Dragonwriter (30 page)

A
ngels come in all sizes. Mostly we don't recognize them until they're already gone from our lives. I think we all have the potential to be an angel, if only for a few seconds and only for that one person who most needs to hear our words.

Angelina “Angel” Adams writes here about how Anne McCaffrey was, in effect, her angel in a hard time.

I think you'll see when you read her words why I say it is a great honor to have her contribution to
Dragonwriter.

SO VERY OFTEN,
the pivotal moments of our lives slip by without fanfare or notice. Such was the day I picked up my first Anne McCaffrey book. Unlike many of her fans, I had not grown up reading science fiction. Instead of curling up with a good book, I spent most of my teenage years with scripts, arias, and in rehearsals. This meant I missed joining my friends on the mass migration from horse books and classics to science fiction and fantasy. It also meant I had no idea of the treasure I was holding when I saw her name for the first time.

At twenty-four, my life was in the middle of a major shift. I was adjusting to being a new wife and mother, I had quit performing, and I was attempting to adjust to life in a new city. My cousin had come to visit, and as is often the case when traveling, he left behind a few items. Among them was a very orange book that had, of all things, a picture of someone riding a dragon on the cover. Orange had never been one of my favorite colors, and dragons weren't my thing, so I set the book aside with every intention of mailing it to my cousin.

Somehow that book kept moving around the house. It seemed every time I cleaned, it was in the way, tossed on top of a table or countertop. It felt as if I were constantly picking it up and returning it to the drawer where the other items I needed to mail were stored. One day, as I was walking the book back to where it was supposed to be, I opened the back cover and the “About the Author” caught my eye. The line “She studied voice for nine years and during that time, became intensely interested in the stage direction of opera and operetta” caught my eye. I was intrigued. I continued to read, and other words jumped out at me: children, Ireland, cats, dogs, and horses. Those were some of my most favorite things. I felt an immediate affinity for this person. She sounded like someone I would be friends with. Then I read the last line, “Of herself, Ms. McCaffrey says, ‘I have green eyes, silver hair, and freckles; the rest changes without notice.'”

It was official. I was in love. Change the silver hair to auburn, and every bit of that statement resonated true for me. I was so captivated by the discovery of someone who seemed like such a kindred spirit that, despite the awful orange color, I decided to read a chapter or two. Later that night, as I put the finished copy of
Moreta: Dragonlady of pern
on my nightstand, I couldn't wait to read the other titles that were listed in the front of the book. I had been so very wrong; dragons were totally my thing. Over the next few years, I devoured every Pern novel I could get my hands on. Once I caught up with the Dragonrider books then in print, I found some of her romances, a short story collection, and
The Rowan.
My bookshelf was showing signs of a definite personality shift.

As I was working my way through the Anne McCaffrey titles I found, I had two more children. Our family moved to a different city, and I soon found myself pregnant for the fourth time. With the stress of another pregnancy, my oldest son facing surgery, and settling the kids into a new environment, I found Anne's books a tremendous comfort. I would reread them multiple times; they felt like visiting with an old friend. The isolation and loneliness of a recent move during such emotionally trying circumstances only increased my attachment to the author whose personality was stamped so indelibly on her work.

Baby number four finally arrived. The crash team entering the delivery room was the first sign of my life completely changing course. My unanswered question of “is something wrong with my baby?” quickly switched to “what is wrong with my baby?” That question did not have a simple answer. For the first twenty-four hours after she was born, every time the doctors entered my room it was to inform me of yet another defect or complication. It was evident the doctors held little hope of her surviving the day. When I asked them if there was anything that could be donated to save another child if she died, they got very quiet. Finally one doctor spoke up and said, “She has a good liver.” At barely twelve hours old, the only organ in my tiny baby girl that was functioning properly was her liver.

But she was a fighter, and she surprised us. Against all odds, she made it through the first day. I would stand in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, sing softly, and stroke the only part of her body I was allowed to touch: the very top of her head. When she was two days old, I was informed she needed emergency heart surgery. We were transferred to the Intensive Care Unit of the Children's Hospital, where we would remain for three months and five more surgeries. Eventually, they would figure out a diagnosis for her mysterious condition. Michelle was born with CHARGE association. While it is now classified as an actual syndrome, at the time the specialists had very little information for us beyond the basic definition and her individual manifestations of each aspect of the condition. The name was an acronym used to describe a group of defects that had begun to appear as a cluster in rare instances. The
C
stood for coloboma malformation of the eye,
H
for heart defects,
A
for atresia of the choanae,
R
for renal abnormalities,
G
for growth and developmental delays, and
E
for ear abnormalities. The specialists began to use terms such as “quality of life” to describe all the things she was likely to be without.

My husband, Michael, realized it was going to be nearly impossible to pry me away from her bedside. He asked what he could bring me from home: a change of clothes, sweater, food, or something to read? I asked him to bring me anything by Anne McCaffrey. There were several of her books on my shelf, and any one of them would have been a comforting favorite. Trying to be thoughtful, instead of bringing me a book I'd read a dozen times, he went to the bookstore and bought a couple he hadn't seen at home. I thanked him but was only slightly interested in them. My mind was on the five pounds of little girl with all the wires running in different directions and the breathing tube protruding from her mouth. I didn't have the energy needed to delve into unknown territory. However, the night after she survived the first heart surgery, which had been very touch-and-go, I reached for the books as the ICU settled down into the hush of the night shift.

The title
The Ship Who Sang
jumped out at me. Since Anne's vocal studies had been one of the things that drew me to her as an author, I liked the thought of her writing about singing. I didn't even read the blurbs on the back and had no idea what was waiting for me between the covers of that book. I turned on the nightlight, trying to avoid disturbing either of the children recovering from surgery in the neighboring glass-walled rooms. Surrounded by the beeps and hums of the machines keeping my daughter alive, I began to read.

And then I began to cry. For days, I had been trying to hold it together. I was afraid that if I let go, I would shatter and be useless. All I wanted was to be able to hold my baby girl and sing to her, but it felt as if she were being held hostage by the very tubes that were her salvation. Every day since Michelle had been born, I was constantly glancing at monitors, searching for proof she was still alive. Rather than seeing her smile or hearing her cry, I would look for changes in her oxygen saturation numbers to tell me when she was happy or upset. The isolation and despair created by this medical barrier was quietly breaking my heart. I believed no one understood how I felt.

Then I met Helva.

I was constantly visited by specialists who wanted to study or discuss Michelle's mysterious collection of birth defects. The list of possible worst-case scenarios kept growing with each discovery. With all these fears and worries bouncing around in my head, in a darkened ICU in the middle of the night, I read these words: “There was always the possibility that though the limbs were twisted, the mind was not, that though the ears would hear only dimly, the eyes see vaguely, the mind behind them was receptive and alert.” The power of that statement was overwhelming.

With the tears in my eyes making it nearly impossible to focus, I kept reading those words over and over while I cried out all my fears. I had never known anyone who had the sort of severe handicaps my daughter had been born with. I had trouble wrapping my brain around the concept of who she was as a person. As a parent, I had never been of the attitude that we mold and create the adults our children grow into. I've always believed they are born as little individuals and it is our job as parents to love and support them and help them grow into these special selves. My creator daughter, tender-souled son, and genius son—
those
I knew how to interact with and encourage. But I felt lost when I looked for the baby hidden among the wires and tubes. I was terrified I wouldn't know how to be her mother, especially with specialists telling me she would never be able to fully interact with me or her environment.

But the concept of a mind that was “receptive and alert” possibly being hidden by the body that wasn't functioning had been planted. The tears dried, and I continued reading. I fell in love with Helva as I experienced her transformation from a malformed “thing” at birth to the brain of a sleek and powerful spaceship. The unique perspective her challenges had given her made it possible for her to find solutions to both physically and emotionally dangerous situations. Her intellect, tender heart, and love of music keep her the most human of the characters I have ever encountered, regardless of the machine that acted as her body. Over the years I have had the privilege of hearing many people tell me what
The Ship Who Sang
meant to them. Many talk about the adventure, the romance, or how vibrant the characters are. But for me, the lesson that was driven into my heart is how unimportant the container we live in is. Bodies, wheelchairs, titanium encasings—the external is nothing compared to the spirit within.

Because of the frequent need to put the book down and attend to Michelle's needs, it took a week or so to finish. Along with the words, I absorbed the environment in which I read them. All around me, each day the struggle for hope in the face of despair imprinted on my spirit. By the time I reached the words on the final page, “to let night with its darkness for sorrowing and sleep complete its course and bring . . . a new day,” I possessed new definitions for beauty and possibilities. The image of Helva sitting on the tarmac as the notes of requiem drifted over the darkening service base was very real in my mind. I could feel the emotions as she comes to terms with all she has lost and finally manages to appreciate what she has gained in the wake of so much tragedy. In a very real way, Helva helped me connect with my daughter. The wires, tubes, and machines stopped being a barrier. I was determined to push the boundaries and defy the norm. I found nurses who would help me maneuver all the equipment so that I could hold my daughter once a day. I sat in a rocking chair, and they would carefully transition her from the warmer to my arms and drape all the wires and tubes around both of us, taping many of them to the chair to minimize the risk of removing a connection that was keeping her alive. Holding her broke all the rules. But I would sing, we could finally bond, and Michelle continued to beat the odds and mystify the doctors.

Of course, Michelle was no Helva, but she was a miracle in her own right. When we were allowed to bring her home, life became a dizzying whirlwind of therapists and doctors. I learned how to tune out and deflect statements that contained the words
won't
or
can't.
I searched for people who said things like “I don't know if this will work, but we can give it a try.” By the time Michelle reached her miraculous first birthday, the doctors stopped giving me estimates of how long until we could expect her to die. Instead, they began to say things like “I don't know what you're doing, but whatever it is, keep doing it.”