We had arrived at Carol’s cottage, a two-story, yellow-brick building which my mother had endowed to the school many years ago. We were in Carol’s suite, which included a large, light and airy bedroom furnished with a painted French Provincial bedroom set from the 1930s, as well as a small bath, and a playroom with windows on three sides. Mother was seated in a high-backed chair, and Jean on the window seat, while I stood nearby. My mother spoke to Carol slowly and simply, trying to explain who these other visitors were. At first, Carol seemed somewhat perplexed, but then she turned toward me, and in her own authoritative way told me to sit, as Mother repeated my name several times. I watched Carol’s face intently, and saw her expression change from confusion to recognition as Mother spoke the word “Janice.” I knew then that the responsibility had been passed on from mother to daughter. I looked at my mother’s face, and saw the quiet relief and serenity that she had sought in this visit. It was now my time to accept the responsibility; to ensure that Carol would continue to have a family of her own. I would be her link to the past, and to the present.
Some of our shared past is recounted in The Child Who Never Grew. Many years have passed since the book was first published, however, and new chapters have been added to Carol’s life. Mother also left a few unanswered questions in the original story, which can now, I think, be safely answered. This, then, is Carol’s and my story, but mainly Carol’s, drawn from my memories of how she grew.
Carol was just five when I was adopted by our parents, Pearl and Lossing Buck. I was a scrawny three-month-old child who had not grown, nor gained much weight since I was born. In fact, I was not expected to survive much past those months. The mother who adopted me wanted a child who would fulfill the expectations her own birth child had been unable to satisfy, and though she had obstacles to surmount, she was determined to achieve her dream.
Carol and I were happy as we grew up in China. We played together, and enjoyed our lives together as we explored the sounds and sights of nature: the sun, the wind, and the earth. But Carol did not grow as a child should grow, and I am sure that I sped past her. I don’t, however, have any recollections that my sister and I were developing at a different pace.
Carol and her younger sister, Janice, photographed in late 1925
Although The Child Who Never Grew makes no mention of my father’s feelings about Carol, I know that both Pearl and Lossing were concerned about her slow development and her inability to learn past a certain level. Both searched for answers to the enigma that was my sister. Being a very strong-willed person who was unable to admit defeat or accept this reality, my mother searched continuously for explanations, looking for a miracle to make her child well. Lossing, on the other hand, could immerse himself in his work. He had come to Nanking in 1916, determined to teach and to introduce American methods of agriculture, especially in the wheat-growing region of China. Since then he had become acting dean and instructor in Agricultural Economics, Farm Management, Rural Sociology, and Farm Engineering at the university in Nanking. Lossing had a long and distinguished career and became well-known in China for his work.
Another reason that Lossing was not included in my mother’s account is that their paths were slowly going in separate directions during this time. Pearl was beginning to develop her potential as a writer, as she needed to find an outlet for her own deep-rooted insecurity. The parting did not become a reality for several more years after Carol left home, but their break-up was a narrative thread that my mother obviously did not want to weave into the story.
During the years after my parents’ divorce, there was little, if any, communication between the two, and I was forbidden to have any relationship with Lossing from the moment my mother and I left China. Lossing remained in China and eventually remarried. He and his Chinese wife had two very bright children who never displayed any genetic problems. It was not until we were reunited after my mother’s death in 1973 that I learned how much he had missed me and my sister. He gave me some early photographs of Carol and me that he had kept all these years, even though my mother had asked him to return all his family photos after the divorce. Lossing died in November, 1975, but not before we had had a chance to renew our family ties. I do not remember that day in 1929 when Carol was taken from me. I was only four, and she was nine, when she was placed in an institution—the Training School at Vineland, New Jersey. Although I realize now that it was for the best, Carol’s departure broke up a family within which we each felt comfortable. Carol and I were as close as sisters should be, even though I was too young to recognize or express my feelings.
The years passed slowly, as I continued in my path from boarding school to boarding school. Because I spent so much time away from home, I did not have the opportunity to visit with my sister as I would have wished. But then again, I did not see much of my parents or other siblings, either. My siblings were eleven and twelve years younger than I was, and we had few interests in common.
For many years, my main contact with Carol occurred in the summer, when she would come home to Pennsylvania for visits of a week or so. The housemother from the Training School always came along to supervise her care, as nobody was ever sure how well Carol would adapt to our family, or our family to her. All in all, I think we adapted fairly well. Carol seemed to recognize us during her visits, and we included her in activities such as playing in the wading pool. But we knew that she had her own life, and it was no longer a part of ours. Usually she kept to herself and her own activities.
When I entered Antioch College in Ohio, I, too, found my own life. There I learned about Occupational Therapy, a new field that combined two interests of mine—medicine and the creative use of the mind through the workings of one’s own hands. After several years of learning and internship, I became an Occupational Therapist, and have worked in this field since early 1949. For many years, I worked with psychiatric patients, then in Geriatrics, and now, for the past seven years, with the mentally retarded.
About a year after I had launched my career, the first edition of The Child Who Never Grew was released. Strange as it may seem, I have no recollection of its publication. One reason may be that I was no longer living at home and was therefore not aware of the flood of letters and visits from parents that the book unleashed. Another reason is that Mother was a prolific writer. I do not remember her ever really discussing any of her books with me, except during the time she used the pseudonym “John Sedges” to write about topics other than China. So, although it may have been a painful struggle for my mother to decide to reveal the truth about Carol, the decision obviously did not harm me in any way.
On one of my brief visits home, sometime in the 1960s, Mother told me that she had learned the reason for Carol’s mental retardation. Carol had an unusual disease called PKU (phenylketonuria). This condition resulted from an inability to metabolize phenylalanine, an essential amino acid. In addition to causing mental retardation, PKU was also associated with blond hair, blue eyes, eczema of the skin, and an overpowering, musty odor, which was perhaps due to the inability to absorb or process protein. (Carol had all of these attributes.) Mother explained that the condition was inherited, and must have been present in both her genes and Lossing’s genes. When we learned about PKU, a method of diagnosing the condition by testing urine samples from the diaper had recently been developed. Today a simple blood test is used to detect the condition in newborns, and a diet low in phenylalanine can prevent mental retardation from developing.
I think my mother had mixed feelings about discovering the cause of Carol’s mental retardation. Mostly I remember her relief at learning that she was not completely to blame. But I also feel that she had trouble accepting that her family’s genes may have contributed to this disorder. Both her brother, Edgar, and her sister, Grace, also had children with handicaps. (One had a child with severe cerebral palsy, and the other, a child who stuttered abnormally.)
Although the test and treatment for PKU were developed too late to prevent Caro
l’s mental retardation, the title of my mother’s book was somewhat misleading. Despite her PKU, Carol did grow, both physically and mentally. Over the years, I watched her achieve her own potential, thanks to the loving care and concern of the dedicated staff of the Training School at Vineland. They helped her each step of the way, taking to heart their responsibility to ensure the success of those whose lives and growth were entrusted to them.
For most of her life, Carol went to school during the day. She enjoyed school and the activities that were included in her daily routine, and her structured life was good for her. Although I am sure it was not easy to teach her (her attention span was short and she could be strong-minded), she mastered a variety of academic and functional skills over the years. She never learned to read or write, but she did learn to color, write her name, and verbalize her needs. She also learned to sew simple projects and to master many self-care skills that enhanced her independence. She learned to bathe and dress herself with some supervision, to tie her shoelaces, to be independent in toileting and tooth brushing, and to comb and brush her hair with verbal reminders. She also became skilled at using a fork and spoon after she gave up chopsticks, which she preferred for about the first ten years she was at school.
Outside of the classroom, Carol pursued two main interests: music and sports. The love for music described in The Child Who Never Grew continued to deepen until it became, perhaps, Carol’s most calming support. In the playroom in her suite, there was an upright piano on which Mother would play nursery songs while they both sang along. Carol also learned to operate her phonograph and play whatever struck her fancy—whether it be children’s songs, modern music, or classical symphonic music. She actually preferred children’s songs or nursery rhymes and often sang or hummed along with the music. When she did not like a song or a rendition of a song, she would change the record and put it underneath the pile. After records started becoming obsolete, I made sure that Carol always had a radio she could listen to. She enjoyed carrying one around with her, but dropped it often, especially when she forgot to unplug it from the wall. I replaced her radio about twice a year.
Carol also demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for different sports, perhaps because her physical abilities were always far above the norm for individuals with PKU. At an early age, she learned to roller skate proficiently. She always loved her three-wheeled bicycle and rode it around the grounds until the final few years of her life. Throughout the years, she excelled in the Special Olympics, mainly in running events, and proved herself proficient in shooting baskets just a few years ago.
Carol Buck at 70
As Carol grew older, she was trained to do simple vocational tasks. Probably sometime in her fifties, she was placed in a workshop on the school grounds. Unfortunately, this endeavor did not last long. First, Carol’s short attention span made it difficult for her to remain focused on her work. Second, although her fine motor skills were good, she quickly became frustrated when pieces did not fit together easily. And third, there was less one-on-one training than Carol had been accustomed to receiving in school, and she had trouble functioning without this intensive guidance. Finally, the staff at Vineland decided that it was not in Carol’s best interest to continue with the vocational training, so another avenue was opened up for her.
Carol became an active participant in the Senior Enrichment Program at the school. She joined a group of adults her age, and began participating in group activities suited to her age and skills. The group members went on field trips, cooked, worked on craft projects, and participated in a variety of other activities you could find in any community-based Senior Center. All activities were supervised by staff members, who continued to help Carol and the others improve their skills.
Besides growing mentally and physically, Carol also developed her own personality. Although sometimes she appeared aloof, she was always a friendly, outgoing person. At times, she could express deep caring—for example, by putting her hand on my shoulder, looking intently into my face, and calling me “Honey.” She could be very demanding in a loud, authoritative way, but usually her behavior improved if she was corrected with gentle, persistent firmness. Generally, she got along better with the staff at Vineland than she did with her peers. After all, the staff members were the ones who always assisted her and gave her support and guidance, and to whom she communicated her needs and wants. In the early years, she was close with the housemother who lived in her cottage and oversaw the care of all the girls in the cottage. Later, of course, there were other housemothers. After Vineland stopped using housemothers, there were still many caring women who came in for different shifts during the day and night. Despite Carol’s occasional bossiness, she was well liked by the staff. The staff members treated her with jovial good humor, and, frankly, sometimes spoiled her.
After I became Carol’s guardian in 1973, I began making quarterly visits to Vineland. For nearly twenty years, we spent many happy times together, enjoying the activities that my sister quietly dictated. Whenever I went to visit, I usually brought her a package of gifts such as clothing, records, a harmonica or similar musical toy, candy, peanuts, and instant coffee and pumpkin pie for our treat. Carol would examine her gifts, and then usually ask to go for a short ride in my car. Then it was back to the senior cottage where she lived. There we ate our treat and listened to the new records. Our visits usually lasted for several hours—Carol always watched me carefully to make sure I did not leave too soon. Carol’s speech was not clear, and since I did not see her daily, I often found it difficult to understand her sentences. But when she spoke in clear, single words, I could usually understand what she was trying to express. She seemed to understand me quite well, but I had to keep the communication simple.
Throughout the years since our mother’s death, I remained my sister’s link to her past, as well as her support in the present. As her only immediate family, I tried to help her feel that she was still a part of someone else’s life, even though Mother no longer came to visit. I never tried to explain about Mother’s death, partly because Carol never asked about her, and partly because I doubted that she would understand the concept of death. But it was clear that she remembered her family. During one of my early visits, I came across three professional photographs and asked her who they were. To each one, and appropriately, she answered: “Father, Mother, Janice.” (My picture had been taken when I was four, and I could see no resemblance to the way I look now.) We each went our own ways, and we each understood the other’s independence, but our moments together remained special for us both.
I truly believe that Carol had a good life at Vineland and was able to mature in her own way, despite the lack of close family ties. In March 1992, she celebrated her seventy-second birthday. This was something we had not been certain would occur. In mid-1991 she became ill, and a routine chest x-ray revealed cancer in the left lung. A biopsy confirmed the cancer, and after further testing the decision was made to excise the tumor. Unfortunately, the tests had not shown the extent of the metastasis, so although the operation was performed, the tumor was not removed.
Carol was a good patient, and recovered well from her operations. Mild doses of chemotherapy gave her relief from serious symptoms and she made considerable improvement for the first few months. Then, another chest x-ray disclosed that the cancer was beginning to progress. Carol had no respiratory distress, however, so she was allowed to continue with her daily, active routine. She was carefully monitored, and received the best of care from an attentive and loving staff.
Carol Buck died peacefully in her sleep during the afternoon of September 30, 1992. She had begun to slow down considerably during the preceding weeks, but did not show any discomfort or pain. A simple memorial service was conducted by the staff and residents of the Training School, and interment was on the grounds where she had spent so many years of her life. I know she will be remembered fondly.
If I played a role in shaping Carol’s life, I think it is fair to say tha
t she also played a role in shaping my life. I think that I became the person I am at least in part because she was my sister. I am not a person who easily judges people by what they can or cannot do, nor do I judge them by what they think, or how they may perform a task. Each of us has a way of doing what we can, and in what manner we can. I have always felt close to those who did not have the abilities to succeed or perform as so-called “normal” people did, but it was not until now, when asked to write this Afterword, that I realized that each of us, no matter what our talents, has our own voice and can help others in our own way.
Another gift that Carol gave me is a special insight into our mother’s thoughts and actions. Specifically, I drink I understand something about her relationship with her own children, as well as her need to reach out to other children throughout the world. This insight has come only recently, as I have learned more about Carol’s early years and my mother’s anguish over this birth child. As I look back, I wonder how different her life might have been if it were not for this child. Were the compulsive drives to achieve her monumental goals spurred on by her need for perfection—her need to overcome her feelings of inadequacy caused by the birth of Carol—and her need to provide for the care of this daughter?
During Carol’s early years, I do not believe that Pearl’s own life was fulfilling. Deep in her heart, I think she felt that she had other needs to attend to. Her own destiny had been set aside while she pursued a life that was common and normal during the 1920s: marriage, children, family. Carol’s birth changed all this, and eventually changed my mother’s life, as she was driven to find a way to provide for her daughter.
The Child Who Never Grew touches briefly on my mother’s quest to find an avenue to provide for the care her child would require. What resources did she have as a teacher, and as the wife of a missionary? The only thing that she knew might help in this dilemma was her desire and ability to write—and what was she to write of but the people closest to her, whose struggles she felt nearest to? And so began the outpouring of her heart to relate the stories of those she saw struggling for life and the fulfillment of their dreams. Slowly but steadily, these stories came to life: East Wind-West Wind, The Good Earth, The Exile, The Mother, The Fighting Angel, Sons, A House Divided….
The Child Who Never Grew (nonfiction) Page 9