There Has Never Been a Better Day . . .

When I was in elementary school, I typed my reports on an Underwood manual typewriter.

When I was in Jr. High school only girls took typing class because it was thought that unless you planned on being a secretary, what was the point? (my Jr. High had electric typewriters).

There were no cell phones, no VCRs, no DVDs, no CDs, no computers.

If you wanted to make a phone call, you had better have a dime to plunk into the phone booth. If you missed your show on TV, THAT WAS IT - you missed it.

My, how things change.

I heard an interesting interview on NPR with Ray Kurzweil a few weeks back.

Ray believes that we will conquer death in the next 50 years. His theory is called "Singularity" where man merges with machine. Computers that used to take up entire rooms now fit in our pockets - Ray says those same computers will fit into our bloodstream in the future.

Here is an interesting video clip:

I don't really have any opinions about the whole merge-with-machine-conquer-death scenarios. I figure we will burn that bridge when we get to it. 

Ahhhh . . . but advances in medicine . . . . that gets me interested . . . . 

My hope is that modern medicine figures out a way to give Annabelle the opportunity to walk in her lifetime. I don't think it is a totally unreasonable expectation.

My prayer is that if medicine doesn't, God does.

And yet . . . we need to get on with the here and now . . . I am making plans on where to put the ramps in our house and it occurred to me the other day that our next car purchase may very well be a van with a wheelchair lift . . .

This past weekend, we were out at one of our new favorite restaurants . . . sitting on the deck under a sunset sky. The dawg was dozing at my side . . . I was finishing my dinner (I am a slow eater) while the wife had already headed to the car to nurse the wee-one.

We are quite a spectacle when the whole family heads out. The wife is beautiful, of course. The child is about as cute and cheerful as can be. The dawg is enormous, and handsome, and well-mannered. And then there is me - adding contrast to the other three.

I would imagine that the casual passerby looks at our little real-life tableau and thinks, "There is an ideal all-American family." 

Once the wife and child headed to the car, a women dining alone at the next table struck up a conversation with me . . . were we from around here? How about this weather? Nice dawg you have, what is he? How old is your daughter etc . . .

The woman asked about the casts on Annie-Lu's legs and I assured her that things were going reasonably well.

"So will she . . . is she going to be . . . will she walk okay and everything?" the nice lady stammered.

And now comes the moment that replays week after week in our lives . . . the moment where I gently shatter a kind stranger's perception of this perfect little family . . . "No", I said as I smile and shake my head . . "Annie doesn't move her legs and the doctors say she will be in a wheelchair for life . . ."

I watch as the kind stranger's smile fades, the brow furrows in incomprehension, and then sadness fills her eyes . . . just as it has with a dozen other kind passersbys over the past months . . .

"But . . .  but . . ." (I can almost hear the voices in her head screaming "this cannot be!") "Medicine is doing amazing things these days . . . " she fumbles . . .

And now comes the time for me to add comfort and support to someone I don't even know who is struggling with my daughter's situation . . .

"There has never been a better time in all of human history to be born with Spina Bifida", I reassure her.

"We are hoping that medicine figures out a cure in her lifetime . . . we are praying to God for healing . . . in the meantime, we are getting on with it and trying to teach our daughter that life is beautiful anyhow . . ."

And now I am the hero. The brave and strong and optimistic father. I can see the sadness in the stranger's eyes replaced by hope and inspiration and admiration and just "How great" our little family is . . . the all-American tableau has been restored for this passing friend - only better and stronger than it was before for having met adversity head-on and overcome it all . . . 

The funny thing is, our family was not as perfect as she thought in the beginning . . . and our situation isn't as devoid of hope and happiness as she may have thought in the middle . . . and I am not as brave and strong and inspirational as she may have thought at the end . . .

The lady leaves inspired and I sit, exhausted as always, and try to enjoy 2 minutes of quiet before heading to the car. I'm not a hero. I'm just a dad - doing what dad's do - their level-headed best.

I pray that God touches our little one with healing.

I am hopeful that medicine finds a cure in her lifetime.

And I would trade all the utterly ridiculous Iphones and Facebooks and MaySpaces and Blogs and whizbangs and gizmos in the world for one solid breakthrough in the neuro-sciences . . . It may take some time for me to find that old Underwood but I will manage . . .

In the meantime, we are going to get on with it - because life is just too beautiful to waste.

I set my empty glass down, the dawg perks up his ears . . I sign the bill . . 

"Let's go lousy dawg . . ." and we are on our way to the car for the long drive home . . .