The First Day of his Life

“It’s a boy. . .” The midwife began, “. . . But he has a very short cord. We need to make sure everything’s ok.” And she placed him on the new-born station, across the room, to check him over.

The busyness from the gaggle of midwives suddenly slowed and their chatter subdued to whispers, inaudible. One left the room. I closed my eyes, too tired to be concerned. I must have slept for she seemed to re-enter instantly with a doctor in tow.

“We’d just like the doctor to take a look at him, then you can hold him.”

More indecipherable exchanges. Andy was scrutinising their faces, straining to hear what they were saying, his eyebrows pinched, his eyes worried.

The midwife finally brought Benjamin over, “We suspect he may have Downs Syndrome. But we need to do some blood tests before confirming our suspicions.”

What? My befuddled brain exploded!

“It’ll be ten days before we have the results. You can hold him for a minute, then we must put him into an incubator to keep warm.”

I looked into my baby’s face, it was red and misshaped from the trauma of birth. But Downs Syndrome? No! They must be mistaken! I held him close, tight, but all too soon she took him away and left the room.

Those two words she’d spoken so easily, battled with my previous inner visions of long chats and board games, horse-riding and nature trails, homework and travel. . . 

Another nurse helped me into a wheelchair and, with Andy pushing, led us through numerous corridors to the Intensive Care Baby Unit. I was in a dream - no a nightmare and my inner turmoil could be neither voiced nor silenced.

“The short cord pulled out a part of his bowel,” She began, “We’re worried he might have an intestinal blockage, so we’re sending him to a London hospital, they’ll repair the hernia and do a barium meal test to check for blockages.” 

Downs Syndrome? London hospital? Blockages? What next?

“Can I go too?” I sounded pathetic.

“No, I’m sorry,” she replied “They have no beds for parents. The ambulance will arrive in thirty minutes.” And then she left.

We had such a short time to gaze at Ben in his incubator, searching his face for signs of Downs Syndrome while mulling over the ramifications. He looked lost and alone, this tiny, flailing new being screaming, red faced at the indignity of that sterile box. I wanted to pick him up and hold him close, try to obliterate those two terrible words, but I was not allowed.

Once Ben had left, Andy wheeled me to the private room they had offered ‘under the circumstances’, returning to the farm once I was settled. It felt empty, I felt empty and the baby’s cot beside the bed was empty.

Various nurses came and went, but all avoided eye contact and conversation - whether through embarrassment of my tears, fear of being asked for support or the idea that having a disabled child was so terrible they could think of nothing positive to say, who knows? But their attitude towards me merely compounded my desolation. 

****

Later that afternoon Andy returned, so the paediatrician took the opportunity to see us together.

“The blood sample is for chromosomal analysis, or karyotype, which will determine if he has Downs Syndrome. Most people have 23 pairs of chromosomes. . .” And so he droned on. In my shock I could take little in, until . . . Bang!

“. . . He will be mentally handicapped.”

Those words hadn’t even entered my head!

“He’ll never learn to read or write. He won’t be able to ride a bike or play football and, because of the bowel-hernia, he’ll have intestinal problems. Most Down’s children have heart problems, and they often have respiratory problems. Because of the hypotonia it’s unlikely he’ll be able to feed properly.”

My mind reeled, surely this isn’t happening.

“You don’t have to keep the baby, you can leave him here; babies with Down’s are a very popular adoption choice nowadays as it's become almost impossible to adopt a normal baby.”

My eyes snapped to his face, my reply perhaps too harsh, but I couldn’t stop myself, “I have cared for every sick or injured animal or bird that has ever came my way, to reject my own son, whatever his problems, is NOT an option!”

His face coloured, “Well I expect you’ll want some time together for everything to sink in. Any questions?”

I had thousands, but could voice none, we both shook our heads and turned to study the floor as he left. We were dumb-struck by the prognosis and sat in silent shock.

Finally Andy spoke. “Blimey! He sounds pretty sure of his diagnosis, looks like this blood test, karyo thingy will show up positive.” I nodded.

As we gradually grasped the implications of all we’d heard, we began to understand what it could mean, what it might bring . . . and the future looked bleak.

“Sounds to me like he’s going to be pretty sickly and weak,” My rugby playing husband began, “He’s got loads wrong with him, and it doesn’t sound likely he’ll improve much over time.”

“No, it doesn’t. All those health problems . . . do you think he’ll survive?”

“It may be better if he doesn’t, it could be a happy release for him . . . and for us.”

I knew he was right on the first count, and possibly on the second too. But I’d carried this child for nine months, I’d dreamt of everything we’d do together. . .

“You think it’d be better if he died?”

Andy couldn’t meet my eyes and stared at his boots. “Yes.”

“But maybe they’re wrong, maybe the tests will be clear.”

“Maybe, but that doctor was pretty sure of himself, he’s probably right, I mean, it is his job, he should know.”

And my silence screamed acquiescence.