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Once they knew the diagnosis, the Massies, like most parents in their situation, watched anxiously as their son bumped into furniture. (Suzanne remembers realizing, after she had swathed their entire apartment, that there was no way to pad the whole world.) Inevitably, the growing boy fell and suffered the agonies of internal bleeding and of constantly necessary blood transfusions. The parents blamed themselves whenever he was hurt. At times, the burden became unbearable. Robert Massie confesses how relieved he felt when his job (at Newsweek and later the Saturday Evening Post) legitimately took him away from home, freeing him briefly from his continuing responsibility. Suzanne admits that she once considered suicide and writes: "A person living with hemophilia can become paralyzed with fright, like a rat in a maze who has met with an electric shock at every innocent-looking exit until finally he simply turns frantically in circles, afraid to try any more doors."
Swallowed Pride. The Massies display touching and deep appreciation for those who helped them escape from this paralysis—among them the doctor who defied tradition to teach them how to handle Bobby's transfusions at home and the calm Russian princess, now living in a New York suburb, who had played as a child with her hemophiliac cousin, the doomed Czarevitch Alexis. But the book does not mince words about the American medical system, which tends to hinder rather than help hemophiliacs. The Massies' anger is understandable. American blood bankers, by and large, have done little to bring down the cost of the blood fractions that hemophiliacs must have. The American Red Cross, which collects 40% of all the blood in the U.S., has in fact lately agreed to turn over some of its blood to the Hyland Division of Baxter Laboratories, a commercial concern that charges twice as much for the hemophiliac fractions as some doctors say it should cost. "I understand your concern," a company official told Robert Massie, "but my sales people are always against lowering prices. Remember, I have to think of theirs too."
Bobby Massie is more fortunate than most hemophiliacs. His parents were not wealthy, but they were determined. They swallowed their pride and ran campaigns to collect the blood he needed, pleading with friends, relatives and even strangers for donations of the vital fluid. (The problem, writes Robert, was not in being grateful, but in having to be grateful: "Nobody likes to beg for charity. And begging for blood is just as hard, maybe harder, than begging for money.") They concealed their fears and sent him to school, then hid their hurt when his classmates called him "leather legs" because he wore padded braces to support his swollen knees.
The result of their efforts—and courage—is obvious. Young Massie, now 18, is a freshman at Princeton. The disease has permanently damaged his knees, and he must use an electric cart to get around at college. But he has served as an aide to Scoop Jackson in the Senate, learned to fly, swims more than 1,500 yds. a day in college, working out regularly with the swimming team. Journey makes hauntingly clear that Bobby's spirit is intact. In a post script the boy rejects the suggestion, sometimes made to him, that his or deal has been a blessing in disguise.