I have put off writing this story as long as I could, four years, to be exact. If I put it off any longer, I may not be able to do it. It is bringing back memories, I wanted to forget years ago. I know now, I never will. It started Sept 7th, 1973. Earlier that day, the doctor had told me to stay close to home. My blood pressure had dangerously, elevated. I had developed Toxemia. Well, this little angel, decided he was going to be born anyway. I had a 100 mile an hour drive to the hospital. That was the first time, I didn't say, "SLOW DOWN." They told me later it was a blessing he was born, or I may may not have survived. God is good, he interveined. I had one, NICE BIG pain at home, and within forty-five minutes, this little guy was in my arms, at 12:15 am on Sept 8th. When I reached the hospital, they had a nurse, and a wheel chair waiting, outside for me. I fell in the chair and away we flew down the hall. I am usually a very quiet person, but I looked at the nurse, screamed at her, "YOU are going to deliver this baby, if you don’t get me a doctor STAT!" She didn't believe me, but decided to oblidge me with an examination, and just said “OH MY GOD”, grabbed the cart I was laying on, and flew down the hall. Nurses mysteriously arrived from everyplace. Luckily, there was a doctor in the delivery room, with another lady. He came right over to me, just about in time in time to say, “Here’s your baby Mrs. Sayre.” He was a kind wonderful, doctor. He joked with me later about the speedy delivery.
He was always, a very quiet, good little boy. He never gave me a moment of trouble. I should have known, he was much to good to be on this earth. It was very strange. When he was first born, I would lay in bed at night watching him sleep, in the glow of a night light, in his crib beside my bed. Somehow, I knew he wasn't going to live to grow up, and would just lay there alone, in silence and cry. Why? I have no idea. He was all boy, though. He loved his cowboy boots and belt. Once, after he got sick, he had been watching a movie, and come to the kitchen saying, “Mommy, I wanna be buried with my boots on," with his John Wayne accent. That felt like a knife being thrust into me. I had to laugh, for his sake. I truthfully, wish I had buried them with him, but in the mass confusion, I just didn't think of it. I still have them, tucked in a drawer.
He also had a white, Persian cat, with one blue eye, and one green. He named her "Baby." That cat loved him, as much as he loved her. He carried her everywhere under his arm. She just hung there, as if she was supposed to. She was so lost, when he died. She cried, while she frantically searched the entire house for him. It made me cry, to see her crying, for him. It seemed she was NEVER happy, after he was gone, till the day she died. She just walked around alone, looking lost. She was as sad as I was.
Some other favorite things of his, were keys, pens, and notepads. I am still finding his around here. Everyone knew he loved keys, and gave him their old ones. He hooked some of them on a keychain around his belt loop and, walked around all day, with those keys, jingling. He carried his little wallet, with always a dollar in it. I just found it again, the other day. Those are the times that make all the memories flood back, as a heart aching title wave.
I have another fond memory of Marcus and me, going to the lake. We have a small lake down the road, from us. He loved to go see the Canadian geese fly in, daily. They seemed to love it there. We would take bread down to feed them. He had one, he picked out from close to three hundred, that he said was his. He named him "Miller." How they loved to see us come. Most times they would follow us home. THEN, they all started to come to our house, to be fed. I thought it was hilarious, but the neighbors didn't.
Somehow, an area newspaper heard his story, and wanted to print it. I finally said, "All right, but please don't ask for money." The story was in the paper on Sunday, and when we got home from the doctors on Tuesday, the storm door was open, and a huge package of card were between the door. He was estatic! All were special cards, and most had money in them. Also a toy company heard, and send him a battery operated car and a train. Cards kept coming in daily by the stacks, till the 25th, letting me give him a wonderful Christmas. Bless our mailman. He had to carry all the cards everyday, through a foot of snow, to the door, as they wouldn't fit in our mailbox. "God does provide." When he had to be on prednisone, for a week every month, I was the happiest. Those were his orneriest times. Once in a while, I would hear one of my daughter's say, "Mom, Markie said a bad word." Then I had to go after him, running. He was starved all the time. He did, and said most anything, and everything. We loved to see him act normal, but sometimes he had to be diciplined, behind my giggles. At about 3 am every morning, I would hear, “Mommmmmy, I'm hungry. ” Well, sleepy eyed, I would go get him out of bed, and take him downstairs to feed him. A snack wouldn't do, inevitably he wanted a meal, such as mashed potatoes and gravy. Now, where do I get that in the middle of the night? I finally got smart, and made up hamburger gravy, and kept it in the refrigerator, daring anyone else to touch it. Then it was much easier to make some instant potatoes, and put the gravy on, and heat it all in the microwave. He never seems to tire of it. Sometimes, he would be so tired, and eat so much, his little head would fall in his food. I managed to get him back to bed, for the night. By breakfast he was hungry again. He puffed up like a little stuffed piggy, but he looked so cute with his chubby cheeks.
He wasn’t happy with his bald head. Not only children would look and laugh at him, but grown adults would do it also. Think of this, when ever you see a bald child, or adult. It was so heart breaking to me. I don’t understand heartless people like that. I don’t WANT to EVER understand them. People that will laugh at a child or an adult with a catastrophic illness, need not be around me. They are mentally ill, or just downright crude, rude people. I choose to belive the latter, in most cases. In Nov., right before Thanksgiving. He had fallen in the bathroom. At that time he was two years old. I run to get him, and he had locked the door. I finally got it opened. He seemed fine, but was limping. The next morning, he was still limping, so I took him to the doctors. Nothing was broken, but the doctor suggested a blood test. The lab was right there, so they took his blood, and we came home. We were home about an hour and he was in bed for his nap, when the call came to get him to the hospital, right away. That was about two in the afternoon, and we sit in the toy room till midnight, waiting. Finally the doctor came in and loudly announced, “The boy has leukemia. I am sending him to Children’s Hospital, in Pittsburgh.”He wasn't the most tactful doctor in the world. I think more appropriate means, should have been taken, such as a explaination, given in private, instead of blurting it out all over the hospital. Well, unless you have been through all this, there is no explaining the pain I went through. I know many of you have. There were bone marrow tests, spinal taps, and so many blood tests. He took it all like a little man. There was very little crying, on his part, even at the age of two, which surprised the doctors, and nurses. Just his Mommy cried. Everything was confirmed. He had Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia. He was started on the most sophisticated drugs available, at the time. He was in the hospital for 2 weeks, at first, and then came home in a good remission. He had to go to Pittsburgh, for the next 4 years, weekly, for the same tests over, and over. My little boy had a chance to LIVE! He still had so much medication to take, for years, though.
His chemotherapy went on like that, till he was four. One night after dinner, he went out to play in his sand box in the back yard. It was about 15 minutes later, I suddenly had a very real feeling of fear hit me, and looked out. He was GONE. He had never left before, and I was petrified. We all ran different directions, hunting him. He was finally, found in the woods behind our home, brutally sexually molested, beaten, bloody and left for dead. WHAT kind of monster could do this to a sick child? He was forced to eat dirt, kicked in the privates, till he was black, beat on the face and head, till bleeding, and was totally unconscious. My daughter, and a neighbor boy brought him in, and put him on his bed. When he came to, his little eyes looked like the eyes, of a frightened little bunny. He started screaming. I hugged him close, and assured him he was all right. He kept screaming, “Mommy, Mommy. Why did he do this to me? I thought he was my friend. He told me he was going to show me the bunnies, back there." I asked him who did it. He told me, but for obvious reasons, I am unable to say the name of the monster. I can say, he was a grown man, known to us. Of course, I was constantly in touch with his doctors in Pittsburgh. They told me hour, by hour what to do, and what to watch for.
The police were called and they did what they could, and it went to court, but was all but stopped dead in the courthouse. He was finally indited for GROSS SEXUAL IMPOSITION, by the Grand jury. However, when they had the trial, it was all done behind my back. The day after he was molested, my home was filled with Prosecuting Attorneys, and Juvenile officers. They saw and knew his condition. Yet, this was ALLOWED to happen? I didn't know the trial was happening, till it was over. He was accused of indecent exposure, with just his Attorney, a Prosecuting Attorney, and the Judge, none of which saw him, beaten. Some come down, from his origional inditement. This man got only 30 days in jail, and a $300 fine. Yes, thats all, and I LOST MY SON. To me it was MURDER, plain and simple. Is THAT JUSTICE? I think not. VENGEANCE is mine, saith the Lord. Not only for the man that did it, but our judicial system, that let him to go free. They are all hiding behind black cloaks, and business suits, but someday, they will be stripped of their attire, and will be judged, as any other man. They will be sorry, when they see and feel the burning pits of hell. I am counting on that, or I would be insane, or in jail, for being a serial killer today. No, they would have executed me. Ultimately, God will be their judge, as well as mine. Dear God, how do I love and forgive all these maniacs? The extremely, sad thing is, the leukemia cells lie dormant in the testicles of a little boy. In six weeks Marcus was to be radiated for the third time, to make sure the cells there were all gone. This would render him sterile, but a such small price to pay for his life. He NEVER got his chance. He came out of his good remission two weeks after the molestation. From that day on, and for the next two years I suffered the emotional pangs of hell. I honestly prayed this creature who took away his good remission, would drop dead. Right or wrong, I did. Marcus had been read Bible stories, and taught about God. When the marrow would get packed into his bones, he suffered pain like NO ONE should ever have to, let alone an innocent child. He would lay and scream, “Please Jesus, make me better. Make the hurt go away.” All I could do is cry with him. I never had one good nights sleep, after that. It was nothing but touch and go, for the next two years. I didn't want to lose him, but had I known then, what I do now, I would have stopped the medication, after the molestation. His life wasn't worth living, with all the pain, trips to the hospital, nausea, vomiting, weakness, and the hopeless, helpless feelings we all endured. Our hearts were so heavy and weary with hurt, and constant pain, that never ceased. Even yet today, it comes flooding back. I asked for a bone marrow transplant, but was told he wasn't a candidate for it, after he was molested. I loved him with all my heart, and having to endure this tourture, day after day, was one the most heavy burdens, I ever had to endure. I would just fall in bed at night, emotionally, physically and spititually exhausted, and cry my heart out. Then, I would have to make the fifty mile trip to the hospital, for a transfusion of chemotherapy, every week, till it became daily. I gave him his shots and pills at home, but not the I.V.'s. After the chemo, he would begin to bleed and many nights, I lay awake all night with my finger over the needle hole, to keep him from bleeding to death. The next day, I made the trip again for an infusion of platelets, to stop the bleeding. He was so very, deathly sick, after all these treatments. He would just lay and look at me, as if he were asking, “Why Mommy.” The next day he would climb out of bed, and attempt to go on with his unbareable life. A week before he died, he had a stroke. He was unable to move, walk, talk, eat, or anything. He just laid there. I took him to the hospital, where they had his private room ready for him. Strangely enough, by the time he was in his bed, he looked at his doctor and said weakly, "I wanna go home." That was the first he had spoken, since the stroke. The doctor gave him a big smile, and said,“GET OUT OF HERE”. He knew he only had hours or days to live, and if he wanted to be at home, it was fine with him. Marc hated the hospital. As a matter of fact, I did too. That was the last day he seemed even close to normal. He went down hill very fast, from then on.
I had bought him a navy velvet suit, and powder blue satin shirt to wear to a Christmas party, but instead, of a party, he was buried in it. He was holding his stuffed dog he took with him, when he couldn't have his cat. Actually, he had lost his “Charley”, in the blankets at the hospital. My daughter found one exactly like him so we told him, he had gotten dirty, and had to be washed. He may have known the difference, but by then he was too sick to care. Yes, all this hurts, very much, but while time helps heal the wide open wound, the scar always remains, to remind me. He is desperately missed, and remembered on his Birthday, the day he died, and Christmas. Those anniversary dates will never be the same, to me. Truthfully, life without him never will be the same. I know I will see him again, in Heaven, and for that reason, I can feel some contentment. He went to meet my Mom, his Grandma. She died in 1970. Then, he was there to meet all his grandparents that followed.
May God let all of you that have lost a child, find some comfort knowing, you will meet your child again, if you give your life to the Lord. I hurt for all of you, and may God bless you in your heartache. This page, only touches the tip of the iceburgh as for details, but I did my best as space allowed. I am not a writer by any sense of the word, but this had to be told, and it came straight from my heart. I finally did it. No, not in it's entirety, but it skims the surface. I have been trying to be someone I'm not. I wanted the world to think I am all right with my son's loss. I'm not. I never will be. I am sitting here at 3 am, a woman of at least average intelligence, wondering if anyone can see my bitterness, and heartache. I fought myself, through this horror story, after days, nights and even years of anguish. I tried to write this story for four years, but then found every excuse not to do it. I didn't think I could. I did, thanks to my friends, who asked, insisted, begged, and helped with encouragement, when I gave up. Now, I am sitting here wondering, how long have I been lying, to myself, and others? I cry, I want to die, I get get numb to my surroundings. How long will this heartache last? Dear God, will the pain ever go away?
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