throw some tantrums until Mommy or Daddy purchased that new Malibu Barbie that came with three different assorted bikinis. Looking back at it, as children we took more than we could ever give and never had the wisdom to ponder what it meant to be thankful, and know the true glory of sacrifice.
In my household, I was the baby of the family; therefore, the center of attention. I lived in my own world, where the highlight of my day was learning the French alphabet with Mr. Barney’s help while sipping on two bottles: one filled with milk, the other with apple juice. How ironic—I had to have the best of both worlds even when it came to what was in my bottle. I was a spoiled child who didn’t know what the rest of my life would hold, or if in that life I’d ever come to a point where I’d have to make a decision that wasn’t for my own selfish good. I proceeded to milk the benefits of being the only child until the very day Jackson William Meadows was born. It took a 6 pound 12 ounce little boy to mold me into a woman of dignity and compassion.
At first the sudden news that there would be another addition to the family seemed wretched. How could this be? I’m the baby of the family. But it seemed as if everyone was enthralled with the new boy that would soon be born and forgot that it was a priority of mine to remain their little princess As the impending due date got closer, I separated myself from the rest of my “ecstatic” family.
I still remember the day my mother called when Jackie, my aunt, was giving birth to Jackson. I remember her voice, an escalating crescendo, and the shrilling excitement when she yelled “JACKIE’S HAVING THE BABY!” For that split second my lips curved into a wide grin and I yielded my own selfish thoughts and showed some excitement for this new little person. I had succumbed to the infectious excitement.
My mother came home late that night to inform me that my new cousin was in critical condition. Jackson had a leak in his left lung, a heart murmur, and an enlarged kidney. It didn’t dawn on me how severe his illness was until it was a life or death situation.
I remember walking into that hospital. There were so many unfamiliar faces but out of all those faces they shared the same distraught frown. It was a look of either sorrow, of weariness, or of utter confusion. But it was a look that sought answers— what most of us wanted in life. The nurse directed us to the room Jackie was in. It seemed like forever as we walked down all those halls, halls that had no color of life or any striking features that could distinguish them from all the other halls. But I can guarantee you; I can remember each hall individually as if it were permanently embedded in my memory. That day will stay with me forever.
We entered Jackie’s room and I noticed that she looked as if this pain had sucked the life right out of her. Her china doll face would contort with agony everytime she made the slightest move. Words could not form—sorry wasn’t good enough. Instead, I laid my espresso hues intently on her murky blues as they flickered with doubt. After a long stretch of silence, the nurse came into Jackie’s room to take the family to the “critical conditional unit,” where little Jackson was struggling for his life in an incubator.
Since the nurse informed us that only one family member could accompany the mother, my mom and Jackie’s’ husband decided that I should be the lucky one to take Jackie to see her son for the first time. Yes, this very moment was the first time Jackie set eyes on her newborn child. I guided her wheel chair down the isles of incubators. Each one of the many machines greeted us with a melancholy beep. It was such a lugubrious sound, nothing like the nursery rhymes I wanted my baby cousin to hear. I stopped at the last incubator where Jackson laid, his frail body trapped inside a glass box that displayed a maze of wires snaking mercilessly in and out of his porcelain skin. Two IV’S were stabbed into his tiny wrists that were sprawled to either side of his body like a small plea of surrender to the pain in which he had to endure. The nurse stood before my aunt and I while she tried to explain what each monitor was going to do to help Jackson.
“Do you want to touch him?” the nurse asked Jackie while my chestnut haired aunt nodded her head in a silent agreement. The look on her face could have brought me to an involuntary fit of tears. Never have her murky orbs looked so distraught. Herr eyes that used to possess such life were now slowly drowning in the depths of her own tears.
There was a small circular opening where she eased her trembling hand into the box. With tenacious delicacy, a solitary fingertip touched his tender palm and in that moment of clarity I surrendered my vanity and let the tears cascade down my cheeks. I stood before a mother who would sacrifice anything to save her son; I had yet to ever fight such a battle. They say that the greatest act of love is sacrifice. I believe it. The hand that had caressed his palm was still quivering, the same way my bottom lip trembled when I had the chance to touch the apple meat of his cheek. But I had to be strong. I had to be the adult.
Jackson’s condition only got worse. But as we went through those days of sorrow, I was no longer a haughty, supercilious, self-absurd girl. I was finally shaping my life into becoming a young woman who had to experience a near fatal tragedy.
Even in his moments of sheer pain, Jackson managed to put a gummy smile on his face. The innocent way his lips would curve into the bow of a cherub is an image that will never leave my memory. Still to this day, Jackson is battling his health issues and I, as a young woman of new wonders, see his constant fight as a beautiful battle. I love my little cousin and I want everyone to know it. I love the sound of his gurgles when I hum Coldplay songs to him, and I love the warm sugar-cookie smell of his hair. I even love the loud screech of his cry.
I could have acted the way I used to, but I realized that I couldn’t continue to blame everyone. In the end there isn’t any feeling of satisfaction in putting the weight on someone else’s shoulders. We must battle our own wars. Things aren’t always going to be fair in the real world. That’s just the way it is. But, for the most part, you get what you give. Because of Jackson, I now see life as a constant moment to build new mysteries, to mold new beginnings, and to make something good out of it. The rest of my life is being shaped right now and I hope, for my baby cousin, that I will continue to be the young woman he has helped me grow into.
Song for the day: Sara Groves- When It Was Over. My aunt use to sing Jackson this song in the hospital. It is in fact a religious song. I find it rather moving even though I am not the slightest bit religious. If you like this song I would suggest Sarah McLachlan's song, "Angel."
