9 minute read
Tambourine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .John David Muth
of Acts. “There are a lot of ‘Simons ’ in the
Bible. ”
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“It’ s a good name. ” I said.
“Simon was the man who helped Jesus carry the cross. Let’ s go with that. ”
We proudly reported our son ’ s name to the head neonatologist.
“Simon says!” he answered, teasing us with a smile.
I hadn ’t thought of that, but then again, in the game, Simon Says, Simon is always the boss. I wasn ’t concerned about the potential teasing. I was glad to have a name to call my little guy who was so delicate yet strong.
“You ’ re gonna be OK, Simon, ” I whispered into the portholes on the sides of the incubator. “You ’ re doing a great job, little guy, just keep growing. ” Even then, when he was one pound, those ears must have been listening.
Soon after naming him, we researched the name ‘Simon ’ : “He Heard, ” from Hebrew. I wondered how this meaning would pertain to my son in his future. I found out a few months later. The doctors and nurses had warned us about the rollercoaster ride that was the life of a micro preemie; the medical staff was encouraging (and bordering on saintly), but they did not give us any false hope. My husband and I sighed with relief when Simon seemed to dodge each potential illness that the hospital staff anticipated: no brain bleeds, no chronic infections, and no life-threatening heart issues. We celebrated each milestone that Simon achieved: breathing without the ventilator, graduating from a feeding tube to a baby bottle, and the most visible accomplishment—gaining weight. After two and a half months, Simon was no longer dependent on oxygen to breathe and he had grown to five pounds. Then, one evening as we left the house for our nighttime NICU visit, the nurse on duty called us to say that the pediatric ophthalmologist would meet us there when we arrived. The eye doctor explained that, earlier that day, Simon ’ s eyes had been routinely checked for a condition called Retinopathy of Prematurity. The results were not good. Simon ’ s retinas had completely detached. He would be blind.
My husband and I felt the sharp dip of the roller coaster that we thought we had eluded. We insisted on a second opinion, and on this occasion my parents were present for the results. The doctor came to the same conclusion—that our little fighter would never see. My mother asked if she could donate her eyes to Simon. The doctor solemnly shook his head. Again, we scrambled. We scoured the Internet for information and we eventually found an extremely gifted retina surgeon in Detroit, Michigan. We were told that people came from all over the world to see this doctor. Once Simon came out of the NICU, we flew to Detroit every two weeks for surgeries and subsequent check-ups. After three surgeries, Simon was able to see light. This may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but in the blind world, being able to see light means a lot: it means that you can distinguish daytime from nighttime; that your circadian rhythm of sleeping and waking is not disturbed; and that light can be used to orient the space around you, whether it’ s the light from windows in a room or fluorescent ceiling lights to guide you down a hallway.
Simon is now a healthy, chatty nineyear-old with a sharp wit and long pianist’ s fingers. He reads Braille and walks with a cane. He attends Saint Lucy Day School for Children with Visual Impairments in Juniata Park where he is mainstreamed with sighted students. And he ’ s still got those big ears. Those ears that my father gave to me and that I gave to Simon. Those ears that help him to distinguish the voices of his favorite radio sportscasters on 610 AM WIP. Those ears that detect the smallest sound when I think I’ m silently gesturing to my husband. Those ears that fill my heart with joy when Simon tells me that he doesn ’t need to see my face because he can hear me smile. I know that those big ears will serve him well throughout his life. He sees with those ears and I’ m proud to share them with him.
Tambourine
By John David Muth
An open hand Pops The shallow drum, While flocks Of metal songbirds Fly frightened Into the sky.
John David Muth was born and raised in the central NJ area and has been an academic advisor at Rutgers University for eleven years. He started writing poetry in high school, a little over twenty years ago. Being a great lover of music, especially classical, much of his poetry attempts to describe the sounds that musical instruments make when they are playing. He likes to give these playing instruments animal or human behaviors.
Maria Ceferatti was raised in South Philadelphia and now lives in Delaware County. She teaches private violin and piano lessons, instructs classroom music at Saint Lucy Day School for Children with Visual Impairments, and is the music director of Acting Without Boundaries, a theater group for young performers with physical disabilities. Her short story “Olga ’ s Vision ” will be published in the forthcoming issue of Apiary Magazine.
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“You will hardly know who I am or what I mean ”
v “Whatever er Whate“ the soul is truth.” is t ” .uthr
“A writer can do “A writer can do nothing for men more nothing for men more nothing for men more necessary, satisfying, than just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.” Simplicity just simply to reveal to them the infinite possibility of their own souls.” is the glory is the glory of expression. of expression.
