NIGHTS OF WALKING
                         by Marc Maurer

     From the Editor: The following story by President Maurer
first appeared in Standing on One Foot, one of this year's new
books in our Kernel series of paperbacks. It begins with Dr.
Jernigan's introduction.

     As readers of the Kernel Books know, Marc Maurer is
President of the National Federation of the Blind. He is also the
father of two active, lovable children. His recollections of the
birth of his son emphasize again the innate normality of the
blindþthe concern with the everyday activities of employment,
marriage, home life, and childrenþthe lack of the feeling that
blindness is the center of every activity and the cause of doom.

     Since I am a lawyer, I do a lot of traveling. I was away in
Idaho working on a case when our first child, David, was born. My
wife Patricia and I live in Maryland, more than 2,000 miles from
Idaho. I had a hearing on Monday morning, and I needed to
interview witnesses and prepare argument for the case. My wife
had been pregnant for several months, but the baby wasn't
supposed to arrive for quite a while. When I left on Friday
morning, everything was fine. When I spoke with Patricia on
Friday night, she was feeling better than she had for weeks. I
went to bed more than 2,000 miles from home ready to buckle down
to do the work for the court appearance scheduled for Monday.
     Early Saturday morning I commenced interviews with
witnesses. The trial would focus on the constitutional rights of
private citizens to free speech and freedom of assembly. I was
preparing testimony for the court and marshalling arguments for
the summation. The court appearance would be briefþnot more than
half a day. A number of the facts to be presented were quite
unusual, and the time before the judge would be severely limited.
Preparation and planning were absolutely vital.
     A number of the witnesses and I were in the living room of
the home of one of the parties when I was summoned to the phone.
The voice of one of my best friends (Dr. Kenneth Jernigan, who
was then serving as President of the National Federation of the
Blind) came on the line. He said, "Don't worry. You are a papa.
Everybody's fine!"
     Immediately, the focus of my attention shifted. The court
hearing had to be completed, and the planning and preparation
were no less important, but I felt a tremendous urge to head back
to Baltimore. All through Saturday and Sunday as I worked on the
case, I thought about my new baby boy and his mom. The hearing
occurred on schedule Monday morning, and as soon as it was over,
I boarded a plane headed east.
     It is a long way from Boise to Baltimore. The plane touched
down about 11:30 that night, and a friend picked me up and drove
me to the hospital. My wife was tired but glad to see me. She
told me that there were those at the hospital who had been
wondering whether I really existed. Baby Maurer had not yet been
named. We decided to call him David Patrick.
     Because our new boy was premature (he weighed less than four
pounds), he had been assigned to live in a little plastic box
called an isolette, which had wires and dials. The isolette had
its own heating and air conditioning system, which was set to
keep the boy warmer than ordinary room temperature. Some time
around 12:30 a.m. I went in to visit him. I was instructed by the
hospital staff to wear a gown and to make sure my hands were
clean. David Patrick was little and scrawny. He wore a teeny
little cap to keep him warm, along with his blankets and diaper.
I sat there with him in a rocking chair for some time, but he
didn't have very much to say. I asked him where he wanted to go
to college, but I guess he hadn't made up his mind. Because he
was so small (his leg bones from his knees to his ankles felt
sort of like match sticks to me), the hospital had tiny little
preemie diapers for him. They looked like toys you might get for
the baby doll that you give as a Christmas present.
     David Patrick got himself all wet, and the nurse asked me if
I wanted to change him. The door to the isolette opened out to
make a little shelf. The idea was that David Patrick's blankets
should be spread on the shelf and he should be placed upon them
to be changed. I put him on the shelf and took off his diaper.
Then I crouched down to get at the cabinet underneath to get him
a new one. The nurse said to me, þWatch it! He might roll off!þ
The nurse's voice was not loud, but it carried considerable
force. Accidents can happen, and a fall of three feet for a baby
of that size could cause severe damage. Those few words from the
nurse were stern and to the point. My job was to keep track of
that boy. So I reached up over the shelf and took hold of the
little guy.
     With the diaper changed, the blankets back in place, and the
hat back on (it had fallen off during the changing process), we
sat peacefully a while longer. I told David Patrick about the
cases I was involved in. We discussed politics, crops, the
economic situation in the country, and the weather. At about 2
o'clock I told him I'd have to go because there was another busy
day ahead. But I told him I'd be back, and he seemed to know that
I would.
     At the time David Patrick was born, I was building a law
practice. Each day I would go to the office, deal with clients,
draft motions and petitions, make court appearances, accomplish
necessary travel either within the state of Maryland or
throughout the country, deal with other lawyers, and conduct my
everyday business. Each night (when I wasn't on the road) I would
visit the hospital to see how David Patrick was doingþhe stayed
for a month after he was born. Patricia and I were working full-
time each dayþshe as an administrator of programs for the blind
and I as a lawyer. David Patrick stayed with the baby sitter
during the day. When we brought him home in the evening, he was
often hungry and sometimes sleepy.
     During the night he slept just like a babyþthat is, he woke
up and cried every two hours. Sometimes he wanted to eat;
sometimes he needed clean clothes; often he needed both food and
clothes. Many nights he just wanted company. Occasionally, he
would let me rock him in the rocking chairþwhere I could doze.
However, there were times that he wanted to be walked. I never
could find a way to sleep while walking the babyþup and down, up
and down. I did learn to sleep almost everywhere else. My
colleagues came to know that, if we were riding in an elevator in
a 20-story building, I would sometimes take a brief nap on the
way up.
     The doctors were afraid that David might be subject to
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. This is a condition which causes
the heart and lungs to stop functioning long enough that the baby
dies. Consequently, David Patrick was required to wear a heart
and respiratory monitor. The heart monitor had two major parts.
There was a belt that wrapped around the baby's chest. On the
belt were three small electrodes. Wires attached to these
electrodes plugged into a box that had switches and displays on
it. If David's pulse stopped or his breathing was interrupted,
the monitor would beep. Patricia and I took a course to tell us
what to do in case of an emergency. The first step was to take
David Patrick and give him a good shake. The heart monitor would
also sound if one of the electric leads to the monitoring belt
came loose.
     During the first month that our son was home, the device
sounded several times, but these were all false alarms. It wasn't
always a false alarm, however. One night the monitor woke us from
a deep sleep. I jumped up and found that David Patrick was not
breathing. I wondered if I could remember all the steps we had
learned in the course to revive an infant. The first step was to
shake the baby. I was ever so grateful that step number one
worked. David Patrick received a thorough shaking. He complained
about it, but he had to breathe to do it.
     David Patrick was the first child, and Dianna Marie came
three years later. Today they are both in school and doing fine.
You would never know that both of them were premature. The
children and I still talk about crops and politics and the
weather, but there are other topics of conversationþhomework, Boy
and Girl Scout activities, trumpet lessons, making fudge, and
visits to Grandma. Even though both Patricia and I are blind, our
children are not. Sometimes the subject of blindness is part of
the conversation.
     When I was six, I was enrolled at a boarding school for the
blind which was many miles from our home. My parents took me
there and left me to stay in the dormitory. I was homesick, but
my father had told me that he would be back to bring me home the
next weekend. When Friday came, he was there. During the next
four years my father came every other Friday to pick me up and
take me home. I knew I could count on him. I looked forward to
his coming, and I planned for the long trip home. He might not be
able to be with me as much as he would have liked, but he'd be
there on Fridays.
     Both of my parents were like that. Once my mother told me
that no doctor could work on me unless we had talked about it and
she had given her permission. At the school for the blind I got
tonsillitis and was sent to the hospital. Officials at the school
told me that an operation would be necessary. I knew that my
mother had promised me that no one could work on me unless we'd
talked about it and she had given her consent. I was told by the
hospital officials on a Tuesday night that the operation would
occur the next morning. Early on Wednesday my mother came to my
bedside. She and my father had driven much of the night in order
to come to the hospital. They told me that the operation was
really necessary and that I would be all right. I felt much
relievedþespecially because my mother had done what she had told
me she would.
     The quality of being reliable is fundamental. I have tried
to emulate my father and mother in this respect. When I have
promised my children that a thing will happen, I have tried to
make it come true. And when they have needed my support, I have
tried to give it.
     There is an oft-repeated saying, which is that nothing comes
free. The folksy expression is, þThere ain't no such thing as a
free lunch.þ Each individual must pay for what he or she gets.
     However, children demand much from their parents and others.
They need to be nurtured, fed, clothed, walked through the wee
hours of the night, bathed, entertained, directed, and taught.
They take inordinate amounts of time, energy, concentration, and
money. And they have nothing tangible with which to pay. However,
there is one commodity which they possess in abundanceþlove.
Despite all the troubles and trials, children give at least as
good as they get. They provide something which can be had in no
other way. They add an irreplaceable element to the warmth and
the caring of the home.
     I take family life for granted today, but it wasn't always
that way. Before I came to be a part of the National Federation
of the Blind, I wondered very often whether there would be a
future for me. Today I know that there is, and I work within the
organization to help other blind people come to the same
realization. We in the National Federation of the Blind are in
many ways a family of our own. We have warmth and caring for each
other, and we work to bring opportunities to blind people who
have been afraid they might not have a future. One of the
characteristics which is most notable about our organization is
that, if a blind person is willing to work and needs our help, we
do what we can to give it. The National Federation of the Blind
is always willing to be supportive to blind people who are
working hard to gain independence and a positive future.