A Letter.

A week ago today the bottom fell out of my world. We were called into our doctor’s office to talk about the results of some of the blood work your mother had done a couple weeks previous. We were told that there was an abnormal reading, that the test showed a positive result for spina bifidia and that we would have to go and get an emergency ultrasound in order to determine if everything was all right.

Everything was not all right.

Doctor Dave assured us that everything was going to be fine. “False positives happen all the time,” he said, “with a reading this high it has to be a mistake.” We had an hour or so to kill before our ultrasound appointment so we went and got some lunch. It was a pretty somber affair. Going to lunch just gave us something to stop our minds from constructing nightmare scenarios. Your mother and I talked to each other, tried to buoy each other’s spirits, tried to take the edge off the black cloud that had crept over us both.

I hate the place where we went to get the ultrasound. I’ve sat in on a couple ultrasounds now and this place always makes me wait outside like a naughty child while they do the imaging. They call me in after the whole thing is over and run me through the highlights. Of course, that’s great if everything is routine but it gnaws away at your chest when you’re waiting the outcome of what could be terrible news. I much prefer the other ultrasound place on College Street that lets me see what’s happening every step of the way.

They kept your mother in the examination room for an hour and a half, about three times longer than they expected to. At the end they didn’t bother to ask me to come in, they just sent your mother out and said to call our doctor in an hour or so for the results.

I knew then that the news was going to be bad.

I went back to the office to try and distract myself with work but I wasn’t very successful. I met up with your mother again shortly after to check on the results and all I could do was listen to her half of the conversation over the telephone and slowly watch her fall apart. It was our very worst fear come to life.

No one should have to listen to the anguish of a parent getting such terrible news. No one should have to listen to well-meaning doctors try and put the best possible spin on the situation. No one should be a prisoner of their own mind as it turns over endless scenarios in your skull, relentlessly prosecutes you for a million unrelated sins and refuses to let yourself just shut down and ignore the whole thing altogether.

I am sad that I will never get to know you the way I know your big sister. All the milestones and achievements and happiness that she has brought into our life will be denied to you and me and that breaks my heart. And as bad as things are now I know that there are still darker times ahead. I have to keep reminding myself that as unhappy as I am at this moment it’s important that I be there for your mother. She is the one who is bearing the brunt of all this. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain she is feeling.

I don’t want you to think that just because there is so much sadness attached to what is happening now that I love you any less. There is a place for you in my heart and even though I’ll only know you for a very short time I promise to treasure every second of it.

You will never be forgotten. You will always be loved.

Dad.