We made it from here,
To here.
With a whole lot of blood, sweat, and tears in the middle-
Happy Birthday Dalin-
I wish I could say I have known you for ten years, but I didn’t meet you until September 9th 1999. You lived in a tiny little incubator in a HUGE newborn ICU for the first 3 months of your life. The Nurses at the hospital thought you were the greatest little thing ever. They all mothered you because you didn’t have a family yet. They used to buy you presents, and make you blankets and hats. They always stayed late after work to hold you. They all wanted to make sure that you knew you were loved and wanted. I was so happy to hear that, when I picked you up. I still have little notes from the nurses that they wrote to you. I was so grateful to have those little notes and pictures of you that I would have NEVER had if they didn’t go above and beyond the call of duty.
That hospital in Portland still makes me smile when I think about it. When I arrived to pick you up, they let me sleep right in the hospital with you. I got to take care of you all night long and get to know all the important things about you. Since you were a 24 week preemie, I was already schooled in many of the things about taking care of tiny ones. Colby was only one year old when I adopted you. He is a 24 week preemie too. But Colby didn’t have a shunt and he hadn’t been drug exposed, so you were a little bit trickier to take care of than him.
The first night I was with you, I held you up in my arms to eat and burp you. I kept you propped up on my chest for most of the night. I never laid you back down flat in your bed. I didn’t know I had to do that. In the process, I noticed that your soft spot on your head was sinking way in. Your shunt was working so hard that it was draining your fluid faster than you could make it. The next night, I didn’t dare pick you up. I left you flat in your bed all night, except to feed you. You cried all night long. I had spoiled you the night before and now you wanted to sleep in my arms all the time. The Doctor came in and told me that because your shunt was so new we had to make sure that you were kept flat for the next few weeks. I was getting worried. I hoped I would be a good mom to you. I didn’t know how to mother babies I couldn’t hold all the time.
That afternoon, before we went home, you had to sit in a carseat for one hour to make sure your shunt didn’t over drain and that your oxygen levels remained high. You failed in the first ten minutes. I was heartbroken. That meant I couldn’t take you home and that I would have to come back and get you another time. The hospital social worker knew we didn’t have a lot of money so she let me stay one more night in the Ronald McDonald house across the street and let you try one more time in the carseat the next day. She knew it wouldn’t be easy to pay for your adoption and more plane tickets. I prayed so hard that night. I wanted to take you home so badly. I had seven other babies at home that were missing me. I started having second thoughts about whether or not I was able to do it all. I cried myself to sleep that night. I figured if you passed the test in the morning it was meant to be.
I got up and headed to the hospital first thing. The nurses were ready for me. They were cheering for you and crossing their fingers too that you would get to come home with me and meet your family. We got you in the carseat and things were looking good. But at 30 minutes into your test, you got pissed off and it caused your oxygen saturations to go down. YOU FAILED! I was sick.
I honestly didn’t know what to do. I left you at the hospital and went home to the other kids empty handed. All of the feelings I had about it maybe not being “meant to be,” were gone. When I walked out of the hospital, I felt like I was leaving a part of my heart and soul there. When I boarded the flight, I bawled like a baby. Everybody kept asking me where the baby was, because I was carrying an empty carseat and diaper bags. It was horrible. I spent the next week on the phone with your nurses and doctors and social workers making sure they knew you had a family that loved and wanted you and making sure that I was prepared for our life together. I found a neurosurgeon in our area and faxed him all your info and began making preparations to go back to Portland and get you.
‘That day’ happened one week later. Because I had already spent two nights with you, I didn’t have to do that again. The nurses conducted the carseat test, without me, in a donated carseat that you would get to come home in. I didn’t even have to spend the night. I flew out of SLC in the morning, I picked you up and flew back home with you that night. That was one of the happiest day’s of my life. The kids were over the moon happy with a new brother and hearing the whir of the oxygen in the house again was a comforting sound.
The bliss I felt, having all my chickens in the coop, was short lived. You were a HARD baby. I had never had a “crack baby” before and I wasn’t prepared for the effects. In my mind, love is the cure for all ailments. This love stuff I was doing to you was NOT working. You hated me more and more everyday. I wanted to hold you, and love you, and coo at you, and wear you in my front pack ,and sleep with you on my bare chest at night. And after 3 weeks of HELL, you weren’t getting any better. You were getting worse. You cried non-stop. It wasn’t just a cry, it was a scream. I was at my wits end. I called in for professional advice and found out that I was doing everything wrong with you. The more stimulation I gave you, the more upset I was making you. I found that the only thing that could make you happy was to wrap you tight, and put you in a dimmly lit quiet room. Sadly, the only quiet room in my house was the closet. You started gaining weight and even started making eye contact, clearly whatever I was doing was working. I hated it, but it worked. That was the longest and hardest six months of my life. I felt like the biggest failure, worlds worst mother, and I wondered daily how you would ever find happiness in this world. I cried myself to sleep for the rest of 1999.
When you finally got through the ‘over stimulation’ nightmare. We entered into the therapy nightmare. You were getting tighter and tighter by the day. The more you grew, the tighter your muscles were getting. You were diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy and I was told you may never walk.
We did hours and hours of therapy a week. We tried botox and phenol injections. You hated those. We did serial casting three times a year, and so much stretching. I didn’t care if you walked, but I wanted to do everything to ensure you were pain free and comfortable.
At age four, we went into the hospital for a baclofen pump trial. You responded so well that the team of neurosurgeons felt that rhizotomy would be even better. I was all for helping you and giving you a better quality of life. Rhizotomy would lesson the muscle spams and spasticity and it would making growing less painful and lessen the broken bones you were getting.
Before the surgery you could stand on your legs, because they were so stiff. When I picked you up to carry you to bed, your legs didn’t dangle over my arm, they stuck straight out. I used to bang your legs into the door jam when I would walk in your room. You didn’t walk independently, but you could stand to play against the bed or the couch. When they did the baclofen trial, your legs turned into noodles. They were bending at the knee. I was shocked and amazed.
So we scheduled the surgery a few months out for October of 2003. It required a three week hospitalization. (Not the easiest thing to pull off with twelve kids and full time job, but we did it.) You were thrilled. You love the hospital. You can charm the pants off doctors and nurses with your silly grin and endless chatter. They all loved you and were heartbroken to see you go home. After your surgery, I thought we had made the biggest mistake ever. You were in constant pain. Your legs and feet felt like they were asleep all the time. They felt like pins and needles were prickling them constantly. The slightest touch of a sheet, or putting on your socks would bring blood curdling screams. It was a long recovery. What muscle control you had before surgery, was gone after. You couldn’t bare weight on your feet. You screamed when they touched the floor. I thought we had ruined your life. I used to sit by your bed at night and tell you how sorry I was for making such a horrible mistake.
After about 8 months of therapy, three times a week, you stood up. It was a miracle. After a year, you were walking in a walker, then with two canes, then with one, And finally ALL BY YOURSELF! Dalin, they NEVER thought you would walk. But they also didn’t think you could be potty trained, and even though you still have a few accidents a month…. Well, I am just so darn proud of you for getting out of diapers. you keep proving people wrong.
You are smart. You remember EVERYTHING! You listen to what people say, and you repeat it. You tell us amazing things. You are working hard everyday. You are reading. You are writing. You are the best friend in this family. Every single one of the kids wants to play with you because you are so much fun. You scream when you get excited and it makes everyone excited. You have the best laugh.
You are a survivor. If you hadn’t been such fighter, you would have never survived the first few months of your life. You have been the most determined little guy from moment one. That determination is something that will get you far in this world. Use it wisely.
I am so proud of you. I am so proud to be your mom. I know you like to challenge me once in awhile, but I know you are working hard to be respectful too. That makes me happy. You make me happy. Even when you are stinker, I still love you more than all the sand on the beach. That is more than I can count.
Today, we get to go shopping and you are taking me and Dad to Newport Rib. You have been telling us about those ribs since we went there a few weeks ago. I can’t wait to watch you eat them. YOU LOVE ‘EM! I am under your strict instructions to, “tell the girl I don’t want the kids one, I want the big ones, with lots of ribs on the plate.” Okay baby you got it!
Happy Birthday baby boy. You have given me a run for my money. I wouldn’t have it any other way!