Cinco de Mayo

It’s 11:48pm on Cinco de Mayo and I’m so ready to bid an energetic adios to this day.

Not my usual blog demeanor, but in the spirit of keeping it real, I will share that I really don’t like this particular day.

This year I’ve had more time to think than usual, as my boys are out of town at a basketball tournament and my oldest daughter has had a full plate of social plans, including a sleep-over at a friend’s house tonight.

So I tried to keep myself busy with my youngest. Going for walks in the brilliant sunshine, running a few remodel errands (yay for finding the perfect tile for my master bath after at least 8 stores and hours online!), and summer clothes shopping for the both of us.

But I here I am. As Cinco de Mayo is winding down, with a preoccupied mind and a heavy heart.

You see, Cinco de Mayo is an anniversary of sorts. For the last nine years, it has been the anniversary of finding out my daughter’s health diagnosis. Last year, my beloved grandma died on this day. So I kind of want to give the 5th of May a super rude gesture most years – this year, more than ever.

Nine years ago it was a normal day. I was wrapping up my maternity leave/sabbatical from work – almost eight months of time to focus on being a mom to my new precious baby and her two older siblings. This time was such a gift. Taking my daughter to pre-school. Taking my son to Little Kickers soccer. Cuddling my baby. Endless tea parties and super heroes and dress-up. It was busy and wonderful and it was coming to an end, as I was going back to work in a few weeks.

I was in the house alone with my baby when the phone rang. I didn’t think anything of it. Her doctor had noticed a few developmental delays and suggested we get a MRI. At first, I resisted. She would have to go under anesthesia and at only 5 lbs 10 oz at birth, she was a tiny little thing. And I was certain – so incredibly certain – that she was fine. I even said, “You see Dr., she is a third child. She is in her car seat far too much chasing after her older siblings. Don’t worry, we have this parenting thing down – I’ll do more tummy time, blah, blah, blah.” I honestly was a bit embarrassed, but not worried.

So the phone rings and I’m holding my baby, in the house by ourselves in her room – I remember it like it was yesterday. I had called the pediatrician the day before requesting a final report. I had actually called several days prior after the MRI because I was heading to Vancouver to run my first post-baby half-marathon and wanted to make sure it was OK to leave her with family for a night. The radiologist said, “yes, everything looks fine. Nothing to worry about.” So off I went for a night – ran a half marathon – and came back home. Seriously, not worried. At all.

So the phone rings. And I answer. As if it is no big deal. It’s the back-up pediatrician on call returning my call because my pediatrician was on vacation. “Oh hello,” I say, as I make silly faces at my baby.

He introduces himself and asks if I’m driving. What? And then he asks if there is anyone else with me. What?? And I start to feel frantic. And I tell him to tell me what he called to say. I am not driving and I am alone with my baby, but I need to know. Now.

He says, “Your baby has a neurological condition called agenesis of the corpus callosum. This means she is missing the part of her brain that connects the right and left hemisphere. I don’t really know what it means. I’ve never seen this before. I think you need to see a neurodevelopmental expert at Children’s.”

WHAT??? What did you say? How do you spell that? You’ve actually never seen another child with this? WHAT???

I was shocked. Terrified. Heartbroken. With the certainty that her life, my life, and the life of our family just changed in an instant. I knew nothing else. But I knew everything had changed, with certainty. 

As he was describing what he had read on the Internet, I flew downstairs with my baby and also searched the same Internet. WHAT?? Could this be possible?

I was healthy. Only 32 when she was born. She had extensive testing done in utero. Clean bill of health. Normal birth. WHAT??

The Internet terrified me so I closed it down. Looked down at my smiling baby and tried to make sense of this crazy. I was panicking and crying and trying to remain calm. I knew I needed to call my husband but so didn’t want to destroy his world. How do you tell your husband his precious baby is missing part of her brain? And you cannot fix it??

But I did. And I tried super hard to be calm. And completely lost it about one second into the conversation. He came home immediately, we held our baby, and tried to optimistically believe that she would be fine.

It was very probably the very worst day of my life.

And then last year, on the very same day, my beloved grandma died. While she was not in great health, she was so smart, so sharp, and so amazing. I loved her so much. I got home to my mom as soon as I could and we focused on sending her off with all of the love she deserved.

But ugh. Cinco de Mayo. What. A. Day. 

I’ve already decided that next year will be different. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wasting a day of the year being sad. We are going to throw a huge Cinco de Mayo party. It is going to be awesome. I will surround myself with friends. I will eat guacamole and chips and salsa until I explode. I will enjoy several Corona’s. It will be amazing.

Because I’m ready to take back Cinco de Mayo. Sometimes in life, you just have to. 

And now, it is 12:11am. Which is officially May 6th. The day has passed and I am going to have the most amazing May 6th ever.