trisomy 21
There is a way.
Trisomy 21 is better known as being the cause of Down Syndrome, something a parent hopes never having to contend with in their newborn, though this grandfather did and as he walked into a restricted room and observed the doctor who delivered the baby poke about into the child’s being: this newborn innocent laid out there writhing about on a white sheet under the harsh lights and wanting only the warmth of her mother’s flesh and not this doctor’s cold hands and steel instruments, his inquisitive cold-eyed reasonings.
Her mother who was in another room. Alone. Lying on the bed she delivered her daughter.
Two hours after giving birth my daughter was back in her bedroom at home with the door shut. Her child lost within the hospital wards and under the determination of the examiners, the medically qualified.
Two weeks later the baby died and her ashes are scattered on the north side of Barrenjoey headland. A small collection as they were and only one mourner in attendance.
Though the spokesman of many.
There is a hotel down the road on River Street and one of the girls who works there reminds me of my long-lost granddaughter: she’s a small woman generously shaped with wide eyes and a trusting nature, meaning she smiles at everyone in the hotel: the good, the bad and the indifferent.
Emma.
Today her job was to write up the day’s menu on the take-away board above the kitchen’s servery. Something she does well and with care, letter by letter, space by space. Every word in ordered sequence.
So I walked over and asked if I could borrow the felt pen she as using, and after some hesitation she said ok and watched as I leaned over the take-away-board.
First this beautiful woman didn’t get it, but when she did everyone in the hotel heard her unrestrained laughter.
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