Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Write for the BIOGRAPHICAL Genre (12/04/14)
- TITLE: A Young Man in a Hurry
By Noel Mitaxa
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He rushed his parents to the hospital in the middle of the night.
Why? Because he was ready to be born.
And to prove this readiness, within five minutes of his dad screeching to a halt in the car park, he had begun inhaling the atmosphere in the delivery room.
The major challenge at this point was that he had arrived ten weeks early.
Only a few hours later, he and his mother had been taken by special ambulance to the state’s top neo-natal unit, where twelve ultra-intensive care humidicribs held twelve tiny human beings.
Each little miracle was totally-dependant on the tubes and wires that converged on the crib from a forest of stands and wall-mounted valves; with gauges, lights and audible warning systems. And to add the human touch, each crib was staffed 24/7 by a nurse with special training.
A few days later, I made a brief visit and looked into that maze of equipment to see the little guy, instinctively fighting a battle he could not understand. It was a humbling but sobering experience.
Humbling because of the care and attention being paid to a little guy who could not express any appreciation.
Because in the same city, in other hospitals, babies at similar stages of development were being wrenched from their foetal sacs and having all their potential violated by the legalised murder of brutal abortions.
As I left the room, I was struck by the brilliance of whoever designed all that equipment.
The following Sunday, describing my visit to our congregation, I held up my thumb...
“If you can imagine five toes poking out of my thumb, you’ll get an idea of how small his foot is. He is in a one hundred and fifty thousand dollar humidicrib that does everything for him. I couldn’t help but wonder at its brilliance, but then I realised that God has designed mothers’ bodies to do all that stuff at no cost―while they get on with everything else we give them to do…”
“Humph,” came a mock-grumble from a matronly voice near the back row, “I think I’ll put in a bill!”
Ten weeks of neo-natal care disrupted Micah’s family, but his constant improvement kept lowering the strain of the chaos. And the prayer backing was almost tangible.
Can he walk?
I can only say ‘probably,’ because almost nine years later, he is still running. With a disarming smile that assures everyone how pleased they must be to see him.
He loves investigating his world, especially if he can cover himself with as much dirt as possible.
But he is just as curious in cleaner moments, like when he asked his mother about the person signing for deaf people at their church. When the singing started, he asked her again, “Why is she making those signs now? Why doesn’t she let the deaf people read the words on the screen?”
Last week I heard about his art production, of a head that was covered with lots of faces. His teacher asked him who it was, he replied, “It’s my Grandpa.”
“How many faces does Grandpa have?” asked his teacher, drawing on her considerable reserves of patience.
“Only one,” he replied.
“So why have you drawn all those other faces on him?”
“Because his head is so shiny I can see my reflection on it from any angle.”
Author’s note. This story is true, because I am that follically-challenged grandpa of that young miracle-man.
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