It was time to see Dr. Rosenblum again. This second appointment was at the Center for Disability Services in Albany. We pulled into the parking lot as the school busses were unloading to begin the school day. I was overwhelmed with the enormity and severity of disabilities of the people disembarking for school and treatment there. Everyone seemed to lack control over their own bodies and/or minds. Nothing seemed normal, average or fully functioning and status quo. Little babies and children and adults were either being hoisted off of the busses in some type of fancy wheelchair or other kids were being assisted with walkers, gait trainers or crutches. One precious little guy was carried off and placed in a small red wooden wagon. That classic Radio Flyer was the only semblance of normalcy I saw. I liked that.
Children had heads that were enormous from hydrocephalus, legs and arms withered from hundreds of varied congenital or genetic abnormalities. There were tubes, oxygen tanks, pillows, straps, and dozens of communication devices. It seemed everyone needed an assistant and lots of equipment. The huge double automatic doors at the entrance opened wide and slowly. They remained agape for a very long time because nothing, and no one, moved about fluidly or easily. I had seen many similar people like the ones before me that day, but never en masse like this. The impact was exponential. Mark’s eyes searched mine as if to make sure we were really seeing all this, and we were really needing to bring our child here. What would her life be like?
We got to the waiting area by the physician’s offices. A peppy young nurse came out almost immediately and fawned all over Catie. “She’s adorable. Wait till Dr. Rosenblum sees her. He’s gonna love this little one!” Her enthusiasm was what I needed to keep from falling apart. When she walked away, I did what I always did when I got upset, I picked up Catie and kissed her and squeezed her and drew her sweetness into myself. No matter what we would have to face with her, I loved my daughter as much as I could possibly love her, and we were going to do what she needed and somehow make it through. It was that simple . . .. And that hard.
I was a little nervous about what Dr. Rosenblum was going to tell us because I’d been up at night reading medical books about baby developmental problems. There was this one test where you held the baby up over your head and looked to see symmetry in the ways their extremities extended outward. I noticed Catie’s left side, particularly her left arm was slower and tighter.
Within minutes, Catie’s doctor was in the examining room. He took out his little rubber hammer and tested reflexes, rolled her around in different positions on the table and pulled and pushed her arms and legs. Catie thought it was fun. She was laughing and he was delighting in her. Then he measured her head and looked at me saying “Just keep up the good care. She looks good to me.”
“She does? Is her head size normal?”
It’s maybe a little smaller than it should be but it’s early. I’m not worried about that yet. I’m looking at HER. SHE looks very good. Don’t you Catie?”
She did look good. Cate was full of life, had great eye contact, a quick smile and an easy laugh. Her muscle tone was not too bad either because we kept the Phenobarbital dose as low as possible.
“What about her left side? I thought I saw increased tone in it. And her eye sometimes turns inward.”
Her eye may very well self-correct with time. Not too concerned about that. Then he re-examined her arm and leg and turned toward me. You’re right. There is some impairment there,” I had never, in all my life, wanted to be wrong more than now.”
The cheery nurse, Kim, waited until he left the room. She was serious now. She stroked Cate’s hair and looked at me with kindness, saying “Dr. Rosenblum has a left hemiparesis too, and he’s a DOCTOR! Try not to worry too much. She’ll do fine.”
So Catie now had a diagnosis. She had cerebral palsy with a left-sided hemiparesis. It was hard to hear. As any mother, I wanted all my kids to have the best possible life, and at the very least, to be spared difficulties like disability. That day we learned that the effects of her birth would indeed be permanent to at least this much of an extent. The ‘wait and see’ game was still on though. Would the seizure disorder be lasting too?
Carol called me regularly to pray with and for Catie and me. She knew I was upset so she asked if she could bring two sisters, Marianne and Grace, along with her to our home. These middle-aged ladies from our parish, were also Pastoral Care ministers at the area hospitals. They were always together, whether visiting shut-ins, going on pilgrimages or workshops to learn about healing prayer, or just gathering to pray for anyone and everyone sick. (As Father Busch put it “Buy one. Get one free.”) They were also leaders in both the local prayer group, and the Diocesan Service Committee for the Charismatic Renewal. I was anxious to meet them, so we set up a time.
Several days later these three women showed up with Father Donnelly (St. Paul’s pastor emeritus). Father had come along to give Catie the Sacrament of the Sick. Father Elmer was a devout and humorous man of the cloth. Sharp as a tack and full of fun. Since we thought it was important to have Catie anointed, Mark came home for lunch to be there. Father played with the boys, did something to make his hearing aid beep and had them all laughing before he quieted down and administered the sacrament to our girl. The kids took off for the family room to play as he began.
The sacrament lasted several minutes, Father closed his prayer book, and we all held hands and prepared to end this sacrament with the Lord’s Prayer. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the three boys all showed up, stood behind the sofa and joined in. Matthew’s “baba” was dripping down the back of Father’s black suit as he prayed. I nonchalantly wiped it off with a tissue. Talk about sweet.
In Between Two Worlds 