“What do you know about Club Feet”?
The echo of those words will never leave me. This is how we found out our daughter would be born with a birth defect.
Tears.
Moments earlier Brett and I had cried tears of joy. We were having a baby girl!! I can still remember the hot tears running down my left cheek as I turned to grab his hand over my shoulder. He squeezed it to say, we got our girl!
Tutus, dance classes, pink onsies…it was all coming true. There would be tulle everywhere and somewhere deep inside I had already planned her first birthday party. Over-the-top pink everywhere kind of party with cotton candy floating through the air.
Then, within seconds a Doctor was in the room telling us it was more than that.
All I heard was our baby girl wasn’t perfect. I imagined a wheelchair. Long metal braces. Would she even walk?
And how would she dance?
As Christmas approached I was going-through-the-holiday-motions. I focused on telling everyone “It’s a GIRL” but couldn’t share the rest; I could barely tell myself the reality of the situation.
At first I told myself that it wasn’t important to say anything about her Club Feet, that no one needed to know yet.
Terribly, I was making her diagnosis an imperfection. A secret.
Looking back I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking anything other than how perfect our family seemed. Wasn’t it my job to put on that front: loving husband and a beautiful Christmas card filled with amazing images of our perfect son?
I was determined to keep up that image.
Somewhere deep inside I was keeping tabs on my behavior. I was hard on myself for feeling the way I did.
Was I a horrible mother?
I couldn’t picture her feet in my mind. What would they look like? I knew they would be… disfigured, bent inwards and around and upside down. I lived with a constant feeling of not knowing what to think. I was tied up in the worst kind of knot.
I was screaming ‘could be worse’ in my head. Yes, and I still know that – but a scary diagnosis is gut-wrenching; It changes the way you thought your life would play out.
I needed to snap out of it. I had to make a new plan: unearth in me the strength to be excited and proud when she arrived.
She deserved that. That I knew.
The most precious baby girl was now a part of our family. May 10th, 2012 was officially minted on our hearts. She had iridescent blonde locks, blue eyes and she screamed until bright red, just like her big brother had. For all the worry, some things were normal, and I could be hopeful.
It was a revelation I hadn’t thought about. I had expected the day to be all about her feet. Painful and raw. Thankfully, she was just a baby needing to nurse, a 4am wake-up call worth answering and she rested on our hearts for hours.
There was though, a moment, when she was lifted into this world and the whole room stopped. I could sense all eyes catching the first glance.
Brett, by my side the entire birth, drifted quickly over to her side. I turned, this time over my right shoulder, and asked him if she was ok.
“Yes”.
Elle was only 6 days old and we were taking her to OrthoCarolina, a pediatric orthopedic hospital. Her journey had begun. But who would be there on the other side waiting to meet her? Our baby Elle deserved the best care. The best doctors.
The sliding doors opened and closed. I didn’t know left or right. We were new to all of this, to this sort of place. What would their philosophy be and would their approach to care be a good fit?
Issues? I listed Club Feet, handed back the paperwork and waited. We were taking her in to be seen and what we prayed to hear needed to be extraordinary.
We were afraid.
In the comfortable room we waited, nervous but ready. I rolled Elle’s tiny socks off her feet. Would the doctor be prepared? Would they know how to help our little girl?
A knock came and the heavy wooden door opened. Dr. Christian Clark introduced himself and sat down.
He was smiling.
Elle’s feet were in heavy casts from mid-thigh to the tips of her toes. Cradling her in the crook of my arm wasn’t possible anymore; I had to hold her with great care. When someone generously offered to hold her, I was hesitant; it broke my heart that they might cringe at what they felt on her legs.
The casts were harsh looking. Rough. And so incredibly heavy on her tiny 7 pound body. They banged together and pulled her soft skin when she moved. Baths were tricky and I knew when she cried it could be that her skin was itching… and that I couldn’t help her.
We both cried every Thursday when the old plaster was cut off with a tiny but loud saw, only to be replaced with new wet plaster that would harden before we even reached the car.
For a day or so Elle would cry from soreness from the new adjustment – her soft bones being held in the new position, ligaments and tendons being stretched. We cried together. And sometimes, for me, it was a reminder of her tiny row of pink shoes standing at attention waiting to be worn.
Five weeks crawled by and the final set of casts were removed. Her feet, that I had missed holding in the palms of my hands, were resting in a neutral position, no longer turned up and inwards.
They were beautiful.
One day I sat outside Elle’s room while she napped, my back up against the wall, and wrote Gracefully. The words came easy. They were crisp, clear. I was the subject-matter-expert. It felt monumental to get them down on paper: they were the words I had needed months before.
But how would I share this story?
At Elle’s next appointment, encouraged by Brett, I told Dr. Clark what I was up to. He was excited. He got it: I wanted to help other parents.
But did I have enough grace to create something extraordinary?
I looked to my children. Elle was taking on the journey herself – showing me where pure grace comes from:
within.
Brandy Cardarelli Photography
Gracefully book can be found: www.angelaerinwilliams.com
