In a few weeks my oldest son starts middle school, a milestone that my wife and I never thought we would see. Yet, an occasion we will celebrate quietly as parents of a premature child who doctors weren’t sure would make it.
Though he was born two months early and with multiple medical problems, Henry has never been a burden or even hard to handle. Sure, his circumstances didn’t make life easy, but he never exaggerated any aspect it. Instead, Henry smiles often—showing his crooked teeth like jagged rocks that we will one day have to straighten with braces—letting us know he was happy and hopeful. He asks more questions than anyone I have ever known, even some that I cannot answer, because he is curious. The surgical scars across his chest and side are a constant reminder of the three months he spent in a hospital fighting to stay alive, and he wears them with honor, as medals from a great war with the universe.
His tiny frame (due to the growth hormone deficiency) and the fragile neck (congenital scoliosis with an extra piece of vertebrae) that cocks to the right like he’s pondering a question have sometimes made him cry. Like the time he couldn’t play in the bouncy house (doctor’s orders) with his 1st grade school mates because he might snap his neck. Tears quietly streamed down his face until the teacher brought out a tricycle she’d brought just for him. The smile returned. Gym class was sometimes a struggle because he didn’t have the size or strength to compete with the other children, yet he never quit. With that smile of his, he’s always trying.
I’ve always tried to be a good father, but I’m not perfect. Sometimes I yell at or spank my children (I have three), but I love them. I can’t explain how much. Just know that I do and I know my place as a father is to prepare my children for this harsh world that has only become tougher since I was a child. Because of that we have rarely coddled Henry and his issues. We treated him like any other boy, but one with a challenge to fight harder than his friends, work a little longer to complete what others can do more easily. That way of parenting a child with special needs is not easy, nor does it come with a manual. I’ve sometimes been too lenient or too tough; I’ve sometimes been frustrated and also overjoyed with this boy I was scared to lose nearly 12 years ago.
Middle school is a milestone, not only because he has made it past so many obstacles, so much pain and turmoil, but because it marks the point at which I do begin to lose my son—to manhood. Henry is growing more and more every day. His body, his mind, his spirit are all moving in a direction where he will no longer need his parents help. (He even gives himself the daily growth hormone shots now.) It is only a matter of time before he moves on into the world and starts a family of his own.
I’ve come to know a sensitive young boy, who enjoys giving hugs to everyone, who tears up at sad movies and feels every moment like it were electricity instead of blood flowing through his fragile body. He has come so far since the days in the hospital that I have grown complacent in that fact that he is here, that he lived, but I recognize that now is the time to know him better. I’m caught up in the excitement of his joining the Cross Country team. I was once a runner and did pretty well, but I see greatness in him. He will outrun my accomplishments, and I will cheer the entire way, knowing that is my son, the love of mine and my wife’s life.
It was not long ago that I participated in a hike with him during a Scouting trip. It was five miles and not easy for a chubby guy like me because it was uphill. I was worried about Henry and his small frame, carrying the oversized backpack, but with his friends by his side he was caught up in the enjoyment of the journey. He marched forward, leaving me behind just a bit, but when he stopped to wait on me—a father trudging along to keep up with his young son because I didn’t want to lose him—I thought, “Maybe I won’t lose him after all. Maybe I’ll just get to see him take on the trials of life with a flare and intensity I never knew possible.”
And I’ll be there to cheer the entire way.
This was originally posted on The Good Men Project.
Author: Josh Magill is a writer, cloaked as a sales manager. His essays and reviews have appeared in the Chicago Sun-Times, Dallas Morning News, Beyondthemargins.com, The Review Review and The Good Men Project. Magill's short story, The Fisherman and Maddie, was featured in the 2013 spring edition of The First Line and his debut collection of short stories and essays, A Day to Remember, was published in May 2014. He is the editor of his own website, The Magill Review.
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