He arrived shocked and squalling. The walls that had soothed him in utero had disappeared, and Sam let us know immediately that this didn’t please him. He didn’t appreciate the noise, the manhandling or the pressure he’d needed to exert to make his entry. And the messy mucus was annoying.
More walls soon found him. His new ones were the clear plastic sides of the incubator in the hospital’s Special Care Unit. Though determined to stay with us, this tiny baby couldn’t survive on his own. He gave his best to tolerate the loud machines clicking away, too many bodies surrounding him and the light accosting him. His response was to grasp his pacifier with both hands and insert it into his mouth, signaling us that he was going to hold on tightly.
And he did, but his journey was arduous. We had a hard time acknowledging that Sam was in danger of not making it, but that reality lived with us every day of the long three-week wait for Sam’s release from the Special Care Unit. We held his hand as much as the cords and monitors allowed. Translucent bags strung with tubes hung on poles while dripping healing medications to our sweet patient’s body. The screen monitor tracked every vital heartbeat, and the bedside tray overflowed with tape, gauze and packets of cleansing swabs.
After weeks of uncertainty, the hospital doors finally swung open to discharge Sam, ready to show the world how he could conquer fragility. He was two pounds stronger, but judging from all the spitting up, this pint-sized body was working hard to digest. That tough work triggered constant crying for almost three months straight.
His parents found his reflux undaunting and cocooned him in their love. Much as I might claim a little credit for getting through the tough days, it was his parents who were up with the vulnerable little body day and night. They are the heroes who were trying to hold down jobs on top of that.
#
Sam's unexpected entrance into the world defied the odds. His mother, my daughter-in-law who was in her late 40s, concluded that she couldn't conceive. Sam convinced her that she could, and arrived almost five weeks early to make his point.
When he climbed the mountain of turning six weeks old, this little fighter had tapered his bellowing enough that his parents brought him to our house for his first dinner out. He was right beside us as we clinked silverware, praised the chef for the aromatic curried soup and engaged vociferously over the state of the nation. He endured the big folks’ noise and didn’t make a peep until he objected to going home. He was finding his voice.
Later that voice found its focus. At age two, his Grampy and I took Sam to a bakery. I offered him a bite of my bun, and he responded with, "It's delicious."
I stated the obvious, saying, "You're delicious."
He confirmed that conclusion with a gleeful, "I'm a delicious boy." And he was becoming just that. He was winning his battle to grow, having recently measured at 70% of normal.
When he was three, Sam peeked around corners when he entered a room, confident that all would show delight in seeing him. He was as right, and he knew it except for the time when we were having dinner together one night. The discussion was lively, but it overlooked him. Finally, he piped up, “Could we stop the conversation?” We did and paid him the attention he was due.
A little later, we, his grandparents, took Sam for a walk and stopped to visit with a friend. He tolerated this for a while, but soon popped up with, “This is Sam.” Of course we should have introduced him. Who’s out there to train grandparents? Maybe kids.
Observing his Grampy Bob’s wrinkles, four year-old Sam declared that his grampy was an old man, and that he, Sam, was a new boy. That proved to be prophetic, as Bob died shortly afterward. Sam then asked me if I was going to burn him, and then throw the ashes over the water. I told him that was, indeed, going to happen. He pondered that answer for its acceptability and then followed with this query, “Are you going to get another one?”
By age six, Sam reached normal height and weight for his age, and the fears around his health were disappearing. He was growing and thriving--playing sports, enjoying piano lessons and devouring Harry Potter. He was starting to ski, loved to read and had a bevy of friends.
When he turned 13, I took this normal, healthy boy to Paris. Offering a Parisian holiday to a teen could be a slippery slope to boredom or a petri dish where he will flourish. For Sam this trip served as the perfect vessel for his curious mind.
We made a no-hamburgers pact and instead dove into the blissful world of French pastries, savoring a different confection each day. We took the Metro to view Paris from atop as many structures as possible: Sacré–Coeur Church, Montmartre, Montparnasse Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. Of course we climbed to the top of the La Tour Eiffel where I was the one holding tightly to him in those excursions.
When it was time to cut loose, we made chocolate at Paris’s Chocolate Story and followed that with a virtual reality adventure at Fly View, offering a thrilling aerial tour of Paris and beyond. He soaked it up and gave me the gift of seeing Paris through fresh eyes.
This Parisian adventure created a permanent bond between us. Afterward, we had dinner almost monthly and I made it to his drama and musical performances. That was a feat. There were many because he was becoming an accomplished pianist. We needed that strong relationship for what was to come.
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Though I consider Sam my late-life gift, I’m not the grandmother by birth. Sam grew up with four sets of adoring grandparents because his reconfigured family included grandparents who had remarried. My journey with Sam began at mid-life when I married his grandfather. My three children grew to accept this man, and they eventually gave us grandchildren who cherished him.
Sam’s life changed on a dime when, one after another in a very short timeframe, Sam lost six grandparents. He struggled to accept the losses, and he brought his grieving into the open so that we could both heal. We talked often about what each grandparent had brought into his life. We cried together, and we laughed at some of the memories. He’s a grounded young man who has handled the profound loss of his grandparents with remarkable strength.
His real grandmother and I did our best to keep the remaining family ties strong. And then came another blow. She became terminally ill.
Because she suffered from kidney disease, his maternal grandmother’s care needed intervention. The family bought medical equipment, took the training so they could administer life-saving dialysis and built a cottage for her in their backyard.
For several years the family helped his grandmother with her dialysis. After multiple hospital stays, home care became insufficient, so the family faced the heart-wrenching decision to discontinue her care. Sam found that decision shattering but showed the depth of his care by bringing flowers daily. Her room smelled like a florist shop. Sam’s fading grandmother, understanding that her time had come, withdrew into herself except when Sam visited. She peacefully passed away, holding his hand.
I took my lanky 15 year-old grandson out to dinner a few days later, and we had our usual engaging conversation. He shared his excellent artwork, we discussed his friends, and I gently probed his feelings about losing his grandmother. That’s where the conversation reached an impasse. He wasn’t as open as he had been when he lost grandparents at a younger age, but time will reveal those emotions.
I racked my brain to try to reach him this time, but it was his turn to hold tightly. I have no idea how the internal conflicts and challenges he faces as a teen are gripping him. Young men do have the right to separate from the older generation, and he may have wanted to keep his own counsel. I will be patient with his return to disclosures. Maintaining our bond is my goal. Those revelations were there before and will return someday. This guy who found his words early in life will soon find more to express his emotions.
Sam had his share of challenges as he grew older. He wasn’t a natural athlete except for skiing, but that accomplishment lent him the confidence he needed to carry his tall body with assurance. His tight group of friends focused video games rather than proving they were cool, and that was OK too because they were cool to each other. His inquisitive mind carried him to academic achievements, and that was where he staked his claim.
Sam now towers over me and is playing wind instruments in addition to the piano. He expects to get good grades, and he doesn’t disappoint himself. He’s taught me to enjoy music, even jazz that I didn’t appreciate previously. He has moments of openness, and when he does, that brings out the same in me. His values of kindness, joyfulness and taking care of others are strong. The resilience with which Sam handles his many losses is the stepping-off place to his adaptability and growth.
It strikes me that I, the proxy grandmother, am the last one standing. This add-on grandmother is now the enduring one. Sam acknowledges that and wraps me into his life where our relationship transforms me beyond the role of being supportive to that of being supported.
How grateful I am that I enfolded this grandchild into my pack of seven grandchildren. I didn’t need one more grandchild, but that’s because I didn’t know I needed Sam. This once-frail baby has grown into a spirited young man who embodies the hope we have for the next generation. I hold onto this gift as tightly as he once clung to his pacifier as a newborn.
About the author
Marcia McGreevy Lewis (she/her) lives in Seattle and is a retired feature writer for a Washington newspaper. She writes for literary journals, magazines, travel sites and books.
Reach her on Facebook and Instagram: marcialewis25,
Twitter: @McGreevyLewis and
Linkedin: marcia-lewis. Clips: https.//www.gravatar.com/profile/about Display name: mmcgreevylewis Choose: Show more
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