The end of a road

Almost exactly two years ago, Roger and I entered the Department of Orthopedics at UNC Hospitals carrying our sleeping five-day-old son in an infant carrier. We were, as most parents of newborns are, sleep-deprived and exhausted. But beneath the fatigue was anxiety: We were about to start an unknown journey, one that would take baby Dominic from club-footed to, well, normal.

When we walked out that day, we had a clearer picture of the road ahead of us. We also had a son who had suddenly gained two pounds in plaster -- double leg casts, toe to thigh.

Yesterday morning, at Dominic's two-year check up, we followed the red flashes of Dommie's light-up sneakers as he jumped off chairs and ran down hallways. And we rejoiced in the good news: For all practical purposes, Dominic is cured. His feet are completely normal. Our journey is almost done.


If he had to have a birth defect, bilateral club feet was a good choice. It is the most common defect, occurring in 1 in 1000 births. Some children have just a single club foot; in a way, Dommie was lucky to have two because his feet, smaller than a normal child's, match. No need to buy special shoes or different sizes for each foot. He can wear his light-up sneakers all he wants.

I could tell stories -- horror stories, you might call them, except that his deformity was minor compared to those suffered by millions of children around the world. To recount how his tiny toes once got bent and mangled in a cast, or how his casts, and then his brace, prevented him from ever developing a regular sleep routine, or how much it hurts to get kicked in the mouth with the orthopedic brace he wears at night -- well, to recount those seems an awful lot like whining now that we're done. And now that I can look back and say, It wasn't that bad.


It just seemed like it at the time.

In truth, having a baby with "special needs" gave us a lot of reasons for gratitude. I am grateful for the wonderful nurses and doctors and UNC, for their compassion and skill and humor. I am grateful for the support and prayers of family and friends. I am grateful for all those people who babysat while we made the every-two-day, then weekly, then bi-weekly, then monthly trips to UNC in the early morning hours. I am grateful to everyone who brought us meals, who took the kids on looooong walks, who made emergency trips to the library. I am grateful to the people who made me laugh.

I am grateful for the long car rides through the quiet Jordan Lake wilderness. I am grateful that I had that time to spend with my husband, just talking. In our hurried life, we don't get enough of that.

I am grateful to God that we have Dominic. I am even grateful that he had clubbed feet. It is all part of God's plan.

At this latest appointment, the big question was how much longer he would need to wear the shoes and brace at night. This was the first appointment where Dommie had some inkling -- if two-year-olds are capable of inklings -- that he was at a doctor. He kept saying, "Dot-tor?" and then, pointing at this feet and asking, "Weet?"

When Dr. Henderson finally came in, the conversation went something like this:

Dr. Henderson: "Dominic, can you show me your feet?"

Dommie: "No."

Dr. Henderon: "Can I see your shoes?"

Dommie: "No."

Dr. Henderson: "Will you walk to me and show me how well you walk?"

Dominic: "No. Done."

On a side note, a couple weeks ago we visited the Rembrandt exhibit at the art museum. About twenty minutes into it Dominic suddenly announced, "Done!" and made for the nearest exit.

So apparently he thought it was time for the appointment to be done. No more dot-tor.

Dr. Henderson's recommendation was that as soon as Dommie outgrows his current orthopedic shoes and his brace, he can stop wearing them. Right now he still wears them at night, and every night I go through the routine of buckling him in and snapping on his brace. Then he and I cuddle for a while. He sucks his thumb and holds on to my hair while we watch TV. Every night he and I have the same conversation: I say that it's time to put on his special shoes, and he waves his arms wildly and says, "No. Done."

Around age three we'll make another UNC visit to check his muscle balance -- club-footers usually have smaller, and sometimes unequal, calf muscles that can affect balance. But until then, we just wait for his feet to grow, and the night will eventually come when I sit on the couch with him and tell him, "No more special shoes."


And while we cuddle, while he sucks his thumb and yanks my hair, we can both say, "Done."