Excerpt: For the Love of Trace (Title to be changed)

The room was white and surgical looking. I sat, watching him try to walk from one chair to the next with his wobbly legs; thankful he was standing upright at least and holding his own head. A far cry better than his first birthday several months ago when he had to be propped up with coats and a blanket just to sit in the McDonald’s highchair during his party.

So many things rolled through my mind. Worry, of what could possibly be wrong with him. Fear of the unknown and what was to come when the doctor finally came in to see us. Beads of sweat formed on my palms as I rubbed my hands on jeans and waited; wishing and praying. Please God! Don’t let it be something bad.

How bad could it be though? He looked normal. Beautiful in every way, shape and form. His blond curly locks cradled messily against his round chubby cherib face. He was gorgeous. He just wasn’t doing what he was supposed to – whatever that meant.

People ask me all the time when did I first begin to notice that something was different and my reply is always the same—before he was born. I know that seems impossible, but not for a mother and not for me. I knew something was going to be different with him before he even entered our world. Call it intuition. Call it a mother’s sick sense. Call whatever you want . I knew.

The pregnancy was a difficult one, more so than the others I’d had in the past. With Jacob, my oldest, it had been easy. Morning sickness for 3 months, a few hiccups along the way, born a full month early after 18 hours labor—and out he came.

With Trace it had been different.

I was sick all the way through the duration of carrying him inside of him. I felt like there was something wrong with him right from the start and I worried about it constantly. I had measured bigger than anticipated and at one point they thought maybe I was having twins. But the ultrasound showed only one child, growing normally, things appearing fine. But I knew different.

I knew he’d be different.

Different can be good though, right? I mean who isn’t different is only plain and unrecognizable, and Trace was far from unrecognizable. Everywhere we went people stopped us to stare and say hello to him. They couldn’t help it, and I don’t blame them. Something about him just seemed to captivate you and draw you in.

Labor was awful. But how great is labor really supposed to be? Especially when you shoot out a 7lb 9ounce baby boy in less than 20 minutes while passing out continuously due to the pain and complications arising. The damn doctor took too long to break my water and he was born dead.

I couldn’t watch them revive them. I could stand to see the tubes as they intabated his small throat to help him breath and pushing on his little chest to get the blood flowing. All I could do was cry into my husband’s arms, wish and pray he’d be all right and that sooner rather than later I’d finally get to hear him cry.

And when he finally did I got scared.

Not a typical reaction for a second time mom, but I was afraid. He looked so small and so weak. I knew things were wrong then but didn’t know what to do. When they released us fifteen hours after he was born; he was severely jaundice and that is when his breathing issues began and this long journey we were faced with now. We continued to wait. Trace playing happily with the chairs, sliding his foot out and falling onto his bum; he didn’t cry.

He barely cried, ever. It was strange but it seemed his pain tolerance was higher than usual for a child his age. He was constantly clumsy. Though that was to be considered, since he was heading toward being two and wasn’t walking yet and wasn’t thriving and we had no idea why.

That was why we were here. To figure out why and what was wrong with our baby. This was eighth visit we’d had at Children’s since Trace was born. We’d seen the endocrinologist. We’d seen the metabolic department. We’d had numerous blood tests taken, which were awful because they could never find his veins. I still get shivers just picturing them sticking his tiny arm over and over to draw the small amounts of blood they needed in order to find out why he was behaving and doing the things he was and wasn’t doing. Something no mother wants that for her child.

I was certainly no exception.

He looked at me but didn’t smile something that was common as of late. He didn’t really hug me either. I hated that, though I kept it secret and just pushed along like the good caregiver I was trying to be.

Caregiver—I hated that word but that is how I felt. For the past fifteen months since this beautiful blue-eyed boy had come to us. I’d felt more like a nurse / detective trying to figure out a big mystery that nobody had answers to, while caring for this tiny human being who needed my comfort and love. The trouble was he didn’t show much emotion and so getting close to him was difficult. More difficult than I’d ever imagined and I was beginning to think perhaps all of this was in my head and there was nothing wrong with my baby but more something wrong with me.

The door to the room opened and in walked a woman. She crossed the room without saying hello and sat down in the chair by the corner, near the window.

I held my breath. I had so many questions. There were so many things I wanted to say. I could feel the emotion swelling inside of me and choking me as though I had a large piece of meat caught in my throat and I was about to die from a lack of oxygen.

I said nothing. I just stared at her as she continued to watch my son in silence. I felt the growing pit of uncertainly growing in the pit of my stomach and could taste the bile rising to my throat. Speak! I wanted to scream at her. Tell us what it is!

“Mr. and Mrs. Shaw—”she began.

Both my husband and I looked at each other and he reached for my hand. I knew it was more to support me than it was him. Corey never worried about much and what he did worry about he often forgot later anyhow.

“You’re son is recovering from a brain injury.” The doctor said.

The words rolled off her tongue and for some reason my brain couldn’t quite process what she was saying. A brain injury? What did she mean a brain injury? How? Why? The questions bombarded me but I could not ask them. Not aloud anyhow.

“He has Cerebral Palsy...”