Gifted Hands: The Ben Carson Story (28 page)

Unfortunately, because of the parents' contractural agreement with
Bunte
magazine, I can write nothing about the progress of the twins after they left Johns Hopkins. On February 2, 1989, I do know that two separated and much-loved twin boys celebrated their second birthdays.

CHAPTER 21

Family Affairs

C
andy's voice, near, urgent, called me from a deep sleep at 2:00 o'clock in the morning. “Ben! Ben! Wake up.”

I burrowed deeper into my pillow. It had been a tiring day. I'd spent the day—May 26, 1985—at our church, involved in an event for runners called Healthy Choices. We had invited people to run one kilometer, five, or ten. Other doctors and I gave quick physical examinations and personal health profiles while experts provided tips on healthier living and better running.

Candy, waiting out her final month of pregnancy, had walked in the One K. Now she nudged me and said, “I'm having contractions.”

I forced my eyes to crack open. “How far apart?”

“Two minutes.”

It only took a moment for that message to leap into my brain. “Get dressed,” I commanded as I leaped from the bed. We had a half-hour drive ahead of us to get her to Hopkins. Our first son, born in Australia, had come after eight hours of labor. We figured this one would arrive a little faster.

“The pains started just a few minutes ago,” she said, swinging her feet to the floor and pulling herself out of bed. Halfway across the room, Candy paused. “Ben, they're coming more frequently.” Her voice was so matter-of-fact she could have been commenting on the weather.

I don't recall what I answered. I was fairly calm, still methodically getting dressed.

“I think the baby's coming,” Candy said. “Now.”

“You're sure?” I jumped up, grabbing her shoulders and helping her back into bed. I could see that the head was starting to crown. She lay quietly and pushed. I felt perfectly fine and not particularly excited. Candy behaved as if she delivered a baby every other month. I recall being thankful for my experience in delivering babies, aware that they had all been brought into this world under better circumstances.

Within minutes I had caught the baby. “A boy,” I said. “Another boy.”

Candy tried to smile, and the contractions continued. I waited for the placenta. My mother was staying with us, and I yelled to her, “Mother, bring towels! Call 911!” Afterward I wondered if my voice sounded like it did with a four plus emergency.

Once I had the placenta, I said, “I need something to clip the umbilical cord. Where can I find something?” My main concern then was to clamp the umbilical cord, and I had no idea what to use.

Without answering me, Candy pulled herself out of bed and walked fairly steadily into the bathroom, returning immediately with a large bobby pin. I put it on the cord. About that time I heard the paramedics arriving. They took Candy and our newborn, whom we named Benjamin Carson, Jr., to the local hospital.

Later my friends asked, “Did you charge a delivery fee?”

T
oo busy,” I told myself for the hundreth time. “Something's got to change.” It was an echo, a bouncing off the wall echo, that I'd repeated time and time before.

This time I knew I had to make changes.

Like others at Hopkins, I faced a serious dilemma with an active neurosurgical career. Working in a teaching hospital demanded a greater commitment to time and patients than I would have faced if I'd had my own practice. “How do I find adequate time to spend with my family?” I asked myself.

Unfortunately, neurosurgery is one of those unpredictable fields. We never know when problems are going to arise, and many of them are extremely complex, requiring a tremendous investment of time. Even if I devoted myself exclusively to a clinical practice, I would still have bad hours. When I throw on top of that the necessity of continuing laboratory research, writing papers, preparing lectures, remaining involved in academic projects, and more recently, presenting motivational talks to young people, there weren't enough hours in any day or week. It meant that if I wasn't careful, every area of my life would suffer.

For days I thought about my schedule, my commitments, my values, and what I could eliminate. I liked everything I was doing, but I saw the impossibility of trying to do it all. First, I concluded that my top priority was my family. The most important thing I could do was to be a good husband and father. I would reserve my weekends for my family.

Second, I wouldn't allow my clinical activities to suffer. I decided to go all out to be the best clinical neurosurgeon I could be and contribute as much as I could to the well-being of my patients. Third, I wanted to serve as a good role model to young people.

Although I believe it was the correct decision, the process wasn't easy. It meant budgeting my time, giving up things I enjoyed doing, even things that would further my career. For instance, I'd like to do more publishing in the medical field, sharing what I've learned and pushing toward more intense research. Public speaking appeals to me, and more opportunities were coming my way to speak at national meetings. Naturally, these outlets also would enable me to advance rapidly through academic ranks. Fortunately many of those things seem to be happening anyway, but not as fast as they would if I were able to devote more time to them.

Important also was the need to spend time in my own church. Right now I'm an elder at Spencerville Seventh-day Adventist Church. I'm also Health and Temperance Director, which means I present special programs and coordinate the other medical workers in our church. For instance, we sponsor activities such as marathons, and I help in coordinating such events and organizing the medical screening. Our denomination stresses health, and I promote the health-conscious magazines
Vibrant Life
and
Health
among our congregation.

I also teach an adult Sabbath school class in which we discuss the issues of Christianity and their relevancy to our daily lives.

The first step toward freeing my time took place in 1985. We had gotten so busy at the hospital that we had to bring in another pediatric neurosurgeon. This additional staff member took some pressure off me. Hiring another man was quite a step for Hopkins because, since the beginning of the institution in the last century, pediatric neurosurgery had been a one-person department. Even today few institutions have two professionals on staff. At Hopkins we're talking about three, and possibly a fellowship in pediatric neurosurgery, because we have such a high volume of cases, and we see no signs of its abating.

Additional personnel didn't really solve my dilemma, however. Early in 1988 I admitted to myself that no matter how hard I worked or how efficiently, I would never finish the work, not even if I stayed in the hospital until midnight. Then I made my decision—one that, with God's help, I could stick to. I would leave for home every evening at 7:00 o'clock, 8:00 at the latest. That way I could at least see my children before they went to bed.

“I can't finish everything,” I said to Candy, who has been totally supportive. “It's impossible. There's always just a little more to be done. So I may as well leave work unfinished at 7:00 p.m. instead of 11:00.”

I've held to that schedule. I finish my work at the hospital by 7:30, and I'm back at the office 12 hours later. It's still a long day, but working 11 or 12 hours is reasonable for a doctor. Staying at it 14 to 17 hours isn't.

As more speaking opportunities come, they involve traveling. When I have to go a great distance, I take the family with me. When the children get into school that will have to change. For now, whenever I'm invited to speak, I ask if transportation and accommodations can be provided for my family too.

We're anticipating that my mother will be living with us soon, and she can take care of the children sometimes while Candy and I travel. As busy as I am, as many people as require my time, I think it will be good for Candy and me to be alone together. Without her support my life would not be the success it is today.

B
efore we married I told Candy that she wouldn't see much of me. “I love you, but I'm going to be a doctor, and that means I'm going to be very busy. If I'm going to be a doctor I'll be a driven person, and it's going to take a lot of time. If that's something you can live with then we can get married, but if you can't, we're making a mistake.”

“I can deal with that,” she said.

Did I sound selfish? Did my idealism cloud my commitment to the woman who would be my wife? Perhaps the answer is Yes on both questions, but I was also being realistic.

Candy has coped extremely well with my long hours. Maybe it's because she is confident and secure in herself that she can support me so well. Because of her support, I handle the demands more easily.

While I was an intern and a junior resident, I was seldom around because I worked 100 to 120 hours a week. Obviously, Candy seldom saw me. I'd call her, and if she had a few minutes she'd come over and bring my meal. I'd eat, and we'd spend a few minutes together before she went home.

During that period, Candy decided to return to school. She said, “Ben, I'm at home every night by myself so I may as well go and do something.” Candy has a lot of creative energy, and she put it to use. At one church she started a choir, and an instrumental ensemble in another. During our year in Australia, she started a choir and instrumental ensemble.

We now have three children. Rhoeyce was born December 21, 1986, making us a family of five. I grew up without a father and I don't want my sons to grow up without one. It's vitally important that they know
me
, rather than just looking at my pictures in a scrapbook or magazine or seeing me on television. My wife, my sons—they are the most important part of my life.

CHAPTER 22

Think Big

C
andy and I share a dream, a dream unfulfilled as yet. Our dream is to see a national scholarship fund set up for young people who have academic talent but no money. This scholarship would help them to gain any type of education they want in any institution they want to attend. Most philanthropic funds are too politically oriented and depend too much on knowing the right people or getting important people behind you.

We dream of a scholarship program that recognizes
pure talent
in any field. We dream of seeking out those gifted young people who deserve a chance for success but would never be able to get near it because of lack of funds.

I would very much like to be in a position where I could do something to help make that dream a reality.

I put THINK BIG into practice in my own life. As my life moves forward, I want to see thousands of deserving people of every race moving into leadership because of their talents and commitments. People with dreams and commitments can make it possible.

“What's the key to your success?” the teenage boy with the Afro asked.

It wasn't a new question. I'd heard it so many times that I finally worked out an acrostic answer.

“Think big,” I told him.

I'd like to break this down and explain the meaning of each letter.

THINK BIG

T = TALENT

Learn to recognize and accept your God-given talents
(and we all have them). Develop those talents and use them
in the career you choose. Remembering T for talent
puts you far ahead of the game if you take advantage of what God gives you.

T also = TIME

Learn the importance of time. When you are always on time, people can depend on you. You prove your trustworthiness. Learn not to waste time, because time is money and time
is effort. Time usage is also a talent. God gives some people the ability to manage time. The rest of us have to learn how. And we can!

H = HOPE

Don't go around with a long face, expecting something bad
to happen. Anticipate good things; watch for them.

H also = HONESTY

When you do anything dishonest, you must do something else dishonest to cover up, and your life becomes hopelessly complex. The same with telling lies. If you're honest, you don't have to remember what you said the last time. Speaking the truth each time makes life amazingly simple.