Pulling a Helen Keller

Wednesday, July 14, 2010 at 11:17pm

Checking out your new born for the first time has got to be one of life's coolest. Skinny or fat? Long or short? BIrth marks? Moles? Impossibly tiny little fingernails. Went through it three times. Every time a hoot. And that soft beautiful skin. One of the few physical manifestations of purity and innocence we're allow to glimpse in life.

Spencer was and always will be my first. The first inevitable scratch on his beautiful olive skin was a calamity of epic proportions. But boys will be boys. And boys tumble and fall. And when he did and that soft skin would bleed, my heart would bleed.

Sydney's skin when she was born was a surprise. She had creamy skin in contrast to her brother's olive skin. The Chinese have always coveted pale skin. It was a sign of affluence back in the days when you're considered lucky if you didn't have to work in the fields under the hot hot sun. If you're pale, that meant you live a life of luxury, free from hard labor. Similar to those European days when being Rubenesque meant you lived a life of luxury.

Luxury plays no part in a court house. Sometimes, when I see my clients in court, I'll see their needle marks. Payments for chemical pleasure. I'm not there to judge what people are capable of when they're desperate to make another payment, I'm there to protect the rights of the accused.

But like an intravenous drug user, I've learned how many places on a body I can stick a needle in. Such is the life of a parent of a diabetic. Left arm, right arm, stomach, left leg, right leg, left butt cheek, right butt check. Each area can only take 4 shots because a three year old's body parts are only so big.

I'm to avoid spots where I've given her previous injections on the same day. Unfortunately it's been easy to do that. The bruises left behind by the needles help guide me. Bruises on her legs. Bruises on her stomach. Bruises on her arms. Bruises on her butt. My beautiful little porcelain doll is covered with tiny bruises made more apparent by the creaminess of her skin. And in order for me to nonchalantly call to her, joke with her, pull back her clothes, find a spot, pinch her skin, hold my hand steady, empty my mind, jab her with the needle and repeat at least three times daily, I have to turn a blind eye to the bruises. It's the same eye that will be trusted to look to the future and to see what her skin will look like in 5, 10, 20 years, well after I'm long gone and no longer able to trace my fingers along her tiny bruises, mourning of a time when her pristine skin was a symbol of her health and longevity.

There's not much that's pristine in a criminal defense attorney's world. But in a mommy's world, my children are everything true and pure. And when I see the ugly discolorations on Sydney, I can hear the crashing of my two worlds, leaving ugly stains of needle marks and bruises on my daughter. Sounds of collision drowning out the knowledge that a blind eye is a necessity.

*Sydney's on the pump now. I don't have to give her 3 shots a day anymore. She has a needle like tube embedded under her skin that needs to be changed every 3 days. Even though the pump avoid the daily chore of shots, it's also a sign that her diabetes have advanced and that the "honeymoon" period is over. I had written this note quite awhile ago and couldn't finish. Decided to finish it today.