A Town Called Smoosh

Yesterday, on a road trip across the eastern Romanian mountains in beautiful, white-out snow conditions, we passed one of many small villages. Our driver pointed & said what sounded like "Smoosh." That town, sort-of called Smoosh, come to find out, is where Delia's parents live. Her birth 11 months ago hit the news pretty big...what with no arms & legs & being abandoned at the orphanage & all.

As Americans volunteering at the orphanage/hospital where Delia lives, we wanted to charge into Smoosh & commit violent acts against her parents.  Of course, we didn't. We just drove on past Smoosh, & its not-so-secret shame vanished into the blurry snow-sky. 

But how did her parents feel? The superstitions that led the villagers of Smoosh, from time immemorial, to believe that having a baby with birth defects results from evil in the mother's heart -- are those ancient beliefs too strong to break? Did that mother & father love their girl for even a moment? 

Do they cry now? Drink? Live in grief & guilt? Smoosh is not so far from Barlad. Do they get news of her? Do they know that their daughter is named Delia? Do they know that, in this most imperfect world, Delia is loved & rocked & babbled to & kissed by strangers from far away? Do they know that that love & those kisses are transitory things, & that when you get right down to it, Delia sleeps alone, whipping her head from side-to-side to put herself to sleep, because no one else will?

Delia's torso isn't really square...this is her with rubbing alcohol-soaked towels packed under her clothes, making her bulky.



(Wait...maybe Delia's parents gave her up out of sheer economic necessity. If you have a disabled child & no money for a lifetime of doctors, nurses, or medicine...what do you do?)

-- la reverdere