As Limb Difference Awareness Month has ended, so too has another chapter of my life. But endings are not necessarily sad things. To quote a popular cliché, ‘when one door closes, another door opens’, and this particular opening door is one most welcome.
April has been a big month in the Though She Be But Little household. Our lucky fin baby has gone from crawling, to standing to thinking about trying to walk (albeit with a lot of wobbling and support) and, perhaps the biggest of all, she’s also learnt how to hold objects with her little hand. These massive milestones have closed the door on a chapter that, for me, started just over a year ago. It was a chapter I never saw coming and it was a chapter of worry.
All these wonderful changes have got me thinking back to the old me; large, pregnant and beside herself with fears and emotions she didn’t even understand. Now that I’m here, I wish I could reach back over the past year, back to the Spring of 2016, and tell my old self some things. Some things I know that she wouldn’t be ready to hear just then, but that she would be ready one day, in the not too distant future.
You won’t regret your choices.
For the rest of your pregnancy, you won’t shake the notion that there could be something else wrong with your baby, something they haven’t picked up on the endless scans. All these scans (you’ll lose count of how many by the end, but it’ll be somewhere near 20) tell you that the doctors think there might be something else to find. Each time you go for another scan the news will be different, one day she’ll be too small, one day she’ll be fine, one day her arm will be tiny, the next day it won’t. Worst of all, these scans are happening because you rejected one invasive but conclusive test. When you’ve been told your baby is 1 in 32,000, the 1 in 100 odds of a miscarriage caused by an amnio test seem frighteningly high. Despite all the subsequent investigations, scans and consultant visits, you won’t regret not having that test. You know it could have taken away much of your stress just like that, but right from the moment you first saw her jumping about on the screen, your baby’s safety was and always will be worth far more than your own fear and worry. You are right to follow your instincts, they are the best and most comprehensive parenting resource you’ll ever have.
The emotions you’re feeling now are ok.
You’re new to this whole limb difference thing, you’ve never even seen anyone with a limb difference before. You’re about as limb different unaware as it’s possible to be. You don’t know what’s in store. Your mind is full of all the other ‘what ifs’ and near misses. You’re terrified that your daughter will struggle through life. You’re devastated to think of the challenges she might face, both socially and physically. And yet you spend so much time feeling guilty for how you feel. Compounded over and over by well-meaning comments. They’re trying to make light of the situation for you, but you’ll feel sometimes that your emotions are being undermined. You will come to understand all of the things they’re saying to you, but you’re not quite ready yet. You’ll learn that the only people who can really relate to you are other parents in the limb different community. Find them, join them and talk to them; they will understand what you are going through better than you do yourself right now (you can check out our links page for some fantastic resources and blogs). You’ll keep comparing your own worries to those of others. You certainly know how much worse it could have been. You’ll worry that because your problems aren’t as severe as others that they’re not worth a damn. Let me tell you now, even though you’ll carry on doing it, that you should not compare. Some people have things far worse, challenges far greater and higher mountains to scale. Likewise, some have things a little easier. Neither side of the equation invalidates how you’re feeling right now. Right now it’s ok for you to fear the unknown and for you to be a little heart broken for your baby. You’ll trawl the Internet for information and you won’t be ready just now to hear the positive news from parents all around the world, but you will be soon.
Telling people is absolutely the right thing to do.
You’ve agonised whether to ‘announce’ to your friends and family that your baby will be born with a difference. Right now it feels like the biggest thing in the world to you. Maybe to others it’s not so huge, even to you, just a year from now, her difference will hardly matter. But right now, at this very moment, it’s pretty huge. Telling people will end up giving you the chance to celebrate her birth without worrying about their reactions. It’ll ease your anxiety once people know. When she’s born, all you’ll see on their faces will be joy and love and happiness. Telling people now will allow you to make the most of those precious months of knowledge that you were given. So many are shocked to discover their baby’s difference at birth. You’ve been given the gift of knowledge; use it in whichever way is right for you.
When you get to meet her for the first time you’ll relax, but only a little bit.
You will be so utterly relieved in the wake of her birth that her time in intensive care will not stress you out as much as you’d expect. You’ll know that she’s going to be ok. You’ll know she’s safe. You’ll know she’ll be well. However, all that relief and joy won’t quite mask that residual underlying fear. You’ll still worry. You’ll hold your breath every time you spot another consultant around her cot and you’ll chew on your nails whenever you receive a hospital appointment for her in those early months. You’ll feel fraught when she refuses to gain weight and the consultants are looming yet again. You’ll still bristle a bit when people make light of her difference. You’ll still be caught unawares by the little break in your heart when she tries to hold your finger with a hand that isn’t there, or when you see her try to reach out for a second toy only to give up in disappointment. You’ll feel that way for a little while yet, but not forever.
She will blow you away. Every single day she will make you proud.
Once she’s home, you’ll watch her every movement, you’ll agonise over how she is using her little hand. You’ll fret that she isn’t using it. You’ll stress. You’ll encourage. You’ll cheer. You’ll cry. Then one day, around about a year from now, all that will change. Around about a year from now she’ll climb up onto her knees and she’ll crawl. She might have a few bruises on her head where she’s toppled over her little hand. But you know what, she toppled over and then she got up. Again and again, she got up. This moment will close the chapter on your worry. It’ll close the chapter on your fears for her future and there you will be, sitting beside those other proud parents of limb different kids, and you’ll know in your heart of hearts that she’s going to be ok. You’ll at last understand what they’ve been telling you all along. That one simple act of moving herself forward across the floor, of getting bored almost instantly of the crawl and pulling her self up to stand instead, will change your world. Those two little milestones will shout and scream to you that there is simply nothing this kid won’t be able to do. She wants to play hockey, like her Dad? She’ll make that happen. She wants to turn cartwheels across the floor? No problem. She’ll find a way with your help if need be, but she’ll probably neither need nor want it. You’ll turn around one time and there she’ll be, sat on the floor, holding onto two toys. Two of them. One will be clamped in her fist the other tucked against her body with her little hand. And she’ll have no idea how intense and all consuming your pride is, how immense your relief and how great your joy, at seeing this one seemingly insignificant act. She’s showing and telling you, with every new thing she learns, that she is going to be A-Ok and that it’s time for you to stop worrying.
Listen to her: she’s right.