From Lucy, a fulfilling year

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

It's one year later. One year after the ground caved in and the world blew apart and the center failed to hold. One year after we were told, ``I'm sorry'' so many times that we were sorry, too.

Three hundred and sixty-five days, some of them terrible. The day my granddaughter Lucy Rose was diagnosed with Down syndrome. The cold, rainy day she came home. The day the doctor said she needed heart surgery. The day of the surgery when the operation didn't go as planned. The days after, at the hospital, when we felt helpless at her side.

So many days at home, holding Lucy, begging, ``Hang on, little girl. Don't leave us.'' Winter closing in, doors closing everywhere.

More surgery. More problems. Hope frayed.

Fifty days? 100?

We clung to each other - mother, father, grandmother, grandfather, aunt and uncle. It'll be OK, we said over and over. And when we didn't believe this anymore, friends came and took our hands and kept us from drowning in sorrow and fear.

We worried Lucy would die. We worried she would live and not know us, live and not respond, live and not see, not hear.

We worried about everything.

We still worry. But not the way we used to. We're standing on solid ground, for now anyway - and now is all any of us has. Lucy is healthy and happy and is turning a year old Sunday. And we know, because of this year, just how lucky we are.

We ask ourselves, why did they shake their heads when she was born? Why did they say ``We're sorry'' and not congratulations? Why, even now, do doctors say, ``We have tests. This won't happen again,'' as if Lucy shouldn't have happened. As if they would erase her if they could.

Erase the heart problems. Erase the need for surgery. But don't erase Lucy.

Lucy is like a crayon Crayola has yet to invent. So many colors - burnt sienna, maize, mulberry, raw umber, razzle dazzle rose.

But no Lucy Rose. Because she is the color of wind. The color of moonbeams. The color of stars that are too far away to see.

She is rare and she is different and she is beautiful and bright and we have been blessed because she is ours.

Before she was born, I talked this prayer to her. ``Throughout life you will be both a student and a teacher, for you have much to learn and perhaps even more to teach.''

I imagined teaching her ``Pat-a-cake'' and ``This Little Piggy'' and the names of things. And I have done all this.

What I never imagined is what she would teach me.

The children will lead you. And she has.

Lucy has led us through the toughest of times. The ground caved in, the world blew apart and the center failed to hold.

But Lucy endured. And grew stronger. And thrives.

And because of family and friends, so do we.

We held her so much. Maybe that's why some of her rubbed off, some of her joy, her good nature, her smile, her pluck.

When I was in second grade, Rosemary, the most popular girl in class, picked me to be her best friend. We walked arm in arm. We sang. She invited me to her house. We had fun all the time.

That's how it is being with Lucy.

All children bring joy. Lucy brings something more. Maybe that's because we came so close to losing her. ``Eat, baby.'' ``Look at us.'' ``Say, Dada.'' ``Go to Mama.''

And she did.

And she does.

And life is oh so good.