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Birth Defect

Jon Brunette

    Inside the mental hospital, Linda held her baby like it alone mattered to her or to anyone. Looking into black eyes that couldn’t open fully, she lifted the fluffy blanket off the two-year-old head and explained to the psychologist why she had come. Her baby, who stood just below three feet, didn’t look at her as happily or intently as she looked at him. After a few moments to play with the child, touching the nose and lips, she watched through the window as the doctor walked from the lobby into his back office.
    No reaction from her bundle, at least none recognizable, had opened her eyes widely, like it had opened his. With frustration on his face, the mental health professional stood behind Linda and bowed. He had to tell the mother that the baby looked healthy, and would be able to think and behave properly. Otherwise, Linda would panic, in her mind and inside the entire mental hospital. And yet, he couldn’t.
    After the doctor listened to the problem, he told news to Linda that pumped her blood and quickened her breath. He said, “I apologize, like this entire facility apologizes. We understand your pain; I realize your baby suffers, too, and he will suffer throughout his life.” He said, “I must confess that your toddler suffers from massive amounts of brain trauma. Like you, I understand that my apology does little to help the situation.” He looked at the metal clipboard in his thick hands, shook his head, and looked back at Linda. “We have very little information, but I would list it as a type of mental retardation. We cannot tell the level yet, but we will when the baby returns and we begin additional tests. You should make other appointments, with multiple doctors. We will check him thoroughly, and share those records professionally.”
    He said, “Naturally, we will find personnel that will allow you to live with his condition. Understandably, you feel upset, like anyone would. We will help in any manner that you require.” With a hand on her shoulder, he said, “You should never feel alone. Like my colleagues, I will work tirelessly until you don’t.”
    Shaking her lips, Linda said, “How did it happen?” She tried to compose her body but she just couldn’t. “What hurt my baby so badly?”
    Cocking his head, the doctor inquired, “Did you fall while pregnant?” Linda looked at the floor. “Or, did you harm the baby in the fetal state? It will help in the recovery process for baby”—he paused—“and it will help you. It will never heal fully; you shouldn’t expect it to heal completely.” He said, “We will help you to live with it somewhat.” Linda didn’t speak. Instead, she hugged her child like the small bundle would break if she didn’t.
    With a lifted eyebrow, the man said, “The birth didn’t harm him in any manner, I presume? They could prove it in court, I hope? Otherwise, you should hire an attorney, just as a precaution. Everyone in your medical hospital will hope that you won’t blame the birth, but I don’t work in that hospital. I took no part in what brought your baby into this world. I would trust the people in your hospital, but I admit that mistakes do happen occasionally.” Looking Linda squarely in the eyes, he said, “Never blame yourself for this abnormality.” Linda bowed her head silently in reply.
    When Linda welcomed her first child into her house, she understood immediately that he had suffered a brutal day at school. She listened carefully as he told her through bloody lips that he wanted to learn karate. Without hesitation, Linda agreed; she understood that boys fight and they should learn to defend themselves. It took just a few lessons before he learned to punch properly. Without friends, Linda told him that he should hit someone who wouldn’t fight back, just to practice. “Anyone in school would pulverize me,” he said. Looking at the pillow below the breasts of his mother, he appeared to find answers that unnerved Linda. “Please,” he said, “just a small blow to the middle, like the instructor teaches. It won’t hurt you, but it will keep everyone back.” He said, “They won’t hurt me as badly if I study karate.”
    Linda looked into his wet and shiny eyes, and told him to hit softly. “After all, I have been impregnated.” She said, “You do want to love the baby brother, or sister, in my belly.” He punched her softly, at first, but it still hurt. It bulged impressively, her impregnated middle, with redness and soreness. Like a brick had bounced off her belly, the fist brought bile into her windpipe. Still, she smiled as well as possible; after all, her boy wouldn’t come home with bloody lips and a broken nose anymore.
    The psychologist said, “We believe the part of the brain that controls motor skills suffered incredibly.” He said, “Your baby looks lazy in the eyes, and he fails to respond physically. When he talks, he suffers; he especially will when he matures. He will probably talk slowly for the rest of his life.” The mental health doctor said, “Although I shouldn’t offer advice about his body, I will tell you that he shouldn’t walk until he finds skilled instructors. They should teach him to walk properly.” The doctor said, “He may need professional help to perform simple tasks throughout his life.” He shook his head. “His brain responded poorly to many vital tests. When I first looked at his face, it struck me; why didn’t this child behave normally?”
    Again, Linda shook her head. The psychologist said, “Do you know of any type of fetal trauma that I don’t?” He said, “In this health facility, we have never found anyone at this level of retardation before.” He added, “I would have medical professionals test him, as well. Obviously, his body behaves as poorly as his brain.”
    On their anniversary, Linda looked at her husband. Glowing like a massive candle, he offered a tumbler filled with champagne. She bowed her head. Still, he said, “On this date, we always have liquor, this particular liquor, to celebrate.” He touched her belly, which didn’t bulge, and maybe wouldn’t. “Probably, the baby would enjoy the treat. With all your friends here, you need to sip, just a little, but you need to sip champagne.” With friends yelling her name like a rally at a football game, she relented, and drank hungrily.
    The doctor rubbed his bushy beard. He said, “Without help from you, I must assume that it just happened naturally; your baby just”—he shrugged—“didn’t grow properly. Any help would fight the battle, little by little. It will never heal fully, and the attempt to heal the condition will cause frustration for him and his family.” Finally, the psychologist said, “Would you like to tell me what trauma you suffered while impregnated?” While he patted the small, fluffy head of the two-year-old baby, he said, “Somebody hurt this kid badly.”
    Tearfully, Linda held her child tightly, like she had held her first baby more than nine years before. She said, “No trauma happened to my toddler.” She shook her head forcefully. “I would never hurt my children.” She closed her eyes, and said, “It appalls me whenever someone harms a baby. I will not tolerate it. I would never cause a child to suffer.” She fought her conscience until she believed it completely.

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