New Center for Family Character

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Character: the pattern of behavior or personality found in an individual or group; moral constitution; self-discipline; fortitude. -- Webster's College Dictionary

KENNETT, Mo. -- Amid all the hype preceding America's Super Bowl, a sports columnist for a Missouri metropolitan newspaper wrote that in defeating their opponents in the playoff game leading up to the season finale at New Orleans, members of the St. Louis Rams had displayed a great amount of "character" in defeating the Philadelphia Eagles.

Since sports writers are often accorded greater latitude in their reporting of events than reporters in other fields, I simply put it down as one more instance of hyped journalism not to be taken too seriously.

A couple of days later I received a call from a family acquaintance in another part of the state who began telling me of her efforts to secure medical attention for their mentally retarded child but who, before completing her story, broke into tears, terminating the call until she could recover. A couple of hours later she was back on the line and told the rest of her story, this time without interruption.

The story this mother told was horrific, so much so that at first I found it almost impossible to believe.

Four years ago she had given birth to a beautiful, seemingly normal and healthy little girl, who soon began displaying some characteristics that were disturbing not only to her father and mother but to their family physician as well. The doctor recommended the family check with a nearby state diagnostic center, which they promptly did, making repeated trips back to the unit before anyone would take notice of their daughter.

After more than two months of this come-back-tomorrow routine, the parents were told there was little that could be done for their child and suggested she be enrolled in a more intensive treatment program that was only available at a state facility some 175 miles away. The family buckled up and journeyed to the remote unit, only to be told that it was not only filled to capacity, but had a waiting list longer than the facility's patient capacity. They were told to come back in "three or four years."

About midway in the seemingly endless waiting period, the child's condition began to worsen, her behavior even more erratic than previously, her physical condition deterioration almost visible from one day to the next and, even worse, her weight loss seemed to be worsening rather than abating.

Desperate, the parents called everywhere, seeking advice, counsel, some offer of assistance. An out-of-state clinic specializing in childhood illnesses advised the family they would need a cashier's check in the amount of $10,000 before they even examined their child. The father made arrangements for a loan from a local bank.

Midway on the journey to the clinic, the daughter went into a form of trauma that was not unlike an epileptoid grand mal coma. The panic-stricken parents stopped in a small town in search of a local physician. Within minutes after the child was placed on the examining table, she died, despite frantic efforts to revive her.

The journey that had started with such hope was replaced by a return that was devastating to the parents who had adored their daughter, sacrificed everything they owned to cure her and were willing to spend the rest of their lives caring for an invalid whose condition could never improve.

I marvel the two were able to make a return trip as they retreated home, their deceased daughter lying between them in the front seat.

I finally composed myself sufficiently to ask how she and her husband survived the trip.

"When we started out," she replied, "we didn't say anything for miles and miles. Bob just kept on driving, looking straight ahead as if looking at something that wasn't visible to the naked eye."

She paused, perhaps to compose herself before continuing.

"We finally made it back home, but the last 50 miles we began thinking of ways we could make our daughter's life more than a bad memory, more significant than the few years she lived, more important for the benefit of other children born with the same defects and parents facing the same obstacles that were placed in our way."

"Did you come up with anything?" I asked, expecting the usual excuses from perfectly rational reasons offered upon second reflections.

"Oh, yes!" she said excitedly. "We've listed our home for sale and plan to buy a house near a treatment center so we can provide rooms and meals to parents bringing their kids for treatment. We think we can swing the deal without having to charge the parents anything. We know what they're feeling and what they need," she said excitedly, her former sadness having disappeared as she laid out the plans for their magnificent hospice.

"I feel privileged to know you," I said. "I think it's a wonderful idea, and I hope you called to ask how I can help."

"My husband said we needed a name for our place, and he knew you'd have an idea. What should we call it?"

After rejecting the use of their own names, I proposed one that I felt reflected the essence of the founders, one that projected the moral values of brave human beings who turned their sorrow into a way to alleviate the pain of others.

Welcome, distressed and frightened parents, to The New Center for Family Character.

Work has already started.

Jack Stapleton is the editor of Missouri News and Editorial Service.