They stuffed these words into my head: deformity, orbits,
birth defect, genetics, coronal sutures, surgery, staged surgery,
reconstruction. What is there to reconstruct? I failed at the construction. I
was worried about his breathing. I kept asking about it. I worry it might stop.
I listen to him breathe all night long. How am I to understand this?
They are sending us to Boston next week, to a doctor - the
doctor who wrote “the book.” They showed me this book while we were in Norwalk
Hospital. A photograph in it looked like Trevor: his exposed eyes, the beak
nose. Did I do this to him? Was it me? The genetics people asked me so many
questions: my family, my health, the pregnancy. They counted my fingers, asked
me to take my shoes off and examined my toes. No one told me what happened to
Trevor. They told me what he has, what he is now: a diagnosis, Crouzon
Syndrome. They told me he needs plastic surgery, again and again – like an
accident victim, like a socialite.
He is so sick so often. I am tired. My Mom cried. I can’t
remember ever seeing her cry.
The night Trev was born six months ago, I was so happy to
have another boy. I was afraid I wouldn't be good at a girl – such a silly
thing to be afraid of. Alone with Trev
in the hospital room, I was exc ited, so confident, looking forward to the
wonder of watching him grow. My thoughts were: I've done this before, I know
what to do. I peered at his serious eyes, the odd shape of his forehead, and
considered how he didn't look like any of us – no family resemblance. He looked
like a wise old man.
Chills....................... You drew me right in with this one! I want to read more!
ReplyDeleteThank you Tina. I am working on it. Stay tuned
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