By Mark E. Smith
Annabelle was five when she came into my life. It was among my truest blessings, not just because of my own yearning to continue being a round-the-clock parent since my oldest daughter was finishing high school and going off to college, but because of the beautiful child Annabelle was. She exuded a joy and carefree zest for life that simply isn’t found in most people, even children.
Any time that we marry someone with children, it’s often said to be a “package deal,” but this union was far beyond such simple words. This was the universe bestowing me among the most precious gifts in my life – a wife and a second daughter.
We often hear of “special needs children.” In raising my oldest daughter, Emily, I always took issue with that term because every child has “special needs,” where our role as parents is to identify and meet each of our children’s needs, unique to that child. In raising Emily from birth through now graduate school, I’ve been aware of the many “special needs” she’s had along the way.
Annabelle, likewise has special needs. But, again, like all children, hers are unique. Annabelle has spina bifida and autism. She’s wicked smart and has a sense of humor that has those of us around her laughing most of the time, but she doesn’t have “typical” interpersonal interactions. There’s no I-love-you, which makes her hugging her mother or occasionally holding my hand so powerful within our hearts.
As a parent, my primary role is in working with my wife to ensure that Annabelle has everything she needs, from skilled nursing care, to a special bed, to her own play room that’s everything. Annabelle, her haven.
I didn’t realize how much Annabelle recognized me and my dedication to meeting her needs until one night in our van. Among her favorite items of engagement is her tablet, on which she watches children’s YouTube videos. She was on her tablet in our van while my wife was putting groceries in our house before we were going out again. Suddenly, Annabelle dropped her tablet in such a spot on the van floor that neither of us could seemingly get it. She was buckled in her car seat and my power chair was situated in such a way that when I backed up to get the tablet, it was under my power chair.
Annabelle became more and more upset, to a panicked degree. I realized that if I reclined my seat back, I may be able to grab the tablet. As I did so, it put me in proximity to Annabelle, and she begin patting my shoulder, repeating, “Mark! Mark! Mark!”
This moment was profound because she doesn’t address anyone by name, so her addressing me directly in her moment of desperation was both heartbreaking, as she was so upset, and breathtaking because she was reaching out to me for help.
Fortunately, I scooped up the tablet and handed it to her, crisis ended.
Annabelle’s father will rightfully always be such. However, being acknowledged as her “Mark” in her time of need was among the most heartfelt moments of my life. Indeed, there’s nothing more poignant as a parent than being there to meet our child’s “special need.”