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Three Snapshots “Retard.” It was the only word that rang out in my head. “You want to retard the growth,” the sales woman said to me without even thinking twice. “By pinching back the weaker stems you enable a plant to remain that same size.” What was she describing? What was she telling me? Why was she using such awful and ugly words to answer my question? I had asked her moments before about the lovely thin houseplant that was in my hand. I wanted to keep it that size forever. I wanted to know if that was possible. “Thank you,” I mumbled and slowly turned away. The tears welling up in my eyes cut off my field of vision. “Do you understand me?” The saleswoman called after me. Understand? I understood perfectly. I made my way down the aisle, walking as if I were swimming in a body of water, kicking my feet and legs to get away from something dark and scary that was right behind me. “Retard.” It was the only word that rang out in my head. “Mentally Retarded.” The doctor spoke the words harshly, as if he needed to get them out of his mouth. Our neurologist was talking to my husband and me. He was describing the mental state of our six-month old baby, Rachal. “Do you understand what I am telling you both?” he asked. “Rachal’s brain has been infected with a disease called Infantile Spasms,” he said. “We do not have much data on these types of seizures. We were hoping this would not happen to Rachal. Only five percent of our patients with this condition make it on their own in life. The other ninety-five percent end up in institutions, not able to care for themselves in any way.” He spoke the words as if from a script or off a TelePrompTer. I could not believe this was our doctor, describing our daughter. Did he realize this was our baby? Did he know how awful and ugly his words sounded? The Random House Dictionary defines the word “retard” as “to slow or delay the process of an action or process.” I guess these are the words you could use to describe my daughter. During her brain’s development at the age of six months, it was as if some of its growing parts were being pinched off one by one, leaving her brain to remain the same size. Today, seven years later, I look out my kitchen window and see the sun shining brightly over my back acre. I look down at those beautiful little flowering houseplants I bought years ago to stay small and perfect in their pots on my windowsill. I smile and turn around slowly as Rachal walks into the kitchen calling out to me. “Mommy, I want to play on the jump, on the jumpoline mama…you help me?” I marvel at my little girl and I open the back door and watch her run to the trampoline to jump into the sunshine. SAW
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