Sometimes the lesson in life come from such simple things as a toy airplaine.
Broken Wings
By Jayne Bullock
On one of those glorious mornings in early May, when bright sunshine invites you to open doors and let warmth float through the house, Marianne surveyed the breakfast table. It was littered with remnants of toast crumbs, bowls of half-eaten cereal, milk, juice puddles and wrinkled paper napkins thrown half in the bowls and half hanging over the edge. The twins, Amy and Amanda, had gulped down their breakfast before rushing off to a track meet at their junior high. Dan, her oldest was away at school – for a change he hadn’t brought home his laundry and dumped it off for her to do while he socialized with his old high school buddies.
“I’m leaving now,” her husband Bill yelled from the hallway. “The bowling tournament is one of those all day affairs, so I’ll see you this evening sometime.”
As the back door slammed shut, Marianne sank back into her chair. Seldom did she get a free moment to herself what with work, the class she was taking towards her master's degree and her volunteer charity work at the hospital. This morning, she decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet —at least for a few minutes. She poured her third cup of coffee, using the last bit of cream and two spoons of sugar. Stirring it vigorously, she took pleasure in the aromatic odor as it steamed up into her nostrils. Slowly she sipped the hot brew, savoring the feeling of warm liquid rolling down her throat.
She felt guilty. I really should be doing something constructive, Marianne thought as she reached for the morning paper, now lying in crinkled folds on the floor by her husband’s chair. Leafing through the pages, she stopped to scan the headlines, catching a word or phrase here and there – just enough visual cues to feel like she was at least abreast of the world and local news. She chuckled at the latest antics of Garfield on the comic page. Her horoscope promised an unexpected visit from a dear relative and told her to keep an eye on her finances.
Glancing at the local news, one article made her smile. The headline read: “Local organization makes a difference for Adam Talbert.” Had it only been six months since she had met Erica and Adam Talbert?
She continued to read aloud: “Adam Talbert and his mother have much to be thankful for these days, thanks to the Hope Community Service Group. The local group donated more than $50,000 toward Adam’s medical expenses as the result of local fund-raising projects. Adam, the five-year-old son of Erica Talbert, has been fighting a battle with congenital heart disease since birth. He had three previous surgeries to repair the heart condition. The final surgery was completed on Adam’s heart two weeks ago and the prognosis for recovery is looking very positive. According to his doctor, he can look forward to a long future.”
Marianne had become good friends with the Talberts, and a warm feeling came over her when she thought of the friendship. Adam was one of the lucky ones, she thought and remembered the first time she had met Erica and Adam…
* * *
The airplane glided through the air and then swiftly fell to the floor. Kerthunk, shwoosh, plop, plop – it landed, splintering and breaking into pieces. Marianne closed the magazine she had been thumbing aimlessly through and leaned over to recover the broken toy.
Shifting back into her seat, she came face to face with the child. He was a thin waif, and looked to be about four-years old. The red-haired, freckled face which should have been alight with laughter was pale and drawn. The child stood in front of Marianne, studying her for a few moments, almost as if he were in a trance, not moving nor changing his expression.
“Its wings are broken,” Marianne said, bringing the child back to the present as she handed him the damaged toy. “Looks like your plane won't be flying anymore.”
“My name is Adam," he said, ignoring the broken plane in Marianne’s hands. “Are you here to see the doctors?”
“Yes,” she answered. “How about you?”
Before he could answer, he was scooped up in the arms of a pony-tailed, blue-jeaned young woman.
“You mustn’t bother people, Adam. Hi, I’m Erica,” she said as an afterthought. “This is my son.”
“I'm going to die,” Adam said matter-of-factly.”
His mother gave me a weak smile.
“Isn’t that why we are all here?” Marianne whispered.
“Mama, my plane is broken,” the child said as his mother took the plane and led him across the room.
“Maybe we can fix its wings somehow,” she told her child.
That was the day Erica Talbert and Marianne both learned their sons might die. It had only been three days, since Marianne had received the phone call. She had just gotten home from work when – Brngggggg.
“Yes, this is Mrs. Nelson,” she had answered. “An accident? Oh my God, where? Not Danny! How serious is it?”
Life had been put on hold that day. Marianne and Bill had rushed to the hospital after making arrangements with Bill’s parents to come and stay with the girls. As they stepped out of the elevator they were greeted with the antiseptic smell, the long monotonous corridors filled with gurneys, art deco prints and the constant paging of doctors. It had all seemed so strange.
"I’m sorry,” the doctor had said. “Your son is in critical condition. He has internal injuries. Right now, I can’t tell you how seriously. Some of his vital organs are damaged and we are monitoring him at the moment. He has a cut on his head, but we don’t see any signs of head trauma at the moment.”
Danny was the Nelson’s oldest. He was a sophomore at the university. He had been walking across the street, on his way home from an evening class when the car hit him. Later, he said he didn’t remember seeing a car. Danny had always been a daydreamer and probably wasn’t paying attention. The police had told Marianne and Bill the driver was drinking. That had been their introduction to the intensive care unit.
Now, the unit was part of their daily lives. As Marianne waited to see Danny, her mind wandered to the incident with the red-haired boy. What a statement for a child to make, she someone very close was going to die.
The paging system interrupted Marianne’s thoughts.
“Visitors may now enter the unit,” came a tinny, raspy voice over the pager.
Bill and Marianne joined the other visitors as they headed down the hallway. They stopped at the wash-station, a required safety feature of the unit. They were about to enter the bay where there son was located when the doctor on duty stopped to talk to them.
“I’m afraid there is a serious problem with your son,” he said. “We’ve found some bleeding in the area of the spleen and liver – perhaps a small bit of leakage, or it could be severe. It requires surgery and we won’t know until we get in there what’s really happening. I think you should know, there is every possibility this operation may not go well. On the other hand, it may be nothing serious.
Marianne grabbed Bill’s hand and slumped against him. He gripped her hand, squeezing it gently and rubbing the top of her wrist with tender care. It was his signal, the same one they had been using for years, to say “don’t worry, everything will be okay.”
“When will you do the surgery?” Bill asked.
“He’s scheduled for six a.m. tomorrow morning,” was the reply.
“Can we see Danny now?” Marianne whispered.
“He’s pretty heavily sedated; the tests were pretty painful. So don’t stay too long. I’ll see you in the morning,” the doctor said.
Marianne was ahead of Bill when they reached Danny’s bedside. She still had trouble looking at the twenty-year-old face of her firstborn with all the tubes attached to him. Even so, he still managed a smile. But, the old twinkle of mischief in his eyes was replaced with the glazed look of pain and fear. So, the doctor had told him, thought Marianne.
It was a short visit. Bill and Marianne returned to the waiting room to join the other concerned relatives and friends of the intensive care unit guests. Marianne felt emotionally drained and when Bill asked her if she wanted to go down to the cafeteria to eat, she shook her head no.
“I can’t eat right now,” she said. “But you go on.”
“Maybe I’ll just run down for a soda,” he said slowly. “You be all right?”
She nodded, noticing how drawn he looked. He walked towards the elevator and she headed toward the corner they had taken up as theirs. It was then she noticed the pony-tailed woman, sitting by herself. Even from across the room, Marianne could see the tears welling up in the young face. Feeling the need to talk, to fill her life with something other than the crisis at hand with her son, Marianne walked across to the woman.
“Are you and your son visiting someone special here,” Marianne inquired. She realized that was probably a very forward question, but she had learned one thing in the last few days – the people here at the unit were all in crisis and gave their physical and moral support to each other. It was a kind of network that just dragged you in and made you want to share in another person’s grief or happiness. It seemed there was a plenty of both, Marianne thought.
The woman tried to smile as she wiped the tears oozing their way down onto her face.
“I was going to be so strong, and I was for a while. But, when you’re alone, it isn’t so easy,” she said. “Adam is dying.”
Marianne didn’t know what to say. “I-I-I-I didn’t know... the little guy with the airplane? Oh, by the way, I’m Marianne Nelson.”
“Hi, again, I’m Erica.”
“Adam was born with a heart problem and the doctors have put off this latest surgery. Now, it may be too late,” answered the mother sadly. “He is having surgery tomorrow and I am so afraid for him.”
“My son, too,” Marianne answered.
* * *
As Marianne read about Adam she thought about the two boys and the wonder of modern medicine. Both boys were now doing well. Danny had recovered and was back in school. Adam was recuperating at children’s hospital. The hospital group had been open to the idea of helping Erica with fund-raisers for Adam’s surgery.
Marianne nodded her head with a thank-you for God’s blessings on a glorious morning in early May when bright sunshine invites you to open doors and let warmth float through the house.
This book consists of a 150 pages of Christian poetry about the end of time and the Second coming of Jesus Christ not as a servant but as a King, the King of kings. To bring righteousness and peace to the earth and restore the government of God! Peac
