Holy innocents

Cardinal O'Connor was a great friend to the Review; he was also, as you read in my mother, Faith's, moving account, a true friend and source of strength to my parents during my late father's difficult years of illness. I didn't know him as well, and yet few people have affected me as deeply.

I was married in June of '93, and my husband Bob and I were overjoyed to find "ourselves" pregnant soon after. Sadly, we lost our first baby at 10 weeks. I was devastated, and confused because there seemed to be no "right" way to mourn the loss. As someone working full-time for a pro-life organization, there was the irony that I would lose my completely wanted child. I was well aware of early fetal development, and the baby was a real person to me immediately. Many said, with the best intentions, "Don't worry, you'll have another one"--but it seemed like a dismissal of my feelings for the child I lost.

It was also a time of great turmoil for my family: my father had been diagnosed with cancer one month before my wedding. I thought the baby would cheer us all. And then, unbelievably, two months after my miscarriage, we got the news that my then 33-year-old brother Robert also had cancer, of a very serious kind. We were reeling. I had never before faced anything like these events, and it made the pain of the miscarriage, the pervading sense of loss, remain.

That December 28th, the Cardinal was to dedicate a new shrine to the unborn at Holy Innocents Church in Manhattan. Bob and I were asked to present the gifts of bread and wine to His Eminence at the Offertory. That morning, I had begun to suspect I might be pregnant again, but was afraid to hope. The Cardinal began his sermon by talking about his sister, who had lost her first baby to miscarriage. She went on to have several children, but the Cardinal said she never stopped grieving for her first-born. He said, "I'm not sure the Church at large has fully appreciated the loss of babies through involuntary miscarriages and the loss of babies who are stillborn" (later quoted in Catholic New York). He then said that every conception was part of God's plan, and that the lost unborn take part in the "conception of Jesus."

The Cardinal spoke of the tragedy of abortion, and explained the purpose of the shrine: it features a glass case with a "Book of Life," for parents and relatives of children lost through miscarriage, abortion or stillbirth to record their children's names. But his words about conception, and the fact that it was the Cardinal himself who was stressing the importance of grieving a miscarriage, gave me a peace I had not been able to find. As I wrote him later that day: "... with all the things that have comforted me since August when we lost her, your words today have helped me the most. To believe that our baby's conception itself is part of God's good plan, and that each baby at the moment of conception is already, in a sense, a 'success' in God's eyes-well it was a beautiful way of acknowledging a real loss yet assuring us that no life is a waste, because God is there in the very beginning."

After the sermon, when we brought up the gifts, the Cardinal shocked me by saying as he leaned down: "How's your father?"! I just stuttered--I didn't think he knew who we were!

I was pregnant, and on September 15, '94 gave birth to our son, James Anthony. The Cardinal wrote us a letter soon after: ". . . know of my prayers for you and little James Anthony, a wonderful sign of God's love in our midst. Along with the sleepless nights spent walking the floors and all the other endless details of being a parent, be grateful for this beautiful gift from God."

On the feast of the Holy Innocents that year (Dec. 28th), my brother Robert died, after facing his illness with courage and grace. (Baby James was in the room with us, and seconds after my brother was gone he started to smile and make a sound a lot like laughter. I went to shush him, and my mother stopped me: "Maybe he's seeing an angel," she said.) The Cardinal was in touch with my parents swiftly, with words of comfort and compassion.

As it has turned out, the Cardinal became a guardian angel for James, now five and a half. It was not perhaps the most well-known fact about Cardinal O'Connor that his first love was his work with retarded children; he had at one time wanted to devote himself to ministering to people with special needs, as a simple parish priest-but of course God had other plans. While Archbishop of New York, the Cardinal pioneered religious instruction programs for the retarded and disabled, and established an Office for the Disabled in the Archdiocese.

James was a beautiful, happy, bright, loving child in every way. When he was three, however, he started not meeting certain language and social milestones. A preschool director urged us to have him "evaluated" (she rather cruelly told us "there is just something missing..."), at which point I took James out of her school while arranging for him to begin speech therapy.

As time went by, it became clear to us that, at least for now, James would not be able to handle a mainstream school. Quite unexpectedly, Bob and I had become the parents of a child with special needs. What followed was almost two years of a mighty roller-coaster of experiences and emotions. The dreaded word autism was brought up, though, as we argued, James was too loving and connected to us to be autistic. We had to decide which "experts" to trust (not an easy task in this world of too many experts, some of whom are lacking in basic knowledge of children and/or simple compassion), which school programs to investigate, and how to protect James both from evaluations and programs that might be traumatic for him, as well as from our own increasing anxiety.

During a particularly scary period (right before a new evaluation), I read that the Cardinal was holding a forum to listen to parents of special-needs children (including developmental delays) so that he could find ways for the Catholic school system to do more. (There are presently few Catholic schools that have special-needs programs, though new programs are being developed). Since I couldn't attend the meeting, I decided to write him my general feelings about how the current culture, with ever-earlier pressure for children to achieve, was inimical to children who were different, and that I hoped the Catholic school system would be able to offer a more Christ-centered approach to all children. But once I started writing I ended up pouring out my heart about James. I even considered not sending the letter, but I did, figuring the Cardinal, in his kindness, would forgive the over-the-top ranting of an extremely anxious mother.

The Cardinal promptly wrote back, and assured me he would do anything he could to help and that James would especially be in his prayers. I kept His Eminence in touch about developments with James (as I also did with our work at the Review after my father died); just being able to do that was a source of strength, and he never failed to answer within days, to give me encouragement, and to assure me of his prayers. We did eventually find an excellent school program for James, who has now been diagnosed with PPD, "Pervasive Developmental Disorder," which, in his case, means he remains a bright (astoundingly bright in some areas), happy and loving child who is behind in language and mostly resists interaction with his peers. (Diagnoses of "PPD" have skyrocketed in recent years, which is a mystery: were there always children like this who were accepted as "normal," or is something strange happening to our children?)

Last Christmas I wrote to thank the Cardinal for all he had done for the Review, and especially for his inspiration and prayers for James. I included a photo of James and his sister Anna, three and a half. His secretary wrote back, and said the Cardinal wanted me to remember that James and Anna would remain in his prayers.

When I get on the endless merry-go-round of worries-are we doing enough? will he be all right? will he make friends?-I try to think not as the world thinks but to shift my thoughts upward: I thank God for the great gift of James, and I pray that I will never forget that we all have special needs. And when I think of the Cardinal, and his concern and his love, I feel a great sense of peace.

I know in my heart that James has a special friend in high places.

Maria McFadden is president of the Human Life Foundation and editor of this journal.

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