Maybe

The other night during my baby rocking shift in the NICU, I saw that J. was awake, so I pulled on the standard purple latex gloves, leaned over the bedframe, and started talking to him.

J. has a mass on his head, and he’s most likely blind. Nurses aren’t sure whether he can hear. J. has been in the NICU for months now, and he needs stimulation. So I just decided to talk to him for a while, whether he could hear or not.

He's a sweet boy. Patient. Curious. Sometimes scared about things he obviously doesn't understand. I found that rubbing his belly while talking to him works to calm his spirit. (Maybe he feels the vibration of my voice. Maybe it's my imagination.)

I slowly and softly rubbed his belly while I told him my version of an old Zen story of the farmer and his horse.

 

“There once was a farmer who had a horse. One night there was a terrible storm, and the lightning scared the horse so much he busted out of the corral. The next day the farmer realized his horse was gone.

“His neighbor said, ‘Now you don’t have a horse to plow the fields. That’s terrible!’

“And the farmer said, ‘Maybe.’

“Two days later the horse came back with two mares. They all trotted right into the corral.

“And the farmer’s neighbor said, ‘That’s terrific!’

“And the farmer said, ‘Maybe.’

“The next day, the farmer’s only son put a saddle on one of the mares to tame her, but when he climbed on, she bucked wildly. She threw him down on the ground so hard that he broke his leg.

“And the farmer’s neighbor said, ‘That’s awful!’

“And the farmer said, ‘Maybe.’

“Days later, a war broke out, and the emperor sent a group to the area to draft young men for his army. Well, the farmer's son had a broken leg. He couldn’t serve, so they left.

“And the farmer’s neighbor said, ‘That’s terrific!’

“And the farmer said, ‘Maybe.’ ”

By now, J. was peacefully sucking on his binkie. His eyelids had started a now-familiar, slow, downward droop. He was falling asleep. And so I left him with my moral of the story.

“J., maybe you’re blind. Maybe you’re deaf. Whether these are bad things depends on perspective. There is likely a gift in you that none of us recognize. So you hang in there. You grow into the man you’re supposed to be, because your story hasn’t been written yet. And even if it had, maybe—just maybe—the ending will change into something completely different.”

J. fought sleep, but sleep was winning, so I pulled off the latex gloves and left his side.

The nursing staff know all the medical jargon and reasons why J. might be in for a challenging life. But I have to remember that medicine—the physical realm—is only part of the picture of this little boy’s life.

Is it a tragedy that he’ll be blind and possibly deaf?

 

As the farmer often said, “Maybe.”