Reflections on Social Reform While My Only Son Is In Surgery

While most of the city is waking up, the doctor is putting my son to sleep.  He’s six years old and doesn’t know what is happening to him.  He only trusts his mom and dad when they say, ‘things will be okay,’ and then the doctor puts a mask over his little face and off to sleep he goes.  The doctor looks at me and says, “You and your family can wait in those chairs over there; we’ll be finished before you know it.”  I want to sit this man down and tell him that this is my only son.  This is my oldest child.  This is the little boy I care most about in the whole world, so don’t tell me to calm down, take it easy, or have patience.  Instead, tell me you know what you’re doing and you have done this before and you’re prepared for any and all emergencies.

When I met with the doctors and nurses, they asked me what I did for a living.  I responded by saying I work with an organization called Food for the Hungry.  “That sounds very rewarding,” they said.  I nodded.  My mind then went to the home visits I participated in last summer in rural Africa, talking with parents who have their children sponsored by thoughtful families from foreign lands, including the United States.  I remember the tour of the church building with dirt floors, wooden benches serving as pews, and the clinic built by the funds collected by a church in Denver, Colorado.  The village loves that clinic, but I don’t think that clinic would have been prepared for my son.  I stood inside that clinic and looked at the glowing faces of so many of the villagers who were beaming with excitement and pride.  They were truly grateful to have at least one qualified doctor or nurse within at least an hour’s walk or bicycle ride.

Now, here I sit several thousand miles from that amazing little clinic in East Africa, in a Phoenix area surgery center at seven in the morning with my little boy knocked out by ‘magic gas,’ or so says the kind nurse who seems way too awake and far too happy to be normal.  We filled out lots of papers this morning, many of them consent forms for the ‘magic gas;’ other forms were simply for insurance companies.  I think then of the current health care debate raging and wonder how many other parents have fewer papers to fill out because there is no insurance or if they choose not to come to the surgery center at all because they have no money. Would their little boys and girls be okay?  Does everyone understand that these little boys and girls didn’t ask to be born into a faulty health care system? The vast majority of children simply want to know if the adults are telling the truth and if indeed, everything will turn out okay. Our system, though, is built on the premise that adults will not only keep their word, but will actually put their money where their mouth is. I wonder what the health care system would be like if it were built by kids? 

They wheeled my son out into the recovery area and while I couldn’t see him, I could hear him wheezing and coughing.  He was trying to wake up, he was disoriented, and he was struggling to catch his breath.  I stood up and the nurse saw me.  She said, “you can see him in a few minutes.”  I said nothing out loud. Inside, though, I screamed as loud as I could, “don’t tell me to sit down, I can hear my son struggling.” And then, I wonder if I am also tuned in to the other boys and girls who are crying—who are struggling in this country and in other countries.  As the adults debate and fine-tune laws, budgets, and processes, I wonder, can they hear the children crying in the distance?  Can they hear them catching their breath?  Children aren’t a part of any political party nor are they able to put a single person in to office.  But, that doesn’t mean their voices don’t count.  Please, tell me that we don’t live in a world where only the adult voices count.

My son struggled to open his eyes and huge tears dripped out of his eyes.  The IV was stuck in his right arm and other tubes were hooked up for his pulse and heart rate.  Three total strangers in scrubs were working on him and around him.  They were trying to get him to drink some fluids to soothe his dried out throat.  Finally, he calmed down after a half hour of coughing, wheezing, gagging, and trying to catch his breath.  My wife sat next to his bed rubbing his head. I leaned over and told him, ‘I love you.’  He mumbled ‘I know daddy, I love you too.’

I stopped and was struck with my son’s words.  He knows I love him!  He knows it. On one of his worse days, he knows.  I take the seat on the other side of the bed and look at him.  On the other side of the bed are his mother and his sister.  He knows they love him too.  And my son knowing that he is loved is our primary plan for social reform.  One child at a time who knows they are loved on their worse day—that’s our plan for social reform.  I don’t know what your plan is to fix the health care system or to care for those in Africa, I just hope it involves listening to children and loving them well.  We expect children to listen to us, it’s probably time we return the favor.