Perfection is in the heart of beholder

The Boston Herald

He was a picture on a wall at my Great-aunt Mary's house, a son who went to war and never came home. Aunt Mary was sad all the time. Uncle Pete was strange. My grandmother said this son was their only child. I was an only child. I knew how sad my mother would be without me.

My grandmother had four children. Mary had just one. I used to wonder about the fairness of this. Children want things to be fair. One for you and one for me. As a child I had watched ``The Fighting Sullivans.'' The Sullivans had five sons. They all went to war. One day a man in a uniform knocked on their door. ``Which one?'' the mother asked knowing the officer brought news of death. ``All five,'' he told her.

``How could this happen?'' I asked my mother. She said she didn't know.

When children are born, they don't come with dossiers. You can't see their future so you don't know what you get. Children who are born healthy get cancer. They get brain tumors. They get thrown from cars. They fall out of windows. They get caught in the line of fire, caught up in drugs, caught up in the world. Perfection at birth is only what it is - a moment.

A study just published in England found that British women are aborting babies with cleft palates and clubfeet - conditions that are medically correctable - and that the number of abortions of babies with Down syndrome rose 17 percent in a single year. ``Statistics show more women than ever are choosing to terminate babies with potential handicaps,'' the study said.

American women are making the same choices - perfection the goal. Mary and John McDonough had a perfect baby boy on Nov. 3, 1977. And by all accounts, Matthew Joseph McDonough remained the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect friend. A month after he graduated from Stonehill College, he had an aneurysm and three weeks later he died. He was 21. That was five years ago. Now at Stonehill there's a Matthew J. McDonough Spirit Award presented annually to the student with the most spirit. And there's an aquarium there in Matt's name. And today, at Stonehill, they're dedicating a bridge to Matt because he was a builder of bridges between people. ``He was the quiet nudge of support, the slap on my back after crossing home plate, the hilarious joke whispered in my ear,'' the younger brother of Matt's best friend wrote in his college admission essay. Matt, he said, ``knew how to make everyone feel special.''

Matt McDonough was not physically perfect. He had a weak artery and a blood clot killed him. But the 21 years of his life had meaning. His life was worth living. He helped people. Will science be able to test for weak arteries someday? ``Look here, Mrs. Jones. Your baby has a flaw. You will bear this child and you will give birth to him and you will love him more than you think possible. And in the end you will lose him.'' Would any of us have children if we could see the future?

The end of a pregnancy is just the beginning of life. And life, for everyone, is a minefield. Amy Sahlin died 20 years ago at the age of 11. She wrote stories, played the recorder. She danced. She sang. She was a joy. She had cystic fibrosis. Today her birth would be a matter of ``choice.''

My neighbor had polio. She walks with a limp. My son-in-law has diabetes. My friend has multiple sclerosis. Another friend's brother is blind. Born healthy, some of us don't get to live this way and none of us dies this way. In the end something takes us back to where there are no bodies, only souls. Matt McDonough was 6-foot-6. But nobody talks about his height. ``Matt was the glue, the inspiration, the calm, the excitement. He was authentic, simple, understanding and full of integrity.''

The words, the honors, the memories are all about what matters, what science can't test for, the real perfection: man's capacity to love.