Ten Toes

*Re-print from my personal blog. Written July 2011

Ten Toes.

"He is missing some toes."

For some reason, during the midst of learning our son, whom we had grown to deeply love at 22 weeks gestation, was at best going to struggle with significant health issues throughout his then determined short life...that one sentence resonated and stomped on the pieces of my freshly broken heart.

Ten fingers. Ten toes.

Something most doctors quickly celebrate and joyfully proclaim to the beaming father and teary-eyed mother upon first meeting their precious, newly-birthed baby.

I was cautiously joyful upon Deakon's arrival.  I believe a mother can only hear "Your child is not going to live" a couple of times before trauma sets in. As the doctor and his partner were preparing to deliver Deakon, via c-section, I heard my doctor whisper to the other, "She is preparing to have a handicapped child."

Wow, I thought my heart was broken before.

Deakon was blue when he was born.  He didn't cry quickly like other babies.

I didn't get to even touch him.

The nurse whisked him away to be prodded and poked and hooked up to tubes, and my heart stood still.

As she came back into the room, and while the doctors were fixing what they discovered to be a pretty severely damaged uterus (thank you placenta previa), I became fixated on one thing...his toes.

"Did you count his toes? How many does he have?"

Why didn't anyone tell me this? Isn't that what they do?

The nurse, sensing my panic, (as irrational as it must have seemed considering I wasn't even certain Deak was breathing), ran out of the room promising me she would go count and let me know.

Within minutes, she replied, "He has ten toes. Ten. A couple of 'em are just kinda hiding in the back."

Even as I write this, I feel the warm rush of relief run through my veins.

I knew it.

He was going to be okay.

I was not able to see Deakon until my doctor saw me back inside my hospital room and realized no one had taken me to the NICU.  He barged in there, pushing my bed and told the nurses I needed to see my son.

I did need to see my son.

I took one look at him, very much oblivious to the monitors beeping and tubes through his nose and IV taped down to his skull, and felt joy.

"He looks like me," I said aloud.

I noticed others' eyes in the room turn downwards in pity, clearly seeing the differences in his nose structure, noticing the eyes a little more widely set and thin, flat eyelids.

Not me.
I saw the ridge of his forehead and his face shaped more oval than Abby's.  I saw his blue eyes and blond, blond hair.

I did not see DNA splattered with Ring Chromosomes.

I saw me.

He was mine.

He had made it, and I loved him with my entire soul.

Today I was feeling really sorry for myself.

And actually, yesterday too.

I think I have too much time for thinking on my hands; and me and thinking time are not friends.

Plus, I haven't been sleeping.

I just can't.

I sat next to Deak and his mattress island of fun, while feeding him some corn dogs and thought to myself, "I'd really love to have normal problems - like what to make for dinner, or making time to go to the gym."

Not that I don't have those problems, because I absolutely do, I am just craving normal.

Normal. Normal. Normal.

I think my heart is running on fumes.

Then, I saw these.

My boy's perfect toes.

All of them.

I love the way they stick together and push the one out in the middle.

I saw them and I remembered.

I remembered the sharpness of the pain that I felt at the thought of never having the opportunity to kiss those little feet.

And, everything became better.

How could I allow myself to wallow, while my Deak has been the one who has endured?
He has handled this life with happiness and gratitude. 

Gratitude to just be him, and to just be here.

I feel like I constantly have to learn this lesson of acceptance, and on dark days, it can still ride a low tide.
But, not anymore today.

How grateful I am, to get to live with this boy whose patience re-teaches me over and over and over again.

I am grateful for those ten toes and the spirit of truth that has come with them.

 I am grateful for a Lord who believes I have the strength to watch those toes grow old.

*I do this race because of days like this.

Days where the clarity flows and gratitude prevails.

Register Today, if even in "Spirit" and join us in helping to secure more days of hope for those living with Chromosome 18 abnormalities.

Just a couple of seconds and a few computer clicks really can help.

Love,

Jenny