The Aftermath of Hannah’s Diagnosis

This post is essentially what prompted the idea of the blog. Every word existed in my mind for months but it took weeks to actually write them all out. Then it took another week to work up the courage to sit here, ready to give the world a piece of my heart. There were a lot of tears and a lot of chocolate was consumed in the making of this post.


My heart was broken when we received Hannah’s Down syndrome diagnosis. It was as if the labor contractions I had experienced just 30 minutes earlier migrated to my heart with the sole goal of demolishing it The emotional shock was so overpowering that it made my body ache. I was physically present but my mind was disconnected from reality, like it was all a dream. It’s a sensation I hope to never experience again.

Hannah was kept in the nursery for testing, then transferred to a children’s hospital in the evening. It was about 36 hours before I saw her again, the strangest and most depressing 36 hours of my life. My soul hurt and my heart was empty, crushed. Every positive emotion connected to bringing a child into the world was cancelled out by an equally powerful negative emotion. The strongest of all was fear. I was afraid no one would love Hannah. I was afraid I wouldn’t love Hannah.

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Hannah’s ride to the children’s hospital

I practically ran through the hospital’s parking deck the morning we went to see her. My stomach was sick from a mixture of nerves and adrenaline. I needed to see my baby. I needed to fill that emptiness. I needed her to put my heart back together. One look at her chubby face and she had me. One look and I knew I’d love her unconditionally until the end of time.

My love for Hannah didn’t change the fact that I felt cheated and the grief of losing the daughter I was expecting hit me hard. Even though I now know the grieving period is normal and expected, there are days that I’m ashamed of my weakness and embarrassed by my ignorance.

An innocent Google search to learn about my daughter overwhelmed me with an endless supply of statistics and probabilities that did nothing but encourage more anxiety and uneasiness. Family members writing in Down syndrome forums said the children in their lives were miracles and blessings. I thought these people were insane. How could a child with physical and cognitive delays be a blessing? You were blessed with a life of exclusion, stares from strangers, a child that can’t and won’t be able to do the simplest things? I was sure these people were lying to themselves. Hannah’s wasn’t a special baby – she was a Special baby. She had a defective heart. She was broken.

I blamed everyone for Hannah’s extra chromosome. I told myself we should have waited longer after our miscarriage, that my body clearly hadn’t understood the science of multiplying cells. I blamed the doctors for never noticing any signs on the ultrasounds. I blamed my obstetrician for assuring me that my genetic test results were good enough. I blamed myself for not trusting my gut and insisting on an amniocentesis. I blamed God. It felt like a punishment, a life sentence of hard labor for two people who were already working hard. I didn’t understand why God would give a child with special needs to a couple that was not financially or emotionally strong enough to handle her.

Daydreaming about the future would spiral out of control. That one chromosome plagued every thought and crushed every dream. Hannah would have friends as a toddler, while she was still cute and her delays were shrugged off as being young. After a few years the cuteness would wear off and our friends would stop inviting us over. It would be too hard for them to have us around. Our only friends would be other families in the Down syndrome community. People would stare at us in public, feeling pity not empathy, for our sad lives. Hannah would struggle in school and spend recess and lunch alone for more than a decade of her life. Afternoons would be spent in therapy and doing physical and mental exercise instead of chasing friends in the backyard, squealing in delight. Hannah would live with us her entire life. There would be no retirement. We wouldn’t get to cash out at 65. We wouldn’t have a child to take care of us in our old age. We would not be grandparents. We would only be Mom and Dad.  

One day the grieving stopped. When Hannah was about 3 months old a coworker asked me how she was doing. My response was a single word – perfect. It was true. Hannah always was and always will be the most perfect human being in the world. I was the broken one. I had no experience with the world of special needs prior to Hannah and had no concept of what Down syndrome meant for our future and for Hannah’s life. As I educated myself I became disgustingly aware of my ignorance. I didn’t know we joined a community of beautiful and courageous families. I didn’t know there are advocates whose life work is to spread awareness. I didn’t know to stop seeing Down syndrome as a disability.

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I still have bad days and struggle to drown out the ‘what ifs’ and ‘how comes’. I see children younger than Hannah practicing a skill that she’s not ready to attempt. Comparison is an ugly game and we will rarely win. The future still scares me. If I’m not careful my imagination will push me over the edge into a sea of hopelessness. I remind myself that Hannah will run around with friends. She will ride a bicycle. She will be included in school. She will go to college. She will do all these things and many more but she will do them when she’s ready. No one will rush my baby and no one, God help them, will limit her.

When I look at Hannah I don’t see Down syndrome. I see a little girl who wakes up every morning with a smile. I see the determination in her eyes to grab a toy just out of reach. I see a scar that reminds me of how much she struggled during her first few months of life. While I’m not at the point where I can say Down syndrome is a blessing, I know that Hannah is. Every day I am thankful for the time I have with her. I am thankful that her heart defect was repairable. I will get to see her grow up, unlike so many families who have lost children. Hannah was given to us to teach us about true love and compassion, to make us strong, and to spread joy (which she already does so well). I would never take Hannah’s extra chromosome away from her. It is the foundation of her life. Without it there would be no Hannah and I can’t imagine my life without her.

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2 thoughts on “The Aftermath of Hannah’s Diagnosis

  1. What a beautiful blog, not at first, but at the finish. I remember trying to be upbeat for you knowing your dreams were crushed at the time. Being removed from postpartum unit to a regular bed didn’t help at the hospital. The nurses did not know what you needed as if you had stayed on a postpartum unit. It was all together the worst experience ever. You have erased all negatives and have done wonders for Hannah. She is not so behind as non-chanengedbabies. You are the best mom ever. Hannah is awesome, I love her smiles, her serious look and her belly laugh and babble. So glad we got to see her this past weekend. Gamy was a charm too.
    Love you guys, mom

    Like

  2. Denise

    I remember the days at the hospital were the worse. I couldn’t just be with my boy whenever I wanted to be, or needed to be. Heartbreaking.
    But you’ve got that girl now to hold and love fiercely. Don’t stop what you’re doing ❤ It's working!

    Liked by 1 person

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