My Boy Who Craves Metal
Patty Nicole Johnson
Son, I know you're asleep right now. You’re off slaying dragons deep within dreamland.
Yet, here at your bedside, I pray to the universe makers that you can hear me.
Because this may be our end.
Chandra remembered every deft snip of Tamir’s arteries. How the crisp sound echoed in chorus with the cacophony of chiming machines. More than a dozen years ago, an engineer extended the barriers of his body and lengthened his life when she connected the circuitry to his internal respiratory network.
Once the last wire was tightened, every quality assurance test was performed, and the ventilator was powered off, no one moved. Only the sound of the machines kept them company. Before they sutured his chest closed, mother and surgeon alike took in the gracefully heaving engine, a pristine silver against the pink and purple of Tamir’s biology.
As Chandra watched, she knew her boy would have squeezed her hand if he could. But he was off proving the scorching heat from each dragon’s breath was no match for the sword of his imagination.
For all 15 years of Tamir’s life, he was her own personal miracle. And they needed nothing else, just to be. To the world, he was the boy with the mechanical lungs. To her, he was everything else.
Last night after summers and winters full of play and rest, Chandra entered his room without a concern. Yet she was greeted with the irregularly low hum of his fan-blades and instantly knew his life-clock was on its final rotation.
In a near-quiet hospital room, she felt grateful for the time, as she whispered in his ear. Nowhere was it long enough but it chugged strong for our own eternity. She called friends and family. Soon they’d arrive to say their goodbyes. As his gears make their last turn, she wanted him to know this: I’ll be there in whatever final existence the universe grants us.
While they waited, she told him a story:
Ever since you were three years old and your exhale propelled you across the room, my skin has been prickly thin.
We sat there on your alphabet mat as I blew bubbles. You said, “Me next,” as your eyes grew wide.
If I would have known our lives would change after I dipped the wand into the mix, I would have savored those fleeting moments of ignorance. But we were both eager to see your breath take flight and watch your essence dance upon the updrafts.
You rose and sucked in two seconds of air, but from your tiny mouth came a gale-force wind. Since your innocence couldn’t take the momentum, you hurtled back toward the wall. Your body wasn’t injured, but you looked at me in doubt as your irises begged for reassurance and understanding.
I saw then that you weren’t built like normal little boys. Your breath was like an electrical current needing the shock of a high voltage battery to keep the gears turning.
It was obvious that your biological muscles and tissues couldn’t power you much longer. I told the doctors so for months. But they took one look at the depth of my skin and drowned out every word I spoke.
Yet the universe was looking down on you that day, a dozen years ago. When news broke of the first human test trials of the mechanical lung transplant, I rejoiced as I no longer saw the horizon of your life.
But in slow progression, each of my applications and petitions were denied. So I placed my faith in the universe.
As I laid you down to sleep each night, I’d tell you the story of the stars and their life-giving magic. How they watched over their most promising creations and gifted them fuel.
Not long after, it was made public that each lung rejected every one of its non-melanated hosts. When I got the call, the sun powered me up.
Two unlikely bedfellows, the doctors’ eagerness for scientific norietary matched only by my desperation for the continuance of your life.
I’ve been praying, my boy. Once again that the universe makers work on our behalf. May they whisper words of encouragement and promise triumph to the doctors. Our last chance is to find an engineer who speaks the language of your body.
Perhaps they’ll hail from the birthplace of man and woman. Right now they could be roaming around the Ituri Rainforest in our native Congo or another nearby place where our skin is not seen as the enemy.
Like you, they’ll have the urge of a machine. Your Obatalan lungs to his or her nimble brain.
They tell me even if a mechanical heart is installed it would take hours to test its configurations before you’re untethered from your native coronary system. They stress that this is an “if” scenario yet I focus on the “when.”
Now as I watch you in your present peace, I’m thankful for the changing of times. Your long legs now dangle off the bed as you take one slumber of many more to come. You’ve made memories outside of our home. Lived a life of laughter and adventure.
The end may come but I no longer fear it. Because I know now your destiny is to surpass us all in your transition into a machine. Even after your heart’s maker is found. Further evolution of your body is inevitable. Your soul craves it.
Next, will your kidneys need an advanced filtration sieve? Your skin, a titanium overlay? As always, we’ll listen to the increasing drum beat of your existence as it beckons the next era of you.
My beautiful boy, slay those dragons. I’ll be right here when you wake up.
