It all started on a cold day in January, 1983 in a tiny hospital in rural Texas. 3 weeks past my due date and thoroughly fed up with all things pregnant (while most pregnant women have a “glow” about them, mine was more like the glow from a nuclear reactor), I finally arrived in the delivery room.
I truly hate when women relate in gory detail their birth stories, so let’s skip that. Let’s just say it was not an easy birth. My husband had disappeared hours before and was swaying drunkenly somewhere in the room when Luke was finally born.
He was, of course, the most angelic, beautiful baby in the world. A full head of blonde hair, ice blue eyes, and a set of lungs fit for an opera tenor.
It started as soon as we got home from the hospital. Everything I fed him came right back out. Sometimes in a very dramatic, “Exorcist” fashion. He once hit the dog full in the face, completely across the room.
Calls to the doctor were met with the patronizing reassurances that, “all babies vomit sometimes. Nothing to worry about. Just relax, you’re too tense.” Code for “You’re young and stupid and don’t have a clue what you’re doing.” Every word punctuated by Luke screaming in the background.
Except my baby vomited almost every time I fed him. Violently and spectacularly.
At his 6 week checkup, the doctor finally became concerned about his dismal weight gain. And when Luke vomited on the doctors chest during his exam, she finally admitted that this was definitely not normal.
He was admitted to the hospital for tests. Initially, the nurses smugly tried to show me how it’s done, assuming I was somehow the cause of my son’s problems. After a day of witnessing shocked nurses drenched in hot, stinking vomit, the smug look was all mine.
Luke had pyloric stenosis. He was rushed to a nearby children’s hospital for emergency surgery. The surgery went well, but after the surgery more problems set in.
When they fed him his first bottle, his vitals immediately plummeted. They tried every formula they had, then went on to every milk substitute until they finally found something he could hold down and digest. It was a completely chemical formula, no milk whatsoever.
Luke spent weeks in the hospital. And for the first year of his life, he was hospitalized more than he was home. He had a reaction to the antibiotics from the surgery. He developed pneumonia twice, once ran a fever of 106 and had to be dunked in an ice bath. He was diagnosed with asthma and severe food allergies.
It took a toll on my already failing marriage. My husband was a drunk and problems at home just gave him a reason to drink more. I spent most of my nights either in a hospital room or comforting a sick baby.
Luke grew physically, but lagged behind at every developmental milestone. At a year, he was still scooting, showing no sign of walking.
It all came to a finale one night just before Luke’s first birthday. My husband failed to come home again. It was late when I finally put Luke to sleep in the bassinet in our room and collapsed in the bed nearby.
I woke at 3am to the sound of a loud “CLICK” next to the bed. Blearily opening my eyes, I found my husband leaning over the bassinet, holding a revolver to our infant son’s head!
Honestly, I can’t tell you the whole story because I can’t remember a lot. I think my mind went into pure overdrive. I did grab the gun and unload it. I remember my husband swaying and slurring as he calmly explained how our child was “DEFECTIVE”, like his father, and it was better that he ended both Luke and himself than to allow the horror to go on.
My next clear memory is being on a Greyhound bus, Luke crying in my lap. I arrived back home in Wisconsin with just Luke and one small suitcase and about $100.
I had nowhere to go, so my uncle and aunt helped me find a place to live. A week after I arrived, I found out I was 5 months pregnant….again.
Raising Luke 