My Special Boy: Poetry and A True Story

Last year, I wrote this poem for my son. If you don't know his amazing story, search through my blog for Gryphon, you'll find it all. I had originally submitted this poem to publishers across the country, but none of them wanted it, so I decided to post it here on my blog so that it could be read and remembered forever.

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The incubator is empty now, 

but still the relics, 

pictures of Gods wrapped in hospital bags, 

and taped to the windows of the crib, 

now rest in our temple's treasury, 

a link to both our past and present. 

But it would sometimes be a fallacy to romanticize our family, 

for there was little poetry about the C-Section, 

the constant and daily fear of finding an empty bed, 

the dark struggles through the labyrinths of a premature birth, 

and a life of obstacles ahead, 

but you, my little Theseus, braved the Minotaur always.

With each passing day, the terrors of goodbye faded into heaven's brightening light.

Only a few drops of milk, they said, but you drank the whole bottle.

You would need help breathing, they predicted, but you threw off the ventilator.

Not even a brain bleed could outdo the Gods,

or shake the resilience of a boy determined to live.

The worst chances the doctors gave you,

but the Gods overruled.

You were not simply another newborn, 

for your life has defined and changed those of everyone around you.

We were so happy when we were able to take you home.

Then, a new set of hardships.

I had to learn to be an exceptional father for a special needs son,

it was a new set of Labours all their own.

Each day I gave all my strength to support you,

strapping your oxygen tank and heart monitor to my back,

and hanging you and your car seat over my arm,

as I took you to the doctor on a regular basis,

to give you the best possible chances of growing stronger.

Something few fathers will endure,

but my love for you, 

and the Gods' love for us,

was the muscle of my heart,

and of mind and body, 

that made me determined to never ever give up on you.

By the year, you excelled,

you did everything the doctors said you wouldn't,

you let nothing stand in your way, 

the strongest person I have ever known,

my trust in a bright future for our family,

and all the proof I need of Higher Powers.

I saw you from the beginning,

a tiny, 24-week baby flailing about,

now I attend your rites of puberty,

as you laugh at the sun on your face,

run and play with your dogs and classmates,

and dive into the banquet tables. 

You may not talk a lot,

or read the books that most children do in school,

your disabilities may be evident,

yet, they are not defining.

Even after your surgery on both legs,

you stood up out of the wheelchair the next day and climbed the stairs.

You have nothing but strength and an undying love for life,

though you could find so many reasons to hate it.

You are a lesson to all the world.

How could I not be overprotective of you, as so many accuse?

You're my little boy who I could have once lost,

and now I can make sure never again.

The world does not get you down,

and yet, I will protect you from it.

You're my first choice for a friend at breakfast, lunch or dinner,

the one I like to travel with and talk about my day to.

I know you love me so much,

for you walk the halls, calling my name when I'm not there.

I held you first when you came out of the hospital,

we spent each day on the couch, getting to know one another,

and yet, the more time that passed, the more we realized we are alike.

You once wore a very tiny shirt that read, "Daddy Is My Hero,"

and yet it now hangs on my office wall, too small for you.

But there was always one thing I could never save us all from,

and that is the unyielding passing of time.

There will come a day when daddy ages, passes, and can't come for you anymore.

I won't be there for kisses, cuddles, and playtime.

You will have to go without your favorite person in the world.

But the relics will still be in the treasury to remind you of your destiny,

and that you are never alone.

Miracles From Olympos

Scrummaging last night, I found two relics, forever sealed in time. It was refreshing because I thought I had lost them. It was an accident that I actually stumbled upon the two. 

They brought back to memory one of the most priceless times of my entire life, and reminded me just how much my wife and I have been through together during these last 10 years. 

After she became pregnant, she began experiencing life-threatening complications in early June of 2010, and my son had to be delivered early, 24 weeks as a micro-preemie at 1 pound, 5 ounces, with the worst chances of survival, literally. I named him Gryphon Maximus that night, which means Gryphon The Greatest. 

Fortunately, he was stabilized and moved into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, or NICU for short. The image you see on the left are the pictures that I placed on the windows of his incubator when I went up to see him for the first time. They are of Apollon and Artemis, Gods who protect children and heal the sick. A third picture of Athena (Goddess of strength) was later placed, but has since been lost. 

The original pictures were actually removed by the NICU staff through an honest mistake because they didn't realize what they were. When I informed them that they were religious to our family, they reprinted and sealed the pictures in plastic bio bags and taped them back onto the windows of his crib. What you see is 100% original from that day and through the entire time he was there, the plastic and tape still on them. 

A very short time after these pictures were put on his incubator, he began breathing on his own for hours without the help of a ventilator. He was already showing signs of unconquerable strength, and it was the Gods who always gave me peace in the knowledge that my son was going to make it. 

The baby that should have died was not only breathing on his own, he was eating and growing. All of his doctors were amazed. With each passing day, it became more obvious that he was going to grow into a full term baby and come home, and he eventually did, without even having to have a single surgery. 

One might think that even with his survival, his premature birth gave him crippling disabilities for life, but actually no, the Gods blessed him in that area as well. The doctors said he would never even walk, but today he runs and climbs, and his intelligence grows by the day. He's very smart. He may not talk a lot, but he takes in everything and knows how to get his point across. As every doctor and nurse calls him now, he's a miracle baby.

When I found the pictures again last night, it didn't bring back feelings of sorrow or fear, as some may expect, but memories of how much the Gods have blessed my family, of the amazing journey I have had with my soulmate Anastasia, and how both have changed my life forever in the best ways. 

It also reminded me that the Gods are forever and we can get through anything, and do anything, when they are with us. Even when you find yourself in a situation that seems hopeless and the most horrific, don't surrender yet. Stand up, be brave, and keep going, because even the most dismal circumstance can turn around in the end. 

The Gods can intervene and alter anything, no matter what it is. Just when you think you've lost and that the world is going to collapse, it may not end up being as bad as you expect. Wait until the final cards are laid down. Miracles still come from Olympos.

In the Goodness of the Gods,

Chris Aldridge.

Life Lesson From A 9 Year Old

My son has a very special story, as many know. But his premature birth isn't really the topic of this discussion as much as his attitude about his life and circumstances. Most people are aware that he was born severely premature with the worst chances of survival and overcame it all; there's no need, at this point, to recount that. What's equally astounding is my son's view on life and how he decides to live each day, and I think the Gods, in part, gave him to us so that he could be an inspiration to the world. 

Many of us complain about more than we should from day to day. We don't like the weather, our jobs, our home life, whatever it may be. We might even let the traffic lights or the jerk tailgating us send our mind and emotions into rage and frustration. The First World, especially, has no lack of complainers. But people like my son, I think, are unique for two reasons. One, if anyone has a legitimate reason to be angry and sad, it's him. Life did not give him an easy start. He has lifelong problems and has been through painful surgery in the past. He also, for the most part, can't talk physically (although he has found other ways of communication), and at this point, we don't know if he'll ever have the typical life that normal people do. Of course, that's not to say he isn't a very smart boy, he is. But he is still special needs.

However, for two, my son is unique because he doesn't complain about it. He doesn't let anything slow him down. He doesn't care that he was born premature or that he has issues. In fact, on the surface, it appears as if he has no problems at all. He still runs in the open, laughs joyously at the sunlight, plays with his toys, and generally enjoys his life every day. He doesn't even demand anything from others except the food and drink he needs. All he wants is the energy to keep living. You won't find my son sitting his room lamenting and pouting over the cards life has dealt him, no. He finds the good wherever it is. He's the freest and happiest person I myself have ever known.

We should all be more like my son, who is brave enough to not let his circumstances define him. Who takes this life every day and makes it a happy one without letting anything stand in the way of that happiness, no matter how big or troublesome. He just loves life, and delights in all the wonderful things around him. Most importantly, he does this by choice. He could decide to not be joyful very easily, but I think that somewhere inside him, he knows life wasn't meant to be dismal.

In the Goodness of the Gods,

Chris Aldridge.