I don’t remember your name, or even your face. The one and only time we met was one hell of a night. I doubt you remember us; it’s been 17 years.
We had nearly lost our baby and were in the midst of an emergency C-section required for fetal distress. Our baby had been resuscitated, and once stable, you brought him to us. I don’t know how much you knew about what had transpired, but I doubt it was your first experience with such a delicate situation.
I didn’t know it at the time, but what you did was unusual. You blessed us with your demeanor and words. You reassured us that our baby would be okay, and that he was entirely precious, no matter what the test results showed. You gently ushered us into a whole new world, and you did it perfectly. Thank you for your words, and thank you for your support.
Alex does have Down syndrome. The events of that night made it easier for us to wrap our minds around that. Having nearly lost our baby, seeing him alive with Down syndrome seemed like an easy reality to adjust to. But your kindness, your introduction of him to us as a baby first, set us up for acceptance. I wish I could see you one more time and tell you to your face how blessed we were to have you there with us that night. I hope that somehow you know.