Sam's Purpose
佚名 / Anonymous
For years now， I have held the hands of the dying. “How can you bear it？” people ask me. “Hospice nursing must be so difficult. How can you stand to be around so much suffering？” Those people don’t understand that if you have the courage to look beyond suffering， you encounter triumph. I know this for a fact. Sam taught me.
An unlikely teacher， this infant of mine. Then one of the pediatricians said I couldn’t take him home from the hospital after his birth. Disappointment had struck me then， as a new twenty-year-old mother， but fear lodged in me when the doctor mentioned serious problems and the need for more tests. Shock and disbelief gripped me when he predicted Sam would not improve. When I found a small voice to ask what we could do now， he seemed almost irritated at my lack of comprehension. As if to settle the matter once and for all， he blurted， “Your baby is severely retarded. He will probably never roll over， never sit， never crawl， never walk or talk.” Then， returning to an attempt at advising with compassion， he said， “You’re young and healthy. You can have more children. You should begin to think of institutional placement for him.” I stopped listening， turned， and walked a few feet toward my hospital bed. I pulled the curtain between me and the world and began to cry as quietly as I could. I looked at the waiting baby layette beside me and began to sob harder.
For the first week I returned every day to stand and stare silently through the nursery window， longing to hold and comfort that baby and myself. Afterward I left and cried for hours more. I woke up every night ready to shake off the nightmare， only to feel the more helpless facing the reality. But by the beginning of the second week， I began to feel myself steeling. I stopped crying and did not cry about anything for a very long time. Sam needed me.
My little boy， stricken with cerebral palsy and severe sight and hearing impairments， came home to me after one month. Sam’s life has not passed easily. Crayons never seemed a natural fit in his hand. The sound of the ice cream truck never reached his ears to cheer him on a summer day. No one ever chose him to play on the kickball teams hastily thrown together in the street by the neighborhood kids. Yet he has triumphed over every one of the predictions， the imposed limitations dropped upon him by a medical community lacking faith in the spirit of one small boy. With countless hours of therapy sessions， love， encouragement—and mostly his own unbelievable motivation—he learned to speak， read， write， and at age nine walk on his own. And interestingly， as Sam learned to walk， I discovered my independence. As he learned to speak， I too found my voice. The first time he made a joke and a stranger laughed heartily， I discovered the unblemished joy of a life—any life—well lived.