Dear Ruzan,
Right now, you're probably the most hated woman on the Internet. But I can't chastise you. I'd be a hypocrite, because I was once in the exact same position.
I'm assuming some of my rationale would have been similar to yours: ignorance and misguided fears. But my reasoning was even worse: Unlike you, I never lacked the resources to take care of Jo Jo. I was living in a tony suburb in Connecticut, with access to some of the best medical and educational resources for children with special needs in the world. But I was your typical type-A, narcissistic perfectionist. Having a little girl with a significant disability did not fit into my life's plans.
And so when my daughter was born—a month early with a shock of dark brown hair—I froze. I knew as soon as I saw her that something was not "right." It wasn't just the dead silence among the medical specialists. She was cross-eyed and her tongue lolled out and there was a strange slant to her eyes. When the nurses placed her on my chest, I physically cringed. She wasn't the blonde, dimpled, plump cherub I'd imagined.
Like you, my daughter was whisked away from me very quickly. The next time I saw her, she was screaming in a bassinet in the NICU, writhing around a mess of tubes and wires. The NICU staff encouraged me to hold her. I did. She quieted instantly. "She knows you're her mother," a nurse told me, but I stayed silent. I felt zero connection to this wailing, pulsating creature in my arms. And I felt like a monster.
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Ruzan, when I took Johanna home three weeks later from the hospital (she had required intestinal surgery five days after her birth), I still did not feel a connection to her. It makes sense, of course. It's hard to bond with your baby when you can't hold her 24/7, when you can't take her into your bed and snuggle with her at night to sooth her wailing. But I was convinced my feelings meant I didn't have the nurturing, the empathy, the patience, to be Johanna's mother.
I won't lie. It took months before I felt that true maternal pull, that blip in your heart when you catch sight of your baby. I now realize a lot of that was due to severe undiagnosed postpartum depression. There was also so much focus on Johanna's diagnosis—medical evaluations, therapy, connecting with other parents—that it was difficult to see her as a little person in her own right.
But that moment of bonding did come. Johanna had just turned four months. I had finally been prescribed Zoloft, and woke up one sunny August morning not feeling like I was teetering on the edge of some deep, dark, gaping abyss. I heard cooing and went into the nursery. Jo Jo was there, chattering to herself and intently examining her fingers. She looked up and saw me and beamed this wide, expansive smile that told me she 100% recognized me as her mother. As I stood there, staring at her as the sunlight from her window streaked onto her face, I felt something that I had never felt before. It was a surge of love and the recognition that this little girl was my daughter.
Ruzan, that moment will happen.
Every single emotion that went through your head, I guarantee went through mine too.
I have read your words and your half-hearted claims: You are allowing your estranged husband to take your son to New Zealand to create a better life for Leo. You cannot provide for him in Armenia. You cannot take care of your son on your own.
All of those are just excuses. In a haze of sleep deprivation, post-pregnancy hormones and utter shock and horror, it's almost impossible to believe you can make any capable decisions for your child. But you can.
Follow Leo and his father to New Zealand. There are better resources there, for both him and you. If you are going through post-traumatic stress syndrome (common, and often undiagnosed among moms who learn their newborn has special needs), you'll get better treatment there. Do what it takes to make yourself whole, so you can be a mother to your son.
My daughter Johanna will turn seven at the end of the month. She is in first grade. She is beginning to read. She swims and performs ballet. She is the most popular little girl in her class. She has two younger brothers who adore her.
I don't envy the dark place you are in now. But unlike others, I don't condemn you for it. I have no doubt every other mother who has given birth to a baby with Down syndrome has experienced the same gruesome thoughts crowding her mind.
But when you see Leo take his first steps, when you see him read his first words, or kick his first soccer ball, or spell his name, or perform in his first school play, it will all fade away. You will cry, and you will wonder how you could have ever doubted yourself, or him.
And I promise you, it will be wonderful.
Sincerely,
Hallie Levine, proud mom to Johanna Alexis Sklar
