Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story
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Authors: Ben Carson
Also by Ben Carson
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The Big Picture
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Gifted Hands
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Copyright © 1990 by Review and Herald® Publishing Association
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Cover photo by Christine Armstrong
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Interior design by Beth Shagene
This book
is dedicated to my mother,
SONYA CARSON,
who basically sacrificed her life
to make certain that my brother and I
got a head start.
Contents
Introduction
by Candy Carson
M
ore blood! Stat
!”
The silence of the OR was smashed by the amazingly quiet command. The twins had received 50 units of blood, but their bleeding still hadn't stopped!
“There's no more type-specific blood,” the reply came. “We've used it all.”
As a result of this announcement, a quiet panic erupted through the room. Every ounce of type AB
*
negative blood had been drained from the Johns Hopkins Hospital blood bank. Yet the 7-month-old twin patients who had been joined at the back of their heads since birth needed more blood or they would die without ever having a chance to recuperate. This was their only opportunity, their only chance, at normal lives.
Their mother, Theresa Binder, had searched throughout the medical world and found only one team who was willing to even attempt to separate her twin boys
and
preserve both lives. Other surgeons told her it couldn't be done—that one of the boys would have to be sacrificed.
Allow one of her darlings to die
? Theresa couldn't even bear the thought. Although they were joined at the head, even at 7 months of age each had his own personality—one playing while the other slept or ate. No, she absolutely couldn't do it! After months of searching she discovered the Johns Hopkins team.
Many of the 70-member team began offering to donate their own blood, realizing the urgency of the situation.
The 17 hours of laborious, tedious, painstaking operating on such tiny patients had progressed well, all things considered. The babies had been successfully anesthetized after only a few hours, a complex procedure because of their shared blood vessels. The preparation for cardiovascular bypass hadn't taken much longer than expected (the five months of planning and numerous dress rehearsals had paid off). Getting to the site of the twins' juncture wasn't particularly difficult for the young, though seasoned, neurosurgeons either. But, as a result of the cardiovascular bypass procedures, the blood lost its clotting properties. Therefore, every place in the infants' heads that could bleed did bleed!
Fortunately, within a short time the city blood bank was able to locate the exact number of units of blood needed to continue the surgery. Using every skill, trick, and device known in their specialities, the surgeons were able to stop the bleeding within a couple of hours. The operation continued. Finally, the plastic surgeons sewed the last skin flaps to close the wounds, and the 22-hour surgical ordeal was over. The Siamese twins—Patrick and Benjamin—were separate for the first time in their lives!
The exhausted primary neurosurgeon who had devised the plan for the operation was a ghetto kid from the streets of Detroit.
CHAPTER 1
“Goodbye, Daddy”
A
nd your daddy isn't going to live with us anymore.”
“Why not?” I asked again, choking back the tears. I just could not accept the strange finality of my mother's words. “I love my dad!”
“He loves you too, Bennie … but he has to go away. For good.”
“But why? I don't want him to go. I want him to stay here with us.”
“He's got to go—”
“Did I do something to make him want to leave us?”
“Oh, no, Bennie. Absolutely not. Your daddy loves you.”
I burst into tears. “Then make him come back.”
“I can't. I just can't.” Her strong arms held me close, trying to comfort me, to help me stop crying. Gradually my sobs died away, and I calmed down. But as soon as she loosened her hug and let me go, my questions started again.
“Your Daddy did—” Mother paused, and, young as I was, I knew she was trying to find the right words to make me understand what I didn't want to grasp. “Bennie, your daddy did some bad things. Real bad things.”
I swiped my hand across my eyes. “You can forgive him then. Don't let him go.”
“It's more than just forgiving him, Bennie—”
“But I want him to stay here with Curtis and me and you.”
Once again Mother tried to make me understand why Daddy was leaving, but her explanation didn't make a lot of sense to me at 8 years of age. Looking back, I don't know how much of the reason for my father's leaving sank into my understanding. Even what I grasped, I wanted to reject. My heart was broken because Mother said that my father was never coming home again. And I loved him.
Dad was affectionate. He was often away, but when he was home he'd hold me on his lap, happy to play with me whenever I wanted him to. He had great patience with me. I particularly liked to play with the veins on the back of his large hands, because they were so big. I'd push them down and watch them pop back up. “Look! They're back again!” I'd laugh, trying everything within the power of my small hands to make his veins stay down. Dad would sit quietly, letting me play as long as I wanted.
Sometimes he'd say, “Guess you're just not strong enough,” and I'd push even harder. Of course nothing worked, and I'd soon lose interest and play with something else.
Even though Mother said that Daddy had done some bad things, I couldn't think of my father as “bad,” because he'd always been good to my brother, Curtis, and me. Sometimes Dad brought us presents for no special reason. “Thought you'd like this,” he'd say offhandedly, a twinkle in his dark eyes.
Many afternoons I'd pester my mother or watch the clock until I knew it was time for my dad to come home from work. Then I'd rush outside to wait for him. I'd watch until I saw him walking down our alley. “Daddy! Daddy!” I'd yell, running to meet him. He would scoop me into his arms and carry me into the house.
That stopped in 1959 when I was 8 years old and Daddy left home for good. To my young, hurting heart the future stretched out forever. I couldn't imagine a life without Daddy and didn't know if Curtis, my 10-year-old brother, or I would ever see him again.
I
don't know how long I continued the crying and questioning the day Daddy left; I only know it was the saddest day of my life. And my questions didn't stop with my tears. For weeks I pounded my mother with every possible argument my mind could conceive, trying to find some way to get her to make Daddy come back home.
“How can we get by without Daddy?”
“Why don't you want him to stay?”
“He'll be good. I know he will. Ask Daddy. He won't do bad things again.”
My pleading didn't make any difference. My parents had settled everything before they told Curtis and me.
“Mothers and fathers are supposed to stay together,” I persisted. “They're both supposed to be with their little boys.”
“Yes, Bennie, but sometimes it just doesn't work out right.”
“I still don't see why,” I said. I thought of all the things Dad did with us. For instance, on most Sundays, Dad would take Curtis and me for drives in the car. Usually we visited people, and we'd often stop by to see one family in particular. Daddy would talk with the grown-ups, while my brother and I played with the children. Only later did we learn the truth—my father had another “wife” and other children that we knew nothing about.
