Archive: Opinions

Each week prior to writing this little ego-trip of mine called "Thoughts' I mentally work through more than a few ideas, news stories, etc., and begin to compose what I hope to be some rational thinking, perhaps a theme, though the latter idea sometimes eludes me (theme, that is).

But what does happen some weeks is a complete reversal, or at least radical change in direction, of what I had originally planned. This week is one of those instances. One story and one apparently unrelated incident conspired to stop me in my tracks, so to speak, and whether there's a connection I will have to leave to the reader. The connection in my mind between these two threads has struck me like a virtual two by four, but that may be very individual and very personal.

The headline: "Baby Boxes Offer Parents A Haven". It was accompanied by a photo of a member of an Indiana fire department demonstrating what appeared to be a large 'after hours book deposit' aluminum slot, with handle, that you might see at a library, set into a brick wall at the firehouse.

But, this was not a book depository, nor a library. It was a 'baby box'. When the door is opened, a silent alarm is triggered and a 911 dispatcher is alerted.

You see, the box is meant for a newborn baby. Inside is a tiny bassinet and a sensor triggers a second call to the 911 dispatch. The door locks when closed, and the temperature is controlled between 71 and 82 degrees, and air holes on the inside of the box keep it ventilated.

The dispatcher sends a firefighter or EMT on call to arrive at the 'baby box' in less than five minutes. The baby is then transferred to a local hospital for care and evaluation.

The idea is that a mother unable, or unwilling, to care for the newborn will give the child up anonymously with no further 'consequences' and know the child will be cared for by emergency personnel and qualified health professionals, including child advocacy respondents.

In the past four years, Indiana, Arkansas, Ohio and Pennsylvania have passed laws allowing parents to surrender the newborn in this way without needing to interact with anyone in authority, face-to-face or otherwise.

Indiana now has about a dozen of these 'boxes', and three hospitals in Ohio have also installed them.

What's the backstory? They are a part of a 'safe haven' movement being championed by activists trying to discourage abortion and (yes) infanticide. We've all heard and read stories of horror concerning newborns being tossed in dumpsters, alleys, public toilets and these laws (and repositories) are the result of efforts to not only save the newborn but also grant immunity to those who wish to remain 'anonymous'. A small bit of responsibility remains when the parent thinks of the child's ultimate welfare, I guess. All fifty states now have enacted safe haven laws such as this.

Who's paying for the boxes? A non-profit builds the boxes and costs for installation, alarming, etc., run about $10,000 including, interestingly, billboard advertising. Charities such as the Knights of Columbus have typically picked up the tab.

Now, I can see the arguments going on, politically and ethically, about this turn of events, and of course the arguments turn around your particular position on abortion and he un-navigable divide between 'pro-life' and 'pro-choice'. I'm not going there because, to be honest, the whole argument breaks my heart and the divide between these two heartfelt and honest camps is indicative of our moral quandary as human beings. But, this story is one of the 'bookends' for the column this week. The 'begin' of the 'beginning'. Now, the 'end' of the 'ending', the other bookend, the connection, as I felt it.

I'll avoid some details because they're not important. Let's just say that I was confronted today with a binful of memories. Not my memories (I've got a heartful of them, of course). A stranger's memories. A pile of nicely (and in some cases expensively) framed color photographs and portraits. Studio produced in some cases, glassed, expensively produced and maintained, and until recently, I would guess, lovingly placed on mantels, tabletops, bookcases. Along with this pile (and piled it was) were a few yearbooks and an old photo album. The album had pages and pages of the 'old fashioned' photos, like your parents (or even my own lifetime) took, black and white, attached to black construction paper pages. The photos were taken by what we used to call a 'brownie' camera and most were carefully annotated with written names, place, years taken on the back in old fashioned blue ink, from a fountain pen. You get the idea, and visual, I'm sure.

My inquiries to a disinterested co-worker netted the response that these were all unwanted by the unnamed family and were to be disposed of.

I will be honest, dear reader, I became pretty depressed at this. It was pretty obvious that someone was cleaning out a parent's home, probably after a death, and found no need for years and years of memories, wedding photos, anniversary photos, all memories of people long ago, now to be forgotten. Well, worse than forgotten. Not needed. A burden. Collecting dust if kept.

Maybe I'm going too far in wondering what in the past was painful to the remaining living, or at least not worth keeping and remembering. What relationships foundered, or what secrets are alive in the survivor's mind but could be temporarily or even permanently 'forgotten' by tossing all of the portraits and photographs and yearbooks and albums in a bin and saying to a stranger: "Toss it. All of it."

As the glass and metal frames crashed, tinkled, shattered, I couldn't help thinking of the end of life while contemplating the story about the 'baby boxes'. How precious our lives and memories are, how fragile, as well, and all that lies in between the newborn and the newly deceased.

I don't know how to word the indecipherable thoughts that have been coursing through my brain considering these two extremes of life and death as they were presented to me within hours. I thought of Jackson Browne's words: "...while looking through some photographs / I found inside a drawer / I was taken by a photograph of you.....You were looking back to see who was behind you...and in the moment the camera happened to find you / there was just a trace of sorrow in your eyes...". Or, maybe Chrissy Hine's "I found a picture of you / Those were the happiest days of my life...". Maybe even the eternal, ancient wisdom of Ecclesiastes in: "A time to be born, a time to die..."

Unknown babies born into a hostile world, unknown lives relegated to frames and yearbooks, photos of strangers long forgotten. A life's beginning in anonymity, and ending, essentially, the same. Stories to tell, that need to be told, and of course everyone has a story.

I've no idea how to end this column this week. Perhaps you might think about these two disparate events/things/stories, and come up with a connection. Or a story. Thanks for listening.