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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Daniel is good at not dying
A mother lives with the disciplined ambivalence of a do-not-resuscitate order.
By Elizabeth Halling
[03/30/00]

When the jailhouse is far from home
Kids with parents behind bars share the pain of incarceration.
By Nell Bernstein
[03/29/00]

Swag hags
Mothers, driven by impure decorating motives, should not be allowed in bachelor pads.
By Matthew DeBord
[03/28/00]

When the revolution comes
We asked for grand plans and we got more than a few.

[03/27/00]

Naked to the world
I've been a nude art model for 20 years. But am I brave enough to hang a photograph of me and my daughter in a gallery?
By Pegi Taylor
[03/24/00]

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His foster mother gives him breathing treatments. She thumps on his back with a small rubber tool meant to loosen the mucus in his lungs. She shoves a catheter down his throat to suction mucus out of his lungs. She flushes and cleans his feeding tube, and pushes the little button back into his stomach when it falls out. (This entails plugging the hole with her finger so stomach gases won't leak out.) She massages him to improve circulation to his skin, which peels off like a lizard's because of his kidney failure.

Also Today Daniel is good at not dying A mother lives with the disciplined ambivalence of a do-not-resuscitate order. By Elizabeth Halling

She tells me she has called a friend who is a foster mother to dying children. She wanted to know what it's like when a foster child dies in her home and there is no DNR. The other foster mother explained to her that even if he's dead, she'll have to perform CPR until the paramedics show up. She'll need to have his paperwork and medical records handy because they'll want them, and she shouldn't clean him or anything else up because the police will arrive to investigate. She also told her not to expect to be invited to the funeral -- the most painful information she acquired during that phone call.

She picks Thomas up, and he curls into her like a newborn would. She sings to him softly and he is quiet. His eyes move and look normal for a moment, and he appears to be gazing around the room. Then he shifts and his breath seems caught; his arms and legs stiffen, he shudders and he begins to wail, a droning whine. His face squeezes to a wince.

Together we imagine what he was like before the abuse. When Thomas was first admitted to the hospital, his skull fracture had already started to heal, so nobody knows for how many weeks or months he was being abused before his family called 911.

But we imagine anyway that he was OK until the August day he received the injuries that brought him to the hospital. He would have been about 6 months old -- a chubby, black-haired baby who giggled and flirted and chattered with quiet clucks and high-pitched squeals. He would have had a fuzzy sleeper and teething rings. He would have laughed at peekaboo, and might have liked applesauce and puréed carrots.

If not for the abuse, today he would be crawling, surely -- maybe walking. Maybe he would like Barney and "Sesame Street," "Teletubbies" and Elmo. Maybe he would clap his hands and play with stacking cups and a tiny xylophone. He would be well.

I ask his foster mother what she wishes for Thomas. "Sometimes I think there could be a miracle," she says. "It's so hard to believe that he won't get better, but I know he won't. But you want to believe that he will, you know? It's hard to hear when the doctors say there's no hope."

But when he goes, I ask? How will you stand it? If you're not invited to the funeral? If you can't say goodbye?

"Well, he's a fighter, so I think he's going to hold on for a while. He's come back so many times already. But when he goes, I want him to go peacefully. I want him to be comfortable."

Next page | I am praying that the judge will be merciful