In a few weeks, the day before Easter that is, my son will turn 14. He is the baby. Born into Prince status, my hubbie breathed a sigh of relief that finally he had a child that didn't require tampons when he reached teendom. Having three girls already, we had often laughed about our lack of stock in Tampax Corporation.
So there was my son, small by my previous spawn standards. He had shocking red hair, that stood straight up. Mohawk seeking wannabes cried at the sight the world over. Try as I might in the days following his birth, that rooster hair would not lie down, he had a cowlick of phenominal proportion.
We named him Gabriel, and the Dr. quietly asked if he looked like anyone else in the family. This was his subtle way of trying to explain that my son had been born "different." I knew immediately that my son had Downs Syndrome Of course the Doctor went on to explain that he suspected that our son had Down's Syndrome, but would need extensive genetic testing to prove it.
The nurses kept trying to whisk Gabriel away, wanting to clean and weigh him, but I wouldn't let them. I wanted him there on his back, looking up at me on the bed, while the Doctor droned on. I didn't want to concentrate too hard on the diagnosis, preferring instead to stare into the steady gaze of my newborn son. I felt pressured to know him, as though in those few moments the imprint of my sons soul would be permantly be burned on my brain.
The absolute stillness of those moments when Gabriel was born were affirming and reassuring for us both, mother and son. We were a team, capable of walking together, in the midst of chaos.
It was chaotic in the first few months. Gabe was diagnosed with a heart condition common in Downs children. The first four months of his life were spent in constant stress and uproar. He was in a perpetual state of mild congestive heart failure, that would flare without warning and require frenzied trips to the emergency room. He was on special formula to help him gain weight in anticipation of the open heart surgery he required. He was also on a diuretic to keep fluid around his heart from building. Yet still, we had crisis after crisis, and knew Gabe's Pediatric Cardiologist well enough to hug him when we saw him.
Somehow, we got through those early years, better than I had first thought. Still, something happens to a marriage, when faced with such intolerable stress. Hubbie and I were blessed and have managed to be grateful for what we have. We have managed to stay together despite the stress.
So in a few weeks that frail newborn will turn fourteen. He lost his shocking red crown, in favor of dirty blonde, and his hair no longer stands straight up. Gabe is cheerful and endearing, despite his daily challenges. Happy Birthday Baby!
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