On the day she was born they told me this child had Down syndrome.
They said it in a way that left me broken. Desperate. And alone.
They said that if we were lucky she would learn to dress herself someday.
They said that she’d be mentally retarded.
They said she wouldn’t breastfeed successfully.
They said she had a hole in her heart.
They called her a “Downsie” with a callousness that still eats at me.
They said she might live to see forty.
I cried. I thrashed. I grieved. I fell lower than ever before and believe me, I’ve lived through my fair share of stuff.
I bent over the bathtub of my empty hospital room and fell to pieces right there on the floor. I prayed.
God see me through.
And He did. I felt Him lift me up off of that floor.
The next day a dark African nurse with a very thick accent came and prayed at my bedside. She was a mother, like me, of a child with Down syndrome. She prayed as I cried. She prayed that the Lord cast Cassidy’s Down syndrome into the sea.
But guess what.
This child did breastfeed. For over a year.
This child learned to walk. And talk. And even dress herself.
This child is strong. This child is courageous. This child is a light.
This child has more friends than I dreamed she would. She’s cunning and cute and more frustrating than all three of other children put together.
This child is a blessing.
And now. This child is reading.
This child. Is reading.
Did you hear that Dr. what’s-your-name in Augusta, Georgia?