I have
wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember. As a child I would use my dolls and pretend I
was their mother. As I got older, I
would daydream about caring for my baby and watching him or her grow. I imagined introducing my children to things
I had enjoyed as a child: running barefoot through the backyard, riding bikes,
and roller skating. So when I finally got
married, I was ready to start a family.
Unfortunately, my new husband was not.
He wanted us to wait for a few years before having children. I didn’t
like it, but we waited for four years.
All the while, I kept dreaming about my future children.
Finally,
after begging, pleading, and even a few arguments, my husband agreed that we
could start trying to have a baby. The
months ticked by and still the pregnancy tests were negative. We turned to a fertility specialist for
help. It took almost a year of testing
before I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome.
My doctor told me that fertility
pills may improve my chances of conception, so we began with this course of
action. I started on the lowest dose,
but it wasn’t enough. A few months later
I tried a higher dose without success.
Finally the doctor raised me to the highest dose. It made me sick and dizzy but not pregnant. I was so discouraged. I could see my dreams of a family slipping
away.
My next option was to try a
different medication. I was nervous
about it because of my experience with the last one. But I was desperate to have a child, so I
tried it. Again, the medication only
caused terrible side effect. All of the
other options my doctor offered were more expensive than we could afford at the
time. By this point, three years had
past since we had first started trying to have a baby. Depression and despair was seeping in –
threatening to completely kill my dreams.
Over the next two years I prayed, cried, and prayed some more. I was now leaning solely on God’s willingness
to answer the cry of my heart.
In June of 2008, I became really
sick. I tried to ignore it for awhile,
but eventually I decided to see a doctor.
It was a Saturday, and my regular doctor’s office was closed. I found a local walk-in clinic and decided to
try it. When I met with the doctor I
told him I felt sick in my stomach, I was going to the bathroom all the time,
and my back was hurting. I thought I
might have a urinary tract infection.
The doctor took a urine sample and concluded that I did not have an
infection. He said I must have some type
of flu. I was in tears on the way home
because I felt so terrible and couldn’t explain why.
The next morning, Sunday, July 6, I
decided to take a pregnancy test.
Something had to be making me sick, and I was hoping that pregnancy
could explain my symptoms. Waiting those
three minutes for the results was agonizing.
Do I dare cling on to hope after five years of negative results? My eyes first rested upon the straight line
in one of the windows, and I felt heavy-hearted again. What I didn’t realize right away was this was
not the results window. Then I saw the
other window had a plus sign in it.
Could it be true? I called to my
husband and showed him the test, still not believing what I was seeing. I called my parents to tell them, and my mom
convinced me to take a second pregnancy test to confirm it. This test was a digital one which had the
word “pregnant” clearly in the results window.
My dreams were instantly revived.
God had heard my prayers and had provided a miracle for us. To say I was excited would be an
understatement.
My first trimester was filled with
almost constant morning sickness.
However, I rejoiced at the thought of having a baby growing inside
me. Although it was way too early to
tell, I knew we were going to have a girl.
We had chosen the name Kelli Beth, meaning warrior in the house of God. It had been a fight to conceive her, and I
hoped she would have this same fighting spirit. I would daydream about what she would look
like and all the things I would do with her:
I saw my husband teaching her how to ride a bike and myself teaching her
how to bake.
Our first ultrasound was performed
at my first prenatal appointment. All I
could see was a flicker on the screen indicating her heartbeat, but it was
enough for me. I was in love with my
beautiful baby.
By my third month of pregnancy, my
blood pressure began to rise. My OBGYN gave
me a blood pressure medication and referred me to a specialist. This new doctor wanted to perform ultrasounds
every six weeks to monitor Kelli’s progress.
I was thrilled that I would get to have a “sneak peek” at my baby more
often than most.
At my 18 week ultrasound
appointment we found out that we were definitely having a girl. We were told that everything seemed to be
normal, and I was happy. We began to put
the finishing touches on the nursery we had started setting up long before
Kelli was ever conceived. We bought pink
clothes and toys, all the while envisioning the arrival of our beautiful,
healthy baby girl - our miracle from God.
Our next ultrasound was scheduled
for December when I was 24 weeks pregnant. My husband planned to meet me at the
doctor’s office which was located halfway between his job and mine – about a 10
minute walk for each of us. We were both
excited about seeing Kelli again. The
ultrasound tech began the test, and the outline of Kelli’s body appeared on the
screen, bringing an instant smile to my face.
There was my miracle baby. The
tech continued to move the wand over my belly, and I realized that this was
taking longer than normal. When the tech
was finished, she told us the doctor would be in shortly, and she left the
room. It took awhile for the doctor to join
us which was another clue that something wasn’t quite right. When he did, he pulled up one of the
ultrasound pictures and showed us that one of Kelli’s femurs was significantly
shorter than the other. In an instant,
all of the dreams I had had for years shattered into a million pieces. What did this mean for my child? How would she get around? What kind of life would she have? Would she be accepted by others or would she
have to endure a life of teasing? We
could never teach her to ride a bike, use roller skates, or play tag. I feared I would never see her all dressed up
for her prom or walk down the aisle in a white dress on her wedding day. Who would want to date a girl with a
disability? What had happened to my
miracle? So many emotions filled me, but
I couldn’t find the words to speak or ask verbalize the swarm of questions
crowding my head.
The doctor couldn’t have answered
my questions even if I was able to ask them.
He had never seen this before and couldn’t offer any advice. He told us to set up an appointment in four
weeks to monitor Kelli’s growth. And
that was it.
I fought back the tears as I
trudged alone back to my car which was several blocks away. On the way, I called my parents to tell them
the news. It was difficult to speak even
then and not break down right there in the middle of town. My husband and I spent the next four weeks
scouring the Internet for information but came up empty handed. Without a specific diagnosis, we had little
to go on. The rest of my pregnancy was
spent trying to come to terms with the fact that my child would have a
disability. Gone were my dreams of life
with a “normal” child.
We met with another doctor at the
practice in January of 2009 for our next ultrasound. This doctor was more compassionate but still
did not have many answers. He seemed to
want to help, but since he had not seen this before, he could do little. He did offer to schedule another ultrasound
for us in February, free of charge, to continue monitoring Kelli’s development.
Kelli Beth was born on February 13,
2009 – three days before our next ultrasound appointment and almost a month
before my due date. She was so tiny –
and absolutely beautiful. Yes, her left
leg was about two inches shorter than her left, but she was healthy
otherwise. I was finally holding my
miracle, and I loved her unconditionally.
It didn’t matter anymore that there was a discrepancy with her leg. She was my daughter, my miracle child, and I
was extremely thankful.
The doctors at the hospital were
unable to answer any questions about her leg and told us to ask our
pediatrician to refer us to an orthopedist.
We followed this advice and met with an orthopedic doctor on March
2. He diagnosed Kelli with Proximal
Femoral Focal Deficiency, or PFFD. He
said her hip socket and the ball of the femur appeared to be missing and the
femur itself was shorter than the one in the right. While it was too early for treatment options,
he said the usual options are either a hip surgery with several bone
lengthening surgeries to follow or an amputation and a prosthetic. He seemed to be leaning more and more each
visit toward amputation – something we wanted desperately to avoid. I couldn’t stand the thought of Kelli losing
her perfectly formed foot with those adorable little toes.
Since that visit, we have consulted
with two other doctors. Both seem to
think that she will be able to have a superhip surgery followed by several bone
lengthening surgeries. However, right
now we are waiting to see how her bones form over the next year or so before
any surgeries are performed. In a few
more months, we will be getting a shoe lift for her to help her as she learns
to walk. While we wait, we are
networking with other parents online to find out their stories and hear their
advice. We are also doing extensive
research on our own.
Kelli is now almost 8 months
old. Her sweet disposition, sparkling
blue eyes, and warm smile has drawn others towards her. No one has made fun of her, rejected her, or
laughed at her because of her disability.
I hope that this continues as she grows older.
She hasn’t let this condition slow
her down at all. Kelli is figuring out a
way to crawl and is even taking steps when we hold her hands.
Everyday I am amazed at what my
daughter can do. Nothing stops her. She is my hero and my teacher. She has taught me about determination,
perseverance, and being content in all circumstances. I love her so much, and I thank God daily
for this miracle that He has given to me. (written Oct 2009)
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