A new son

We always knew there was something developmentally wrong about Errol. At first, we put it down to his heart. Later, we figured he had lost time in the hospital that he’d catch up once he was home. Always, we were hopeful for Errol, but there was a nagging fear that Errol wasn’t quite right. The more I worried about Errol, the more I would argue with Cary that Errol was fine, and the more I would hold on to any tiny thing that might bolster my theory that Errol was going to be fine. The less I believed it, the more I argued it (argued myself really). I was desperate. Cary was desperate. We could see through our own hope, and others were too nice to argue with us. On top of it all, we were so wound up with his heart problems, surgeries, and hospitalizations that we could tamp the deep dark truth about Errol's cognitive abilities down into our heart of hearts.

Then it was my birthday (#38). Errol was still in the hospital, so Cary and I had plans to celebrate my birthday amidst the machines, nurses, residents, and doctors. We needed an antidote to our misery, and after all, we weren’t going to let reality get in our way of a good celebration. At the same time, I was working (it was my first week of a new job) and Owen hadn’t started school yet. It felt like we were juggling thirty eight pins.

So on this day of celebration, after a full day of classes, as I was preparing to leave work, Cary called me in my office. She had been to the geneticist. She had a diagnosis to share. As soon as I said hello I could hear Cary's sobs. I girded myself for the worst (I was practiced by then) Cary sounded absolutely depleted.
“Tell me.” I said.
“I talked to the geneticist. It’s not good. Errol has a serious syndrome called Rubinstein-Taybi Syndrome.”
I swallowed hard. “What does that mean?” I asked. I wanted to know fast.
“It means he’s retarded." Cary cried out.
I had imagined this diagnosis for a long time, but that didn’t make it any better.
“Oh my God.” I started to cry.
Cary and I cried together and then she continued with the diagnosis. Hoping to soothe me with the facts. “The syndrome means he’s got a very low IQ. The heart defect is part of it. He’s going to be developmentally delayed.” Cary went on with more important details, but I couldn’t hear past the verdict: retarded. It was true. The more we talked, the longer before I couls be with her and Errol. I got off the phone and walked down the hall with tears running down my cheeks. I felt like I had lost someone (the son I had expected), but in fact, I had lost something I never really had (just hoped against hope that I did). I drove to the hospital way too fast and when I got there I kept my eyes to the floor as I headed to the sixth floor. When Cary and I embraced we cried and cried and cried-each comforting the other. Errol wasn't sad, he just grinned. Nothing had changed at all. It was that rainy last day of August on the 6th floor of the hospital that we started a new life with our new son.