\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0One day my parents disposed of Stephen. He was my little brother, not quite two years old. We pulled up to the curb in our family car, stopping in front of a strange house. We were out in rural Oregon somewhere. It was quiet. A heavy, overcast day. Dad was in the driver’s seat and\u00a0Mom\u00a0was next to him sitting\u00a0shotgun. She was holding Stephen.\u00a0\u00a0My older brother, Bill, and I were in the back seat, we were seven and five respectively. None of us had spoken the entire trip. And no one made a move. It was a harsh stillness. I didn’t understand what we were doing, but I could feel enough to be scared.
Finally, Dad said, “It’s time. Let’s go.” As he climbed out, he looked back at us sadly and said, “Come on boys, out of the car.” Then he walked around to the other side and opened\u00a0Mom’s\u00a0door, helping her out, as she held Stephen. Looking over the seat, I could see her eyes were wet. But I knew she wasn’t just sad, she was angry. And it frightened me.\u00a0 The five of us walked up to the front door and were greeted by an older couple. They welcomed us into their house with friendly smiles and polite introductions. We stood\u00a0uncomfortably in a large living room, with two playpens lined up together against one wall and assorted toys scattered about on the floor. As the adults conversed, I watched\u00a0Mom\u00a0inspect the premises. She paid especially close attention to the two other infants, who were both in one of the pens together, moving about, making baby sounds. They were clean and unsoiled, and the rest of the room seemed well cared for.
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 I wondered if these two babies were damaged like Stephen was. It was hard to tell. My poor little brother had been born\u00a0healthy, but after a few months, he developed a hernia and had to have\u00a0surgery. And it was during that operation that a mistake occurred and Stephen was given too much anesthesia. It destroyed his brain. The doctors said it was irreversible damage. But I remember watching my mom struggle day after day, moving little Stephen’s legs and arms, convinced that if she was persistent enough, she could get those muscles working. We were downstairs in the family room, and Mom had brought down a walking board, with a divider in the middle. Picking up one foot of his at a time, she’d move it forward, and then she’d do the same with the other one. Up and down the walking board, back and forth, Mom was determined not to let this tragedy be the truth. Curled up nearby on an old couch, watching TV shows, like Wagon Train, I could hear Mom talking softly to Stephen, repeating encouragements, over and over with every step.
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 But as weeks and months went by, the gentle tone of Mom’s voice became increasingly the sound of frustration and pain. Her efforts to rehabilitate Stephen were interrupted by cries and tears, and helpless failure. If she remembered that I was nearby and listening, she gave no indication of that. She would pound the table and shout out God’s name for help, and then she would curse that same God for allowing her little boy to suffer. Then, Stephen would start to cry and she would pick him up and hold him close to her heart. He would gradually grow quiet, and she would lay him back down on the table and begin the exercises again. I wanted so badly to walk across the room and be held by her, too. But I didn’t, of course. I was undamaged.
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The conversation among the adults seemed to be winding down. My dad shook hands with the other man, said goodbye to his wife, then he walked to the door, indicating for Bill and me to follow. We watched as Mom softly put Stephen down in the unoccupied playpen and covered him gently with his blanket. Then she whispered to him things I couldn’t make out, as she leaned down and kissed his forehead. Standing up, she turned to the couple and said goodbye, and then walked quickly out the front door. The three of us followed her to the car, no one saying a word. When the car doors closed, there was a harsh silence again. And this time, I felt a frightening finality in the silence. There were five of us when we drove up there. Four of us were leaving.\u00a0Dad and Mom\u00a0had just given Stephen away. And the thought occurred to me, that if this happened again, I would be next.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0One day my parents disposed of Stephen. He was my little brother, not quite two years old. We pulled up to the curb in our family car, stopping in front of a strange house. We were out in rural Oregon somewhere. It was quiet. A heavy, overcast day. Dad was in the … <\/p>\n