My first year without Mom

“It goes so fast.” My dad and I are in the waiting room of the ICU. It is December 5, 2016, and my mother was admitted that morning, after she wasn’t responding for my dad and coded in the ambulance on the way to the ER. She was resuscitated with the paddles, but intubated and was being kept alive by machines.

I knew my dad wasn’t talking about the day. It wasn’t the day that was going by fast. That was slow motion. My ride from CT to MA felt like a lifetime. He was talking about this life. “The days are long but the years are short.” He was talking about his lifetime with my mom, this life they made together, raising three children. How quickly it feels time passes.

Only now do I truly appreciate the sentiment, being married almost 11 years with my partner of 17 years, remembering our first date like yesterday; Having two of my own children, and feeling like they were both born yesterday, yet blown away by how much bigger they look each day at 5 & 3.

My parents celebrated their 42nd anniversary on April 12, after mom miraculously “recovered” and was released from the hospital/rehab and sent home, a couple months after that nightmare following December 5.  She later died at home May 2. Less than two weeks after her death was my first Mother’s Day without my mom, and so began the countdown - the year of firsts without my mom.

This whole year has been a year of firsts without her, but what my dad and I have come to discover, is the anticipation of those firsts is always far worse than the day itself.  We all expected Christmas to be horrible because Christmas was my mom’s favorite, but truly it was not so bad, I expect because we have little kids to keep things light - it is hard to feel sad when you have little ones excited about Santa Claus. Whereas abstract days, like the date I knew was last day I saw her, was particularly difficult.

Having small kids makes it difficult to grieve the loss of one’s parent. I’m too busy to be sad in the every day. I don’t have time to grieve the loss of my mother, except in the quiet moments.

With two active boys those quiet moments are few and far between, but when they come the grief comes hard. The grief comes in huge, engulfing and suffocating waves.  And sometimes it’s hard to stop when the quiet stops,so when Nick sees me crying he will ask, “Mom, why are you crying?” but before I can answer him he will say “I know it’s because you miss Nini. It’s always because of Nini.” I know I am lucky that this is the only reason why I cry. And I’m lucky to feel this uncomplicated grief for the loss of my mom. I miss her because she was a wonderful mother and friend. The sadness I feel is so hard to hold on to, but it is a gift, because it means I loved, and felt loved, and being a mom now I can better appreciate just how much this woman loved me. And so begins year two.

Dear Doctor

Dear Doctor,

When we had gotten a prenatal diagnosis of Down Syndrome and we were nearing the due date for our Sam's birth, my OB suggested I call the hospital to speak with one of the Pediatricians who may be present at my son's birth. I hoped to speak with the doctor who assisted in my first child's birth, but I kept an open mind when the call was put through to you.  I explained that we were expecting a baby with Down Syndrome, that we were nervous about his diagnosis, but very excited to welcome this new little boy into our lives.  I think your mind was less open than mine.

You said my baby would not exclusively breastfeed,  as babies with DS do not. You told me he would have feeding issues, altogether, and would have problems gaining weight as an infant.  You went as far as to predict that he would later have issues with being overweight when he was older.  You told me about heart issues, bowel issues, and thyroid issues that come with Down Syndrome. You told me about low tone, which is what will cause his physical delays. You made sure to mention all the things that this already anxious mom-of-a-special-needs-baby-to-be would need to worry about. Yes,  I heard you,  Dear Doctor. These were all the things I had already researched for what I COULD expect with a down syndrome diagnosis.

Do you know what you failed to mention? What was certain about my child? That he would be loved. Immensely.  That he would shine a light on our days, and everyone whose path he may cross.  Do you know what you could have said about my future child? That he would stop people in their tracks with his smile and wave.  That he would dance even when there was no music,  because he was filled with so much joy. That he will achieve every milestone,  in his own time, and when he does….  WOW!.... It will mean so much more because he has to try so much harder than a typical child. He is so strong and so determined. Do you know what you should have said about all those other conditions? That he MAY suffer from heart issues, bowel issues and thyroid issues. Thank God, he does not. And honestly,  Dear Doctor, it was your words “he will not exclusively breastfeed” that lit a fire inside me,  and with much determination and hard work,  we did it.  Thank you for that.

So,  Dear Doctor,  I'm sure in your practice you will come across another soon-to-be or new mother of a child with down syndrome, and when you do,  please focus on the good things they will expect.  Sure, mention those may be’s. Let them know the things that COULD happen. That is important,  too, but please,  focus on the positive,  because there is so much more of that.  Talk about the achievements that WILL happen. Talk about the light he will shine. Focus on the love and joy this child will bring into the world. These things are certain.

Sincerely,

The proud mother of a two year old with Down Sydrome.

My Moments

Moments

1/12/2016

My typical three year old, Nicholas, loves to sing and dance.  I mean, he LOVES to sing and dance… The boy hummed himself to sleep from day one.  If there is a dance party going on in our kitchen, chances are Nick started it.  When he asks me to dance with him, it is very hard to say no.  His joy is infectious.  So, on one particular day, not quite a year ago, when Nick was about two and a half and his brother was about six months old, we had music playing in the kitchen, and Nicholas asked me to pick him up and dance.  As I was holding Nick in my arms and we twirled around, I flashed to the future, to his wedding day, when I may have a Mother/Son dance with him.  My heart warmed at the thought. Then, I glanced at baby Sam in his high chair as he looked on, and it struck me like a dagger to my heart that I may never dance with Sam at his wedding because he may never get married.  You see, because Sam has Down Syndrome.  I buried my face in Nick’s shoulder so he wouldn’t see my tears and ask me why I was sad.  There are moments in our lives that strike us so hard, so forceful, and are so eye-opening, that they throw you.  I felt thrown on the floor and stomped on. 

I call these “my moments,” and I’ve had a few since Sam was born.  These eye-opening moments that, at times, physically hurt.  These sad moments are few and far between, and it’s been a while, but they are so etched in my brain and in my body, I cringe at their memory.    Another one of my moments took place when Sam was a couple months old.  He had a hemangioma on his bum that needed to be evaluated by a plastic surgeon at Boston Children’s Hospital.  Side note, people with DS are at a higher risk of developing childhood leukemia, so with every mark on my child’s body, my mind immediately goes to leukemia.  A hemangioma has nothing to do with cancer, but I must have asked half a dozen professionals if it could possibly be related.  It is not.  Sam was resting cozy against my chest in his sling carrier as I was filled out the paperwork in the waiting room, checking off health information and history.  I breezed through the paperwork.  And then I stopped.  I choked.  I forgot to write “Down Syndrome” and “ASD” (Atrial Septal Defect) in Sam’s paperwork.  I had already blogged about his DS and had typed and read the words numerous times, but hadn’t had to write it down in medical paperwork.  That hurt.  I wept silent tears, turning away from the man sitting two chairs over, hoping he didn’t witness my little break down.  As I passed in the paperwork, I’m sure the receptionist noticed my red eyes, but she kindly did not inquire. 

Our first Christmas party with the Down Syndrome Society was hard.  So many beautiful children and young adults with Down Syndrome, and I was holding newborn baby Sam, looking up to the ceiling to hold in tears.  We were new to this club, and I wasn’t ready to be at that party.  I wasn’t ready to celebrate, and while I smiled and watched Nick dancing with all the other children, I hurt.  I’ve had a handful less invasive moments, ones that are not so etched in my mind.  I try not to compare Sam to typical kids his age, but it’s hard not to see it when there is a delay.  I can honestly say I don’t feel sad when I see these delays because I know Sam will get there in his own time.  When he does achieve those milestones, those moments are pretty incredible.

Sam is nearly 16 months now (how did that happen??), and it has taken me this long to write about these moments that happened when he was a baby.  Clearly, I am an open book, but I hadn’t written about these incidents, I think, because they were too difficult for me to put into words and open those wounds.  I have grieved Down Syndrome.  I am over the grief, and now I celebrate. I am at this party and it's awesome.  Sam is healthy, but more importantly, he is happy.  Things like the new show on A&E “Born This Way,” about young adults with Down Syndrome living and thriving and contributing to society, give me an overwhelming hope for Sam’s future.  He will go to school, he will have a job, he will have friends.  He may even get married. 

Flash forward to a more recent dance party in my kitchen.  Music is playing.  Nick asks me to pick him up and dance.  We are twirling around the kitchen and Nicholas is laughing.  I glance at Sam in his high chair, and he is laughing and clapping, those beautiful almond shaped blue eyes are sparkling.  I pick him up, out of his high chair and the three of us dance.  I’m holding my two joy filled boys, and I flash to a bright and beautiful future.  It’s a pretty amazing moment.

One Year Since Diagnosis Day

May 13, 2015

Dear Nicholas,

I haven’t cried about your brother’s diagnosis for a long time now.  I haven’t felt the need to cry in a long time.  This being the one year anniversary of finding out about his Down Syndrome, I think back to that day we got his prenatal diagnosis, and the two weeks that followed, when there were many tears.  I wish I knew then what I know now.  I bet a lot of people say that a year after their child’s DS diagnosis.  I have a confession to make, Nicholas.  My initial thoughts were about you, and how you wouldn’t have a typical brother.  I actually uttered the words, “The point of having this baby was to give Nicholas a sibling.”  How mad I am at myself that I could have even thought that, never mind say those words out loud.  If only I knew then what I know now.  

I remember feeling sorry for you, Nick.  I felt sorry that you may feel burdened some day.  I worried about you feeling embarrassed, being bullied or teased because of your brother’s Down Syndrome.  I worried about your future, knowing full well that a lot will fall on your shoulders. I was scared you would resent me and your Dad, angry and upset that we sealed your future as care taker for your younger brother.  We worried that you would feel neglected, unseen, since we pictured Sam needing a lot of extra attention due to his special needs.  Your dad and I promised you that you would never be overshadowed by Sam’s needs, and that you would be made to feel just as important.  We worried about you feeling jealous of your baby brother.  If only I knew then what I know now. 

I should have known that you, my little empath, would love your brother from head to toe, regardless of how many chromosomes his body contains.  No, you don’t know what Down Syndrome means because you’re two and a half, but you know Sam is special because he is your baby brother.  You’re drawn to him like a magnet, and he to you, and I wish you knew what it meant to me to see Sam’s whole body light up when he sees you.  When Sam cries, I can say, “Nick, go make your brother smile,” and you do! Yes, you may have more on your shoulders as you grow up, more than the average older brother.  You may have to deal with kids and, let’s be honest, ignorant adults, who treat you and your brother poorly, but these are the things that will make you stronger.  So, no, I won’t apologize to you, Nick, for your brother having Down Syndrome.  You are so kind, so empathic, so sweet, SO very special.  YOU are these things, all by yourself, but I know your brother will help you to grow and be the best person you can be.  I didn’t know all this when Sam was first diagnosed.  I know this now.  

Nicholas, I see you each morning, running straight for your brother, asking for hugs.  I see you, asking why Sammy is crying and making him laugh. I see you with your big personality, huge smile and goofy sense of humor. I promise, Nick, I will always see you.  I love you. I know I am blessed, Nicholas.  I thank God every day for the life I have.  I thank Him for the boys I have.  Nicholas, you are such a bright light in my life.  You lead the way to the path that we are on as a family.  You were chosen for Sam.  YOU are so very special. I love you.

Love,

 

Mama 

Happy One Month Birthday, Sam!

October 28, 2014 One Month Old!!

I haven’t written anything for a while, though it’s not for lack of things I want to say.  More so, my mind has been racing with so many thoughts, but I’m having some difficulty organizing these thoughts into neat little bundles.  So much has happened since my last blog entry, namely, our little miracle, Sam Jeffrey was born September 30, 2014.  He is 4 weeks old today, and as I look at him peacefully napping on my chest, my heart is bursting.  My heart is happy, not just for this sweet dream of a baby we were gifted with, but also for the more intense love I feel for my husband, Jeff, and our two year old, Nicholas.  I didn’t think there was any possible way to love Nicholas more, but seeing how wonderfully sweet and compassionate he is with Sam, he just blows my mind every day.  I have heard some parents say they wonder how they will find room in their heart for the next child, and I’m wondering how there is so much space in mine to love Nick exponentially more.  He is a special soul, and as I have said before, I truly believe we were chosen for Sam because of his older brother.  Nicholas is a gift beyond measure.  As for Jeff, as any parent with a partner can attest, the love you feel when you see your partner caring for and loving your child simply multiplies when there’s more added to the mix! 

Before I write about Sam’s birth story, I have to begin with some background on Nicholas’ story.  We tried for a baby for almost two years, when we discovered that we needed some help with fertility issues, and Jeff had to have a surgery to reverse the effects of scar tissue from a double hernia operation blocking “the goods” from coming out.  Jeff underwent a 9-hour microscopic surgery to fix this issue and we then opted for IUI, Intrauterine Insemination, to conceive a baby.  The first attempt failed, but the second was successful, and low-and-behold, Nicholas entered our lives on September 24, 2012 via C-section, due to him being breech.  During this process of infertility, testing and surgery, my OB/GYN, Dr. L, was an invaluable resource of knowledge and support.  How many people can say they love their OB??  She helped our little miracle happen, and she was a loving and compassionate friend in the process.  Well, Dr. L moved to Atlanta, GA and I was sad for myself, but happy for her and this opportunity for her and her family.  Fast forward to January 2014, and Jeff’s surgery was, apparently, successful because we were pregnant again, ironically, without planning or intervention this time.  My new OB/GYN, Dr. M, treated me throughout my pregnancy, and she was the one to “break the news” of Sam’s diagnosis at 19 weeks gestation.  Since Sam’s diagnosis, as I mentioned in my other blog entries, we have found great support through the DS community online and we have met some local families.  Something that has struck me on this journey is finding out that 90% of prenatal diagnoses of Down Syndrome end in termination.  My heart breaks when I look at my son and realize some people feel he shouldn’t exist.  How can anyone think that Sam shouldn’t be here?  I have heard of so many other parents of kids with DS, throughout our country and elsewhere, tell stories of “professionals” encouraging termination, to “get rid of it and try again.”  I had some of these medical people let me know this is an option, but thankfully never “encouraged” it.  That said, termination was never an option for us.  Once again, I was blessed to have a compassionate and supportive OB/GYN, this time in Dr. M, who celebrated my pregnancy and the birth of Sam.

Sam’s birth story is a long one, but I’ll try to keep it short here. Sam was born on Tuesday, September 30, 2014, after a long first stage of labor that began on Saturday night.  Sam came a week early, and I will say, again, it was God’s blessing that Dr. L was on call that weekend and into Tuesday.  She does some per diem work for the practice, as her family and friends are still in the area, and she comes back occasionally to cover.  She was with me for my entire labor in the hospital, but had to catch a flight back to Georgia on Tuesday morning.  Dr. L had to fly back to Atlanta, and Sam was born a half hour after her plane was scheduled to take off.  While we were hoping to have both Dr. L and Dr. M there during Sam’s birth, how lucky were we to have my former OB, who I love, take us through my entire labor, and then my current OB, who I also adore, deliver Sam?!  It was the best of both worlds.  Because Nick’s C-section was due to him being breech, I was able to try to have Sam naturally.  I wasn’t progressing past 8cm, so we decided on an epidural before getting Pitocin.  That said, up until that point I felt like a rock star, breathing through contractions and staying quite relaxed, if I do say so myself.  In fact, when we got to the hospital on Monday evening, I thought for sure they would send me home, as I was feeling pretty good, and Dr. L confirmed I was 6cm and the nurses said, “She is way too happy and smiling to be 6cm!”  I have to attribute that to my hippy relaxation/hypnosis CD’s I listened to the months leading up to Sam’s birth.  I am a believer in the power of the mind!

I had “accepted,” for lack of a better word, Sam’s diagnosis and was prepared for what that may mean.  That said, I was scared.  I was worried when Sam was born and put into my arms that I would look at him differently.  That I would search his face for signs of Down Syndrome, and that his diagnosis would skew good feelings of his birth.  When Dr. M checked me and said we were ready to push, I was overwhelmed with emotion, and while the medical team prepared and gowned up for the birth, I sobbed in my blankets.  As Jeff counted my pushes, his voice cracked and I knew, though my eyes were tightly closed, that he was overcome and tearful, too.  Four sets of pushes later, and Sam was placed on my chest.  I could barely see his face through tears.  Happy tears.  Tears of relief that Sam was ok.  I searched his sweet face for recognition that I’m his mommy, not for markers of DS.  I was in love.  After Sam was taken over to a table to be dried off and warmed up, I said to my doctor, “I want to do that again!” She replied, “Most women don’t say that right after pushing out a baby!” I meant it, too.  Nick’s birth was special, of course, because we got him in the end, but this was the most amazing experience of my life.  There are no words to describe this “miracle of birth.” It IS, without a doubt, a miracle. I'm still in awe of what my body was able to do.  Super Woman is an understatement.

A friend who also has a child with DS recently described their little guy as “magic.”  I couldn’t agree more, as Sam has been a dream baby.  At the risk of sounding cliché, when Sam looks into your eyes, it’s as if he is looking into your soul.  There is something special about him.  A woman who met Sam yesterday described him as a “peaceful presence.”  It is so difficult to put into words what my children have added to my life.  I am just so excited to see how things unfold.  I’m still worried about Sam’s future and his health.  I can’t look too far ahead, as I feel overwhelmed with what may come, or how delayed his development and cognition may be.  I’m trying to live in the present and enjoy my baby, my little family.  

One month later, I’m wondering when it will sink in that I have two children.  Three years ago we weren’t sure if we could have kids at all, and now we have two.  Life is strange. Life is beautiful.  We are blessed.

A Letter to My Unborn Child, About the Ache

July 23, 2014

My dear little one,

We are in the seventh month of growing you, and as the time gets closer to meet you, I find I have this aching in my heart and in my body.  I ache to hold you, to smell your fuzzy little head and sweet baby smell.  I ache to see your face and who you resemble.  I ache to have those quiet moments together, just me and you, nursing and cuddling.  When I see other babies and hear their cries, I ache to hear yours.  

Ten weeks ago yesterday, I felt an entirely different ache.  My heart and my body ached then, too, but they ached with desperation and sadness.  When I heard the words, “Your baby has Down Syndrome,” my body doubled over with this hurt.  Through the next two weeks, my heart and mind ached with grief.  I lost sight of you, my sweet baby.  I saw only your condition, not my sweet boy, and you became Down Syndrome.  It’s all I could see.  I couldn’t talk about you without crying.  I couldn’t think of your big brother, Nick, without aching for the brother he would never have, the one I had dreamed for him.  I couldn’t tell our family about your condition because I ached at the thought of upsetting them.  I couldn’t read Nick’s silly book “My New Baby” to him, because it made me cry and hurt and wish for different.  I was seeing what I had lost, and I could no longer see you.  I ached for this unknown. I ached so much because I wasn’t thinking about YOU, I was thinking about this one piece of you.  Part of you, but not all of you.  

I’m not sure, exactly, what brought me back to you.  What brought you back to me.  What dulled that sad, desperate ache.  The support of family and friends, – Oh, they love you so much already! – the welcome we received into this new community of friends with others just as wonderful as you.  These helped the sad ache, I’m sure.  But, I think it was you who brought me back, feeling you kick, reminding me that you’re there, my sweet baby.  That it’s you, my baby, not a condition.  Down Syndrome will be a part of you, and will no doubt influence the amazing person you will be, but it is not all of you.  You’re MY baby.  You chose me for your mom, and for that I ache with joy.

I stopped crying and haven’t cried since those first two weeks after your diagnosis.  You brought me back to the wonderful ache of anticipation and eagerness to meet you.  Don’t tell your brother, but part of me is even more excited than I was when pregnant with him.  I didn’t know what to expect with Nick, but I know how it will feel this time, to hold my sweet new baby, and smell his fuzzy little head and have those quiet moments of cuddling and nursing, just us - what no one else on this earth will have.  The feeling of loving someone so entirely, perfectly and completely.  I know that ache well.  

I love you forever and always, 

Mom

The Diagnosis

The Diagnosis                                                                            July 13, 2014

At a couple days short of starting my 7^th month of my second pregnancy, I hear a lot of “when are you due?” and “Do you know what you’re having?”  My answer, always, is “End of September or early October. And, yes, we are having a boy.”  In my head: “Insert asterisk: * and he has Down Syndrome.”  Whether I choose to share this information or not depends a lot upon who I am talking to, and whether it flows into the conversation.  Side note, it never really flows into the conversation, but I sometimes add it anyway.  Why?  Maybe I feel the need to say it out loud sometimes, or just to emphasize that it’s ok and I’m not embarrassed.  I don’t know.  I’m still sorting out feelings and testing these waters.  

We are calling him Sam, for now anyway.  I withhold my right to change my mind at any point!  We are starting week 28 in a couple days and Sam was diagnosed with Down Syndrome at week 19.  The week previous, I was called into my OB’s office to be told the baby screened positive for DS for the quad screen blood work.  I thought nothing of it.  My best friend had a false positive for the same screen.  This was just a false positive, and the baby will be fine.  Regardless, in lieu of an amnio, I agreed to take another blood test, called MaterniT21, that tests specifically for Trisomies 21, 13 and 18, just to be sure.  This test is 96-99% accurate.  The wait would be 8-10 days, so when I had my routine OB visit 7 days later, I didn’t think I would get the results, so I told Jeff to go to work rather than joining me for the appointment.  Long story short, the results were in, and they were positive for Down Syndrome.  The room closed in. There were tears and “You’re not supposed to say that.”   I called Jeff as soon as I left the doctor’s office, and he told me to come to his work.  We drove next door to the Lowe’s parking lot and talked about this news.  I went home, rather than to work, so I could calm myself down and research.  I didn’t research.  I cried.  I baked brownies and cookies.  I took the dogs for a walk.  I cried some more.  I ate most of the brownies. 

Of course, one of the nagging thoughts that first day was, “Why us?”  But, being a Social Worker and having heard some horrific first account stories, as well as having some very lovely people in my life go through traumatic events and losses, I quickly realized, “Why not us?”  No one is immune to this.  I’ve never been much of a “poor me” type person and I don’t plan on starting to be one.  Going on nine weeks post-diagnosis, I must say I’m almost embarrassed by my initial grief.  And it is grief.  Grieving the life I pictured, grieving for the sibling my first born, Nicholas, won’t have.  But, I know what I went through is normal because I have heard from so many others who gave almost mirror accounts of my feelings and reaction.  Much of the grief comes from not knowing what the diagnosis means, and what to expect. Now that I have absorbed the diagnosis and have done some research, I’ve moved past sadness and I’m now more concerned with the unknown medical, cognitive and developmental issues that we may face.  I know I will have some more grieving moments throughout our lives, but for now I’m ok.  I just can’t look too far into the future, because then I worry, “Will he have friends? Will he ever have a wife? Will he go to school and work? Will he have serious medical issues?  Will I have to bury my child some day?”  But, for now, I’m trying to live in the moment.  Sam is growing strong in my belly.  He does have a muscular VSD (a small gap between ventricles of his heart), which has a promising prognosis, and hopefully will heal itself.  If not, he may need surgery.  Bringing Nicholas for shots hurts my heart so much, I just can’t think of possible surgery.  So, again, I’m trying to live in the moment and not worry about what I don’t know.  That’s not easy for me.

Yes, I’m past sadness.  I want to meet this little guy, after he is fully cooked, of course!  I’m so eager to see his little face, to learn his quirks and personality.  I’m so excited to see how Nicholas is with his little brother.  I like to think that God must think we are doing something right to bless us with this little guy.  Or, He thinks Nick will make a wonderful older brother, because he is already so loving and compassionate – the kid tries to kiss ants, for goodness sake!!  Or, maybe he was picked for us because he needs to teach us something.  I mean, look at me, Type A Planner, having to take a step back and NOT PLAN everything!!  I appreciate life and all the big and little things, but I most certainly appreciate those little things even more.  I am sure this appreciation will amplify as we get to know the newest member of our family. 

As I wrote above, I have this nagging feeling that I’m supposed to make some sort of announcement to people when talking about my pregnant belly.  But, believe it or not, Sam’s diagnosis is not constantly on my mind.  HE is constantly on my mind.  What will he be like? What will he look like?  But when pregnancy inquiries come up, I somehow feel obligated to tell people of his diagnosis.  Most of those I have told have had positive and supportive reactions.  A response I don’t appreciate, though I know is coming from a good place, is “He is still a blessing.”  Yes, of course he is.  I am the last person who needs convincing of this.  He is my baby.  I know he is a blessing more than anyone on this planet.  Not one part of me thought any differently before or after his diagnosis.  Yes, I have grieved what “could have been,” but I never once grieved having my baby. 

Jeff, Nick and I have met with a couple families who have kids with DS, and we have talked to a few others.  I know the value of not feeling alone in a situation, and so talking with other parents has been truly uplifting and extremely positive.  This has helped me immensely on this journey.  I have told a few people that the outpouring of support from the DS community makes me feel as if I belong to some sort of special, exclusive club.  And it’s pretty awesome to go from this negative, sad place to this place of love and inclusion and support.  I suppose that is what is prompting this blog.  To share our story, in case it helps someone else.  Life gets busy, but I am hoping to continue this and share more stories as our family grows and we find out more about our little guy, Sam. 

Thanks for reading :)

Lauren