NOVEMBER 22, 1963-A DAY OF TRAGEDY AND TRIUMPH

1963-A DAY OF TRAGEDY AND TRIUMPH

November 22, 1963--everyone who was alive, remembers that day with heartache. Everyone who wasn’t has read about it in history books as one of the darkest days our country has ever experienced. There have been movies made, books written and TV documentaries about this day. It will be etched in my memory as one of the worst days of my life and, ironically, one of the best.

My twenty-three year old husband, Ron, and I, who had just turned twenty, were sitting at a table in a hospital cafeteria in the Northeastern Hospital in Philadelphia. I was missing our 1½ year old son who was being cared for by my sister during this emergency. We were drinking cold coffee and picking on a stale doughnut. Every half minute or so, our eyes kept wandering to the large clock on the wall. There was little conversation, bouts of tears and constant hand-holding. Oblivious to the crowded tables and background noises, and idle chatter of the other customers, we were lost in our sorrow. Our infant son, Timmy, was fighting for his life on an operating table in some sterile room above us.

We sluggishly rose and began to return to the hospital chapel where we had been spending lots of time. As we reached the doors, a frantic, screaming man almost knocked us over. He was waving his arms around and jumping up and down. He was crying and shouting something. The place became still as the incoherent words were processed. “The President has been shot in Dallas! President Kennedy has been shot while in a motorcade and rushed to the hospital in Texas!”

As people jumped from their chairs, voices, tears, gasps, a million questions ensued--almost pandemonium. From the back a man hollered, “Is he okay? Will he live?” No details were available.

People started to move into the lobby and out the doors to the street. Cars pulled over. People were hugging; most were crying. The lobby TV was turned up to its highest volume. Everyone quieted down to listen to the latest news from Texas. The announcer, through tears, read a report very slowly and solemnly: “At 12;30 pm, President John Fitzgerald Kennedy was shot three times by a gunman during a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. The limousine immediately rushed the wounded president to nearby Parkland Hospital where he is in the operating room. We will have continuing coverage of the President’s condition as it happens. An investigation into the shooting is underway.”

I was sobbing, my husband was crying, everyone was visibly shaken and no one was ashamed of their open tears. In my already weakened, lack-of-sleep state, I couldn’t believe this horrible thing; this horrible day. The day started out as tragic for just us, but seemed to be turning into a nation in sorrow.

Five weeks ago, our second son, Timmy, came into our family. He was a beautiful little boy, 9 lbs., 8 ozs. when he entered this world. The first week of his life was filled with relatives ‘gooing and gogging’ over him. He started to spit up quite often and we became concerned. After the first week the spit-up became projectile vomiting. We called our family doctor who suggested we try formula instead of breast milk. After 3 weeks, five different formulas, four specialists and twenty nights of the three of us wide awake, and our poor, adorable son, miserable from throwing up after every feeding--we were at our wit’s end. All the doctors could not pinpoint what was causing this malady. One evening, after a feeding and an upchuck, I changed his diaper and there was blood. We called our doctor who told us to get him to the hospital immediately.

When we arrived, his tiny arm was hooked up to an intravenous tube held in place by a tongue depressor. They told us, something we already knew, that he was dehydrated. When they weighed him, he was an emaciated 7 lbs., 3 ozs. When the specialist came in to talk to us he explained that after countless tests and x-rays they found that Timmy had an ailment we had never before heard of---Pyloric Stenosis. In plain words, it’s the tube leading from your throat to your stomach that empties the food. With Pyloric Stenosis, the tube has no opening and the food stays in the tube and backs up and is then thrown-up. He told us, sympathetically, that in Timmy’s first month of life, that everytime he was sleeping, he was actually going into a semi-coma. He was dying from starvation. 

This news unleased more tears and both my husband and I were devastated. The doctor told us with an operation, the chances were great that this could be reversed. We proceeded to the hospital cafeteria to await the outcome of this life-changing operation only to be faced with the tragic news of the President’s shooting.

As we left the cafeteria, we had to make our way through the grieving, ever-thickening crowd of doctors, nurses, patients and visitors. Outside our son’s operating room there was silence. Sitting on the cold, bare chairs, we held hands and  prayed together. We prayed for a great man, a strong leader and an athletic, vital human being--our President--and for a tiny five week old dying baby--our precious son--ravaged by illness since his birth. Both were facing uncertainty on operating tables.

On that fateful, bitterly cold, winter day, the world was sending millions of prayers bound for heaven. But even though ‘HE’ was very busy, the Lord saw fit to hear the heartfelt prayers of a young couple pleading for their son’s life.

November 22, 1963---Doctors tragically pronounce the last day of President John F. Kennedy’s life.

November 22, 1963---Doctors triumphantly pronounce the first day of the rest of our baby son’s life.

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LOOKING FORWARD---Today, more than fifty years later, Tim is the father of three and ironically, resides in Texas, a few miles from Johnson City, home of the man who was sworn in as President on that fateful day, November 22, 1963!

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