Eighteen years ago, everything fell apart inside a hospital room. A doctor sat beside my wife’s bed and quietly told the two of us that our newborn son, Teddy, had Down syndrome. I remember looking at him for the very first time — tiny, dark-haired, round-faced, fingers so small his entire hand wrapped snugly around the tip of just one of mine. He was perfect.
Then I looked at Junie. She barely looked at him at all. She stared down at the floor while the doctor explained that Teddy might eventually need heart examinations, hearing tests, early intervention, extra medical support as he grew older. Once the doctor left, Junie whispered, “I can’t do this.” I honestly believed she was simply in shock. I pulled my chair closer to her bed. “We don’t have to know how to do everything today,” I said. “We’ll figure it out together. One day at a time.” She shook her head. “No, Grayson. I can’t.” “You’re frightened. So am I.” She turned toward the window. “You’re not listening to me. I can’t do this.”
For the rest of that entire afternoon, she refused to hold Teddy. I handled his bottle feeding and diaper changes myself, while she barely acknowledged either of us. I told myself she was simply having a hard time processing the diagnosis. I was too, honestly, but I had to step up regardless, since she’d just been through labor and childbirth. I hoped she’d soon realize we were genuinely in this together, that we’d always support each other through it.
That night, I woke in the chair beside her bed and saw her standing over his bassinet, her back turned toward me, one hand hovering above his blanket as though she wanted badly to touch him but genuinely couldn’t make herself do it. I closed my eyes before she noticed I was awake.
