Everything in me wanted her to live. But I’d be lying if I said that’s all I wanted.
I waited quietly, quivering, nightmares darting in and out of continuum. Until she called to say it was done. For a short moment that she still couldn’t guarantee, I was getting at least part of what I wanted.
Eighteen months later I’m believing it more and more. But now I’m hoping even harder. Because the little girl
-who enunciates over 100 words
-who can build towers 5 high and name its pieces: “Block…red one”
-who sings to a play baby “By-o, by-o,” and comforts “Shhh, shhh, ni-ni”
-who offers her evaluator a cup and suggests “Mmm, wa-wa”
-who giggles and marches the straight, narrow line one black boot confidently in front of the other
-who smacks the “Bi won” to differentiate which picture is the big shoe, big truck, and big tree
-who swipes the evaluator’s pen to instruct, “Pen. To daw,” and covers her mini table in blue streaks
-who matches pieces to empty spaces on a wooden board to shout, “Cir, cir! Yay,” celebrating her own knowledge between round and square
-who stays engaged during a 2-hour-long set of grueling requests
That girl, I know her now. She’s not a stranger I’ve only held for 5 too-short minutes praying for more. She’s the one who snuggles into me late in the night. She kicks her world-renown geneticist to protest her toes being scrutinized. She cries, “Momma, Momma,” as the needle digs deeper and yet another and another vile is extracted. That’s MY miracle baby. That’s MY Annie girl. That’s MY all-I-ever-wanted.
For another day, I’m getting more of what I wanted. A tiny dancer who showed her baby doll the CHOP logo this morning.
A suggestion that no more genetic information is needed. A seasoned pediatrician who has never, like ever, no never, did I mention never? seen a clinical presentation of this kind in someone with Annie’s diagnosis.
Annie girl, what a specimen you are! You shout the miraculous works of our Creator and those who study your complexities marvel at what He’s done.