My Short Life

The year was 1943. Times were hard and life was tough. Surviving was hard enough for one, let alone someone trying to provide and care for a whole family. Those were the times of World War II and no one was left unaffected by it. Times like this, it seemed cruel to introduce a new child into the world. Yet, on December 28, I was born. My family was very poor and realistically could not afford to care for a child, but they did the best with what they had. Medical care was virtually non-existent and even if there happened to be a doctor in the middle of rural Arkansas, my family wouldn’t have been able to pay for it. Even so, I came out kicking and screaming. I was a healthy baby boy of 8 pounds and 5 ounces, with beautiful blue eyes and sand-colored blond hair. The first moment that I opened my eyes, I knew that I was loved and that my mother and father would keep me safe. My mother cuddled me close to her, wrapped me in her warm blanket,

“Welcome to the world, John Michael. We love you so much, our precious miracle.” she whispered softly.

Her voice instantly stopped my fussing, and I let my gaze slowly wander across the room. My eyes found my father, the strong, poised man who appeared unmoved if not for the small smile on his face and the tears of joy and pride in is eyes. My eyes met his and then I knew that I loved him and would always love him no matter what lied ahead. He crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. My mother gently placed me into my father’s arms. The last thing I heard before I drifted off to sleep was my father quietly humming a soothing song. The next few weeks were pretty uneventful. When I was about two months old, the trouble began. My mother walked into my room and as she held me, I heard her softly cough. I don’t think that she wanted my father to know she was coughing for fear that he would worry about her so much that he would end up sick himself. She couldn’t hide it for long though because as time progressed, her cough got worse and worse. I could see the worry and fear in my father’s eyes the day that he came to give me a bottle instead of Mom. Day after day, I could hear her coughs through the paper thin walls of our little home. The coughs sounded harsher and more painful. I didn’t envy my father the sight of my mother because I knew that it must be horrific. I heard her scratchy voice complaining about how she never got to see her own child and hold him in her arms. Eventually the coughing subsided and she thought she was well enough to be able to see me but my father insisted she not because he thought that she might still spread the virus even though she seemed better. After two weeks of not being able to see me at all, I guess it became too much for her. That night, after my father had already fallen asleep, she snuck into my room and took me into her arms. I reveled in the joy of getting to see her. She stayed with me until early morning but had to leave before my dad woke up. She visited every night and everything seemed fine...until I began coughing. I couldn’t control it and it caused a searing agony in my chest. My mother admitted to my father that she had been secretly visiting me and, though he was angry, he understood and didn’t blame her. My mother had gotten over the sickness and they hoped that I would recover too. But an infant’s immune system is not strong and the influenza raging through my body was. My cough got worse and soon the fever began. My parents tried all of the home remedies, the honey and herbs for the cough and sore throat, and cold compresses for the fever, but none of  them had anything but a temporary affect. The cough always came back and the fever was a constant thing. It hurt to move. It hurt to cry. Yet, it also hurt to do nothing but lay there. I felt trapped inside my own burning, aching body. Somewhere in the middle of the sickness, I had lost hope of getting better. Even though I was extremely young, only three months old, I understood that I wasn’t going to beat this. My parents must have realized this too, but they did what they could to make me comfortable. They gave me herbs to dull the pain and never left my side. I was not near old enough to talk or move very well, but I hope that they understood that I loved them and wouldn’t take back any of the time I had spent with them even if I could have. Most people don’t think that babies comprehend anything, but actually that is not true. I understood a lot of things. I couldn’t express or show that I knew anything, but I did know. I knew that my mother and father loved me and always would. I knew that they tried their best to protect me. But I also knew that my short life was already coming to an end. I fought past the intense pain and coughing fits and looked up at my parents. I looked each of them in the eyes and tried to make them see that this was the time for goodbye. I think that my message must have gotten across because both of them had tears running down their faces. My mother picked me up and said her final goodbye.

“ I love you my sweet, innocent child and I always will. You will forever have a place in my heart and I hope that one day I will see you again.” she told me as  she passed me to my father, loud, broken sobs unleashing themselves as she did. My father stared into my eyes and I grabbed his large finger with my tiny hand. He did not speak. He did not have to. We simply stared into each others’ eyes; the large man and his infant son that would not live to be a man. In those moments, I didn’t feel anything but love for my family. Right then, on March 6, 1944, I simply closed my eyes and sank into sweet, painless oblivion.