Wednesday – Angel Smile
Jan. 13th, 2010 03:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
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Some children are born with a mark for tragedy that no one but Fate can see. They come into the world looking like every other child; healthy, normal, sweet-smelling and lovable. We can't recognize the mark, because it would keep us from loving these children like we should. We would know that to love this child will mean our hearts will be broken, and many of us would turn our backs on them. But the mark, unseen and unrecognized, has the opposite effect on us: we seem to love them more.
"Some people have hobbies that they dedicate their lives to," said my mother's friend Cecil Murphy, "mine is loving Rodger."
Rodger was his brain-injured grandson, born healthy and normal some 8 years before his grandfather was quoted saying this in a write up in one of the Houston newspapers. In the mid 1970's, years before anyone announced that infants should never ride in the front seat of a car, Rodger was riding shotgun next to his mother when the car was involved in a head-on collision. His mother died that day. His brother and three sisters in the back seat all suffered from broken limbs. Rodger sustained sever brain injuries.
Cecil and Nell Murphy lived in my neighborhood when I was growing up, and my mother was part of a team of volunteers who visited their home each week and helped with Rodger's "patterning," a form of physical-rehabilitation that involved holding Rodger's body and physically putting him through the movements of crawling, walking, and the like. He never did learn to do all these things but I think he did benefit from all the touching and the hands-on attention he received from my mother and the other volunteers. Friendships formed in that little room his grandfather built adjacent to the garage just for Rodger's rehabilitation. During the summers I accompanied my mother on her twice-weekly shifts and I played with his sisters while the grownups gossiped, joked and traded stories as they put little Rodger through the motions. Rodger remained immobile and unable to speak, but he was a magnet for goodwill and people filled with it gathered around him.
My mother continued to work with Rodger up until her cancer made it impossible. She told the Murphys that she needed to take some time off from it until she felt better, and never went back. I remember Nell Murphy bringing by a chicken and rice casserole when my mother was in the hospital, and Cecil barbequed a whole beef brisket that he brought by for the post-funeral meal. I was very irate when the mourners ate every bit of the brisket and left us with three chicken and rice casseroles in the refrigerator (we were all burned out on Chicken and rice – the preferred drop-by dish for your local family in need – by that point).
I last saw Rodger when I was in college, some 5 or 6 years after my mother died. I was walking through the neighborhood when I noticed Cecil and Nell in their yard and they invited me inside to visit. Rodger, though by then a teenager, looked the same as always. He never grew very big, and his skin was still as soft and downy as an infants.
"This is Nina, Rodger. You remember Nina?" his grandfather crooned. Rodger's face showed no signs of recognition.
"She's Ruby's little girl. You remember Ruby. Where's Ruby? Where's Ruby? Is Ruby here?" Rodgers face lit up in a smile: a huge beatific, angelic smile that I will never forget. Time had no meaning for Rodger Murphy. Ruby, my mother, had not been a part of his life for 6 years, but that smile make it feel like she was about to walk through the door, and it would have been a miracle for everyone except Rodger if she had. She was part of his world, and his world never changed.
I told the Murphys I had to be getting home. I really needed to go somewhere and cry, and it was all I could do to maintain my composure as we smiled and made our goodbyes.
Rodger Murphy died a year or so later, at the age of 18. Cecil followed him a couple of years later, and eventually Nell passed away as well. Rodger was born normal and healthy, the kind of kid people pick up and tell him he can be anything he wants to be when he grows up. Then tragedy made his the kind of kid that people whisper about, "It's such a shame. You wonder what he could have been…." But his life had more impact that a lot of not-so-tragic lives I've seen. He was a magnet for goodwill, and he pulled people full of goodwill toward him and they laid their hands on him to try to heal him as best they could. He never became a normal, non-brain injured child, but that does not mean there weren't miracles taking place around him and because of him. Friendships grew and blossomed as people of goodwill came together for a common cause. Little miracles here and there, the kind people forget to notice. And that smile of his when he heard my mother's name: the smile of an angel and a miracle worker if I've ever seen one.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
Some children are born with a mark for tragedy that no one but Fate can see. They come into the world looking like every other child; healthy, normal, sweet-smelling and lovable. We can't recognize the mark, because it would keep us from loving these children like we should. We would know that to love this child will mean our hearts will be broken, and many of us would turn our backs on them. But the mark, unseen and unrecognized, has the opposite effect on us: we seem to love them more.
"Some people have hobbies that they dedicate their lives to," said my mother's friend Cecil Murphy, "mine is loving Rodger."
Rodger was his brain-injured grandson, born healthy and normal some 8 years before his grandfather was quoted saying this in a write up in one of the Houston newspapers. In the mid 1970's, years before anyone announced that infants should never ride in the front seat of a car, Rodger was riding shotgun next to his mother when the car was involved in a head-on collision. His mother died that day. His brother and three sisters in the back seat all suffered from broken limbs. Rodger sustained sever brain injuries.
Cecil and Nell Murphy lived in my neighborhood when I was growing up, and my mother was part of a team of volunteers who visited their home each week and helped with Rodger's "patterning," a form of physical-rehabilitation that involved holding Rodger's body and physically putting him through the movements of crawling, walking, and the like. He never did learn to do all these things but I think he did benefit from all the touching and the hands-on attention he received from my mother and the other volunteers. Friendships formed in that little room his grandfather built adjacent to the garage just for Rodger's rehabilitation. During the summers I accompanied my mother on her twice-weekly shifts and I played with his sisters while the grownups gossiped, joked and traded stories as they put little Rodger through the motions. Rodger remained immobile and unable to speak, but he was a magnet for goodwill and people filled with it gathered around him.
My mother continued to work with Rodger up until her cancer made it impossible. She told the Murphys that she needed to take some time off from it until she felt better, and never went back. I remember Nell Murphy bringing by a chicken and rice casserole when my mother was in the hospital, and Cecil barbequed a whole beef brisket that he brought by for the post-funeral meal. I was very irate when the mourners ate every bit of the brisket and left us with three chicken and rice casseroles in the refrigerator (we were all burned out on Chicken and rice – the preferred drop-by dish for your local family in need – by that point).
I last saw Rodger when I was in college, some 5 or 6 years after my mother died. I was walking through the neighborhood when I noticed Cecil and Nell in their yard and they invited me inside to visit. Rodger, though by then a teenager, looked the same as always. He never grew very big, and his skin was still as soft and downy as an infants.
"This is Nina, Rodger. You remember Nina?" his grandfather crooned. Rodger's face showed no signs of recognition.
"She's Ruby's little girl. You remember Ruby. Where's Ruby? Where's Ruby? Is Ruby here?" Rodgers face lit up in a smile: a huge beatific, angelic smile that I will never forget. Time had no meaning for Rodger Murphy. Ruby, my mother, had not been a part of his life for 6 years, but that smile make it feel like she was about to walk through the door, and it would have been a miracle for everyone except Rodger if she had. She was part of his world, and his world never changed.
I told the Murphys I had to be getting home. I really needed to go somewhere and cry, and it was all I could do to maintain my composure as we smiled and made our goodbyes.
Rodger Murphy died a year or so later, at the age of 18. Cecil followed him a couple of years later, and eventually Nell passed away as well. Rodger was born normal and healthy, the kind of kid people pick up and tell him he can be anything he wants to be when he grows up. Then tragedy made his the kind of kid that people whisper about, "It's such a shame. You wonder what he could have been…." But his life had more impact that a lot of not-so-tragic lives I've seen. He was a magnet for goodwill, and he pulled people full of goodwill toward him and they laid their hands on him to try to heal him as best they could. He never became a normal, non-brain injured child, but that does not mean there weren't miracles taking place around him and because of him. Friendships grew and blossomed as people of goodwill came together for a common cause. Little miracles here and there, the kind people forget to notice. And that smile of his when he heard my mother's name: the smile of an angel and a miracle worker if I've ever seen one.
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no subject
Date: 2010-01-13 09:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-13 09:55 pm (UTC)That patterning was a huge thing in the 70s. Maybe it didn't do what they thought it would, but it certainly helped keep Rodger and others like him, part of their world and family.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-13 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-13 10:38 pm (UTC)I suspect patterning was considered a failed experiment because the kids who got it didn't exactly get "well," but I would argue that in most cases the children who underwent it were, in fact, better off than they would have been without it.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-13 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-13 11:26 pm (UTC)I didn't mention this before, but I love Grandpa saying my hobby is to love Rodger.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-14 03:30 am (UTC)That was SOOO sweet that he remembered your mom and smiled like that. What a special, precious, amazing miracle.
I really, really loved this entry of yours:)
no subject
Date: 2010-01-14 04:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-14 05:36 am (UTC)This is a beautiful entry!
no subject
Date: 2010-01-14 12:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-15 03:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-15 04:29 am (UTC)I hope everything with you son works out and you find the answers that help him function in the world. My own son is doing well now, but I'm nervous about what might happen when he starts school next year. {hugs}
no subject
Date: 2010-01-15 04:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-15 04:32 am (UTC)