When Cass was first born I used to believe that she would break all the records for people with Down syndrome. I believed if I worked with her hard enough, if I just pushed her the right amount, if only I had enough faith in her, I could will her “normal.”
It may be inaccurate to say that I believed those things when she was first born. When she was first born I had very little faith actually. Really all I felt in those first few days was despair.
But then she had to go to the NICU because there was a hole in her heart. She lived there for the first seven days of her life. And in the neighboring bassinet was a premature baby I’ve come to call Anna.
Anna was very sick. Very very sick. The doctors had purposefully given her medication that paralyzed her because every movement she made depleted any energy that might otherwise help aid her growth.
I looked on at baby Anna when I went to the NICU to deliver my milk. I admired her tiny whisper of a body as I rocked my own sleeping baby.
One day, when I came for my regular visit, I was denied entrance because of an emergency in the NICU. I was only permitted to briefly go in and deposit my milk in the refrigerator.
There, right next to my daughter’s bassinet, I saw a crowd of people huddled around baby Anna. Her young mother was there, and her father. There were other people too, one of them, a priest.
That moment changed the way I felt about my broken newborn daughter. When once I had questioned God’s motive, I now thanked Him for His wisdom. When once I secretly wished He would just take this burden from my shoulders, I now felt humbled by the blessing He’d bestowed on us.
And that was when I began believing I would turn Cassidy into something incredible. Something who defied the odds. A miracle.
For a long time I persevered in my hopes. Every compliment from her therapists only served to feed my fire, reassuring me that my child would be unlike any that had come before her.
Gradually the delays in Cassidy’s development became apparent. She fell further and further behind her peers.
To my surprise, I wasn’t crushed. What I always imagined would feel like a failure, didn’t.
Over the years my perspective, needless to say, has changed. Somewhat anyway. I no longer have my hopes pinned on Cassidy breaking any records, though my goals for her are still lofty.
What I’ve come to understand is that when it comes to Cassidy, my timeline means nothing. You can imagine the ways in which her very presence in my life has taught me patience. And, that, let me assure you, is amazing in itself.
Truly incredible though, are the accomplishments this baby girl has made in spite of the obstacles tangled up in her genetic material.
Just this evening, I heard a commotion in the backyard and looked up from making dinner to see Little Miss pedaling past the window on her bike.
The bike was a Christmas gift, given eight months ago. I shopped for it hopefully, sure that somehow the glossy pink paint and the iridescent streamers hanging from the handlebar grips would entice her to do that which she’d been unable to thus far.
We’ve been working on and off since Christmas on the concept of pedaling. No matter the method I tried though, she couldn’t quite get her feet to follow that circular motion. For the longest time, she just didn’t get it.
And then, suddenly, she did.
Today.
As in, by herself. With not a soul trailing behind, pushing to spare her the pedaling.
And though it might not break any records, I can attest to the achievement.
Because whether it’s her first steps, her first words, or her first successful bike ride, this much I know is true: it didn’t come easy.
I suppose I’m not far off of my initial belief that she would be a miracle. Because, well, she most certainly is.
Christmas 2007
