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Back in the delivery room, Mom was tired. She felt horrible and wonderful at the same time, if that’s possible. She always tells me she wanted a boy to be her first. I know my dad had big dreams about playing baseball with me — he’s a fan of all sports, golf, basketball, and football, but loves baseball the most. My mother just lay there with her eyes closed, picturing us in the backyard: Dad going all out the way he always does, putting down bases to create the perfect field. I’d be catching the ball and tossing it back. I remember hearing about the movie "Field of Dreams" and thinking Dad was probably like the star, Kevin Costner. He’d build the field and they would come, his and Mom’s first son, then their second and third. Mom shared that dream, too, with a tomboy daughter thrown into the mix somewhere.
Mamma Betty (my grandma — Mom’s mother) arrived to sit with Mom while Dad went with me. Dad liked to say Mom had a textbook pregnancy. But Mom remembers that day in the hospital when she felt what she calls her “mother’s instincts” — something wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it exactly.
After resting awhile, Mom called for the nurse, asking for me. When they finally brought me back to her and she held me, everything seemed normal again. She examined me: My eyes were still closed, which seemed natural enough for a baby just a few hours old. Dad returned, and they squeezed each of my fingers and toes. Everything checked out. She started to feel better, and she and Dad were able to have a “family moment.” Later that evening, the nurse who came to take me back to the nursery told my parents they’d get a full report from the pediatrician the next day.
The next morning, the nurse had brought me back to Mom, who noticed that my eyes were still closed. That’s when the doctor walked in to talk with my parents and told them I didn’t have any eyes. And he explained the details about the rest of my problems.
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“Your baby’s legs are deformed, and though it’s too early to tell, he may never be able to walk. And his arms ... they’re deformed, too, and he may not be able to use them the way other people do.”
The doctor wasn’t finished yet and was about to go on, but Mom held up her hand. She didn’t care what the rest was — she needed time to digest what he had told her about my eyes. She stared at my face.
After a few moments, my parents decided they had to know everything, and it might as well be now. “Go ahead,” my dad said quietly.
“The damage to your son could be more than physical, but we won’t know for sure and to what extent for quite a while.” That was too much for Mom. Although she was overwhelmed with all my physical problems, to add mental problems to the list was more than she could bear right then. Dad told the doctor they needed to be alone.
My parents would later learn that I didn’t have mental disabilities, which was the good news. All the rest at the time seemed to be really terrible. Mom didn’t want to blame the doctor, but she decided he didn’t know what he was talking about when he said my problems were permanent. It couldn’t be this bad. God wouldn’t let this happen. Right then, Mom decided that if there was a way to fix my problems, she’d find it, no matter what.
When it was time for Mom to leave the hospital, she couldn’t take me with her. On top of everything, I was jaundiced. The doctors told her jaundice is common in new babies and it probably wasn’t that serious. But I had to be isolated from the other babies, because the doctors were unsure if it could be a sign of hepatitis. They also reported they’d have to call in a specialist to do more blood tests. Just one more thing to worry about.
My parents remember those first days as a slow-motion nightmare. Of course, they wanted information, and the more the better. Most of all, my mom wanted something positive to hold on to, but there was nothing yet. No eyes, arms and legs that didn’t work right, jaundice, and possible mental disabilities. What other shoes were about to drop? Worse, Mom didn’t know what was definite, because it was too early to confirm the diagnoses they’d made. The physicians spoke to her as if they were giving her facts, then they’d say, “Of course, this is all speculation until we run more tests.”
Mom remembers thinking, if my baby has so many problems, will he be strong enough to make it? If not, is it best that a baby with so many problems is freed from suffering? She began wondering about the tests they had done months ago, the ultrasound, because it had given no hint of what I would bring with my birth. What if she and Dad had known about my condition in advance? They don’t believe in abortion, but would they have done anything differently?
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There’s no way to answer such a question, but I’ve always known my parents loved me, no matter what. By not knowing what they would face, they had been delivered from making impossible choices. “It’s another example,” Mom said, “of how sometimes the best blessings can be right in front of you, but you don’t see them, because you forget that God is always there, working things out behind the scenes.”
When she was finally able to bring me home after the jaundice thing cleared up, Mom felt better, but she knew she faced a steep mountain ahead. Lots of folks came by to visit and see me, and one of Mom’s friends who knew all about what was going on with me told her, “God never gives you more than you can handle. Trust that, and trust God.” In her heart, Mom knew her friend was right. Another friend told my mother that she had to move on with her life, and to do that, she’d have to first accept what is. “You have to give up your expectations.” Mom didn’t like that one, but she knew it was right, too.
Dad was trying hard to stay strong about everything, but it wasn’t really working. Those earliest days of my life were the hardest of Dad’s. He’s used to dealing with problems head-on and pushing until he solves them or makes them better. In this case, he could do nothing to change my disabilities, and he felt useless.
After nights of exhaustion from worrying about me, Mom suddenly felt at peace. This feeling seemed to come out of nowhere: She knew in her heart that for some reason, she was meant to have a baby like me, with challenges to overcome. We were meant to be a family. She was blessed with what Dad calls fierce determination and would dedicate herself completely to making sure I got everything I needed to not only survive, but also to live a good life, no matter what the odds. She didn’t know how they’d do it yet. The only thing she knew for sure was that before she could move forward, she had to accept what God had given her and trust that someday she’d know why and be thankful for all of it.
Excerpted from “I Am Potential: Eight Lessons on Living, Loving, and Reaching Your Dreams” by Patrick Henry Hughes with Patrick John Hughes and Bryant Stamford. Copyright (c) 2008, reprinted with permission from Da Capo Lifelong Books.
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