First, I need you to read this, and if you have, humor me and re-read it. That was four years ago.
We're not born to be what we are. We're forged. We are hot malleable steel and our defining moments are the blacksmith's hammer-strikes. We shatter and we are poured back into a crucible and made anew. We are reforged. What was broken within us as we looked down at him lying on that hospital bed was remade. The Japanese swordmasters had a mythical technique of folding steel, hundreds of times over upon itself, so that the razor-sharp katanas that the samurai carried into battle were strong enough to slice through stone, indestructible. We don't think that we have that strength but we do; good steel is supposed to bend, but not break, and it's a surprising truth that we're of the same caliber. Distance and time have not made bearing those memories any easier, but we are katanas, we are swords of legend, and we are not easily destroyed.
The baby who was so stricken has grown. Saturday he suits up in his do-bak to test for his yellow belt. He can kick, punch, chop, and block. He does so with determination, but also with a particular glee. He too was forged on that hospital bed, though it's taken us a while to recognize. His joy is that shared by most four year old boys - the joy of being a child in a big wondrous world. But it's also the joy of one who's known battle, who has faced down a particularly virulent enemy, and who has emerged triumphant.
Of course, we were very fortunate; the disease has claimed far too many victims. For more information about Kawasaki Disease, visit the Kawasaki Foundation website, at www.kdfoundation.org.
