*Part Three*

For three long months, either Louisiana or myself would sit at Johnny's hospital bedside, stroking his soft, pale hair, kissing his apple cheeks, or holding him (and his tubes) in our arms, praying desperately, hoping that he would wake up from his coma, but Johnny didn't. It was as though our baby boy was on the verge of dying; it really upset us.

Finally came the long, awaited, anticipated day when Johnny began exhibiting signs that he was emerging from his lengthy coma. His vital signs were becoming more normalized, he would move or turn his head when doctors shone bright lights into his eyes or tested his reflexes or pain responses. He'd also open his eyes if cmmanded. It was a huge answer to prayer; it appeared that our little-boy-lost was slowly coming back to us.

The joy was short-lived, however: Johnny had signs of vision and hearing deficits; he also had signs of brain damage. The thought of our once-happy baby boy being handicapped in some way or another was earth-shattering:  it was one of the worst things we could ever experience as his parents.  Johnny's vision and hearing had been damaged by the high fever he had when he first took sick; he started having frightening convulsions that violently shook his entire body. It was soon discovered by an MRI examination that Johnny had "lesions" on his brain; these "lesions" probably developed when he had the fever; these were probably responsible for the seizures. In any event, the news wasn't good: our son would, more than likely, be severely disabled.

For several more months, Johnny underwent painful physical and occupational therapy, relearning to use his remaining senses, relearning to use weakened muscles. He went through speech therapy, relearning how to talk again, and more rigorous testing, to see how damaging the meningitis had been to his young system. Much to our dismay, he was found to be profoundly deaf, hearing only the loudest of sounds (he would have to wear  hearing-aids); his vision was so bad he could only make out the brightest of light or the brightest of colors: everything else to him was nothing more than blurry, unfamiliar shapes.

Johnny's personality was also affected: he was given to rages of uncontrollable temper; he seemed highly frightened of strangers. He screamed or cried continually; gettting him bathed/fed/dressed/changed was an ordeal. It was as though Johnny'd turned feral-natured overnight: we were frightened to the core of our beings.

We were worried for the safety of our other child, let alone, our safety. Johnny would probably have to be placed in  an institution: it was getting harder and harder to handle him.

*Part Four/Conclusion*

Just when we were about to give up all hope, we found a doctor who specialized in working with feral- or ausistic-natured children; he helped us in our time of need. He taught us what to do if Johnny was overstimulated; he taught us what to do in order to quell undesirable behavior. It was tough, but eventually, Johnny started coming back, and he slowly began recognizing us as his family again. We were no longer the "big, scary monsters" he envisioned us to be: we were his mommy and daddy, and the little girl that lived with us was his sister, Ronee'.

Gradually, Johnny's fears lessened, and he learned to love again. It was all we could have ever hoped to ask for. We were able to take him with us into public again; people no longer stared or made comments regarding his behavior. He was throwing less in the way of temper tantrums and he was again a shy, quiet boy who hid behind us whenever people encountered him.

By this time, Johnny's muscular dystrophy had worsened: he was using tiny forearm crutches for walking (or a wheelchair if in public): his muscles were getting weaker. It was a heavy cross to bear, but compared to where he had been previously, it was nothing short of a miracle that he was talking or walking again. He may have been handicapped, but he was a gift to us, and to have that gift returned to us was incredibly gratifying.

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Now Johnny is fourteen years old, and he continues to inspire and amaze. He wasn't expected to live beyond the age of five: now here he is, still surprising his doctors and all who meet him in person, with his courageous spirit and his continuing will to live. He mainly uses a wheelchair now, and his breathing is starting to be affected; but he smiles and lives life to the fullest.

He loves everything that life has to offer, and he would rather be happy or glad about something than moaning about his condition or the fact that he is going to die sooner than most people.

*************************The End.*****************************