Mike is 22

Saturday, March 25, 2006

How He Got Here

I captured some of the moments of his first few days in this world in my journal. Here are some of those reflections from long ago. And a few years later.

Sat., March 24, 1984
I am at school in my office and Joan phones me: "I am bleeding." We took Matt, Mary, and Justin to a friend's house and went to the hospital. They checked her out. They sent her home. Something's up. We watched BGSU's hockey team win the national championship in four overtimes-with two of my students playing.

Sun., March 25, 1984
Joan stayed home from church, but me and the kids went on. I was to preach. But Joan called and said, I'd better come home and take her to the hospital. Anita Critz and Brenda Green would look after the kids and we rushed on.

They checked Joan in and called Dr. Householder. He is not our doctor. Our doctor, Dr. Wojo, is in Minneapolis with the BGSU hockey team, since he is the team doctor and they just won the NCAA championship. The doctor who is going to deliver our baby is the only doctor in town who does abortions. God's irony. Right away, Michael Ian seems to be in trouble. "It's wrapped around his throat," the doctor says cryptically. It's the umbilical cord, the source of life, but also the source of peril. I watched it unfold on the fetal monitor-it's a fuzzy picture, but it's clear that something's not right.

Dr. Householder says he bets Joan will be in labor till midnight, even though he broke her water. She says, "No, I am in transition. . ." He's not paying enough attention. The nurses are shuffling around and bring in two forms-one for a Caesarian delivery, one for an appendectomy, in case they need to bring Michael out quickly, and need to remove Joan's appendix. Things are speeding up. I am praying, silently.

Joan was hooked up to an I-V and wheeled quickly into a delivery room and I follow in my hospital gown all scrubbed up. The doctor had to be called back in. Joan was in transition. He wasn't paying attention. But he came back, chastened. "The cord's definitely around his neck. We have to get him out quickly."

Just then, Joan pushing the right amount, not too much, not too fast. A moment (seconds?) later, Michael has popped out, head first, and the doctor has caught him and moved the cord so he could breathe. Michael's crying. Tears come to my eyes. He's ok, he's ok. The nurse takes him from the doctor and immediately weighs him: 6 lbs. 15 oz. She washes the blood off of him.

I hold him first. Joan carried him 9 months, spending some time in the hospital early on, weak and starving since she couldn't keep food down, and we feared we'd lost him. But I held him first. Joan was wheeled to the recovery room. Michael followed moments later.

I tracked down Grandma and Grandpa. (They came down the next day.) I was supposed to go to New York, to speak at an academic conference, but I cancelled. It was to be a paper about tagmemics and Kenneth Pike.

That afternoon, I got to a phone and called the kids. I talk to Matthew first, "He's here! He's Michael!" The boys were excited and started screaming, "We won! We won!" hurting Mary's feelings, who was hoping for a sister.

We heard we got the house. 1040 Village. Lots going on. I have a job offer in Akron. Matthew seems to like Michael the most.

Jan. 1, 1986
What Michael Is Saying:
Mar-ee
Pink-a-naw (peek-a-boo); he says it way up in his nose
Night
Bye
Daddy
Mommy
Do-do (grandma).

July 27, 1986
More sayings:
Buff-a-wo (buffalo)
Baff-room (bathroom)
Tender sight: Michael singing along to an Amy Grant tape in Mary's room thinking no one is around.

Michael is 22.

These journal entries are from long ago, when I was a with-you-constantly Dad, taking myself too seriously, and yelling too much, and forgetting how quickly everyone would grow up. And now Mike is 22. 22. And my Dad days are from a distance, in passing, now and then. There is one day I especially wish I could take back. It's in Kenya and Mike has brought home his amazing test scores from Rosslyn. The kids at school are calling him a genius. And the scores are terrific. But I call attention to one of them, and, in one, simple, phrase spoil the whole thing, "What happened here?" What happened here? A stupid dad has drained the joy out of a joyful report. I have mourned it ever since.

I am so glad that I can say, my Father in heaven, never looks at my test report, shaking his head, and saying, "What happened here?" Thanks, Mike, for forgiving me. But more than that, thanks for loving me and sharing your incredible talents and gifts with the world, and with me.

I am the most blessed dad in the world. I carry you in my heart, and I listen to your songs that keep my heart beating, and my joy sustained. See you at Howard's, my heart beating faster and faster, and tears a flowing...
xoxoxooxo