The Life and Death of Baby X: A Bedtime Story

The following is a true account. It is based on what I saw, what I know and what I can only imagine.

Deep in the ferny mountains of Uganda there existed a rare creature, a feral woman that was born without a heart. Her empty cage of ribs held to a hollow space that throbbed with infinite vacancy. And when she would open her mouth to speak an embarrassing whistle was produced instead of words, exposing her handicap. You see, where her heart should have been there were only ventricles that were attached to a vat of peanut butter and jelly. Many would consider that a fine substitute, but the brutish woman hated sandwiches as she hated herself and everyone around her.

When she discovered her belly was expanding outward more and more, she hated that too. I will not go into much detail on who the father was or how this all came to be. I will just say that the father was either the farmer that lived around the corner from her or it was Larry Birkhead, but his people aren't returning any calls to confirm. Anyway, baby X thrived off the small amount of peanut butter and jelly inside of that cave, but it was not enough. The mother's emptiness echoed in the womb. Baby X knew if there was love in the world it would not ever be found with her. Thus, the baby pushed and kicked, begging to be unleashed to begin its search for love. And released it was, but several months too early.

Baby X was a girl, a very tiny girl. She was born in the back bathroom of Petrol station. The mother’s stifled whimpers were unnoticeable to those pumping their gas. For a moment when the mother picked up the newborn, she paused and quizzically stared at the baby like one would at a Sudoku puzzle. The world held its’ breath, maybe a miracle would happen and an inkling of maternal affection would spark. But that moment passed, and with it a sigh as the mother dropped the child down the latrine hole. Down, down, down baby X fell. She landed with a small and distant splash, signalling the deed was done. The perpetrator left the restroom hurriedly. Surely, you ask, the mother threw a remorseful glance over her shoulder? She did look back when crossing the street, but only sending a silent wish that baby X had landed bottom up.

She didn't get that wish. There at the base of that dank dark well- baby X survived. Her journey should have ended there in the deep tar pit where Van Gogh swirls of slime and sludge lapped at her tiny ankles. But floating in the fecal abyss, that slow-moving vortex, she held on. How or why?- that is beyond any imagination I could ever write from. When the narrow light from above was eclipsed by the moon of another she let out a weak warble, a cry for humanity to show some pity, redeem itself. Her call was answered and she was elevated to the light. Up, up, up she was raised out of the bowels of that hell.

But her hell on earth was not yet over. Her memories of that time were a shuffle and scramble of hot hands on her. Some were thick cushiony palms with hairy fingers, others were long and flat with bony knuckles. And as she was passed from one set to the next, she felt an urgency that would sweat out of the pores of her clutching cradle. These hands were afraid of her fragility. When the merry go round finally stopped, baby X found herself in a hospital room bed. She lay there day in and day out, which created a constellation of painful bed sores.

A few weeks later her body gave in, but her spirit refused. Even a blood transfusion was not enough to make her well. For every minute of every hour for several days a little droplet of blood was injected.

But as her breath grew fainter, the doctors would slowly exit the room one by one, never returning. And one last nurse who had taken a particular liking to the child came over and put a dab of chocolate on the baby’s tiny pursed lips. The nurse thought no harm in it, seeing as the child was on the way out might as well give it one taste of life's pleasures. The child had surely seen it's share of life's pain. The small sampling on the baby's petals melted to her palette. It sent a euphoric wave through her body, from her ears to her toes. The blissful shiver, barely noticeable, was an extended gesture of her gratitude for that parting gift. She had found kindness and was thankful. Shortly after, the wide African sky above smiled and swooped down sucking the child in like sweet lemonade. She let herself go with it, quietly and sweetly.

Michelle.

Her caregivers imparted her with a name. Michelle. It was a name quickly given and almost quickly forgotten. At the funeral, the pastor cleared his throat to begin his sermon, "We are gathered here to give a proper burial to...to...". Her name had slipped right out his head through his left ear and was making its way down the side of his dirtied button-down shirt. His eyes frantically searched his notes in hand. Someone saved him by whispering the answer. He finished the short speech directing it at a small group of gatherers that consisted mostly of paid diggers. They hung out by her open grave like a pack of bored porch dogs. Their hands flopped over the top of shovel handles. Their eyes shifting, ticking, glancing at their watches and wondering how long this will take before they can get to the nearest pub and catch the second half of the Arsenal vs. Manchester game. No tears were shed there. Although, the surrounding banana trees wept; their palm leaves swayed, sprinkling a patchwork of light on the ground. From her place in the high mosaic, baby X peered down and watched as her humble box lowered into the earth, then she turned back around and continued to stuff her face with finger sandwiches. She had a palmetto cheese in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly one in the other. The End.

You know that age-old riddle, "If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, then does it make a sound?" You can also ask, does a person really exist if they never have a name and no one ever knows them? I like to believe that every child has a purpose. I don’t have children, but if I did I would hug them. Tightly. And in between several "I love you’s”, I would repeat their name. A name can sometimes be the herald of our memory. It is a reminder that we have meaning and that we matter to someone in some way.

I will remember Michelle.