Dear Baby D

Dear Baby D...

 

When they called me about you, I was teaching a class full of children. I saw our foster care coordinator’s name (Sherry) pop up on my phone. I’m not allowed to answer my phone at work. I did that day though. I always will when she calls. 

She said, “Katie, I have a 3 month old baby boy.” I said, “When do I pick him up?” She said, “Katie, wait. You need to know some things first.” Deep sigh. “He is terminally ill. He is one of many siblings, the past two of which have died from this genetic disease. He has Neurofibromatosis. We aren’t sure of his prognosis. He has never been to a doctor. He might die in your care. We think he is deaf also. Now, will you take him?” 

I told her I would have to call my husband. I told him about you. We knew we had to consider what losing you would do to us, to our other children. I went in to my boss’s office. I told her about you. I asked her advice- she gave none. I walked back to my classroom and called Sherry. “I’ll take him. Of course I will take him. I love him already. He deserves a family.” 

The first time I laid eyes on you, I was overwhelmed. With love, with emotion, with fear. Would I be able to give you what you need? I will do my best, because darling, you deserve my best. I loved you then. 

Over the first several weeks with you, you didn’t smile, you barely interacted, you struggled to breathe. When you were hospitalized for pneumonia, a double ear infection and the flu at 4 months old, I knew that you were my child. That may sound odd. Every child I foster has my heart, but not every child is mine. I stayed awake for 39 hours that first two days. My child was sick and you needed me. I held you. I sang to you, and it didn’t matter that I sang poorly. You watched my lips move, you smiled at me. You stole my heart. Forever.

You will be 8 months old in a few days. In the upcoming month, we will learn so much more about your prognosis. Neurology is sending you for an MRI to check for brain tumors. The ENT is sending you for a Sedated Auditory Brainstem Response to figure out the extent of your hearing loss. The Physical Therapist expects you to start rolling over and/or sitting up finally. Orthotics will be fitting you with a cute little helmet with monkeys on it to help guide your head shape as it grows. The Pulmonologist will be impressed by how well you are breathing these days. The Opthamologist will be checking you for ocular tumors. We are about to find out so much about your Anatomy and Physiology, a class that I took four times in college because science is hard. 

All of those diagnoses and doctors do NOT define you, though, my child. 
You are defined by your contagious smile. 
You are defined by the dozens of delicious, pudgy, caramel colored rolls on your arms, legs and tummy. 
You are defined by the accomplishments you have made. 
You smile. 
You laugh. 
You play. 
You reach for toys. 
You cry for me, your mama.
You reach for me. 
I will always reach for you baby boy. 
I will fight for you. 
I will advocate for you. 
And if that day comes where my heart is broken from having to give you back or give you to God, I will never ever stop loving you. 
I will always be your mama and you will always be my baby boy.