We are still waiting to get a schedule for Zac's surgery on his left leg. I have contacted Dr. Paley's office several times without any replies. Finally, today I e-mailed Dr. Paley to let him know that we are trying to reschedule Zac's surgery; within hours I get a copy of his e-mail to his assistant (of whom I have been leaving messages with) asking her to contact me to re-schedule. Hopefully that means I will talk with her tomorrow. This surgeon runs an extremely busy practice, with patients from around the world, and a full staff of residence that he trains to do the same amazing procedures that he does. He is considered a pioneer in the field, and has developed over 200 procedures himself -including what he is doing for Zac! Yet, he is so efficient and quick when it comes to e-mails. It always amazes me! The first time we contacted him by e-mail to even see if he would look at Zac, we got a reply within 2 days.
Today someone was asking us about the procedures and surgeries on the TARS support group, and as I was answering their questions, I was reminded about what a miracle really happened to have his leg turn out the way that it has. It is so straight, and really looks beautiful. To think that he will walk one day. I am just overwhelmed right now as I write. God has really worked a miracle through the Dr. and team that we found. That is such an answer to what we prayed for and asked so many to join with us in praying. It makes me start to get excited about what is about to happen with the left leg. I know that anything is possible, and I am expecting another miracle!!!
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Happy Mother's Day
Happy Mother's Day to all mothers. The following was posted on our TARS Support group. It really touched my heart, so I thought I would share it.
By Lori Borgman
Expectant mothers waiting for a newborn's arrival say they don't care
what sex the baby is. They just want to have ten fingers and ten
toes.
Mothers lie.
Every mother wants so much more.
She wants a perfectly healthy baby with a round head,
rosebud lips, button nose, beautiful eyes and satin skin.
She wants a baby so gorgeous that people will pity the Gerber baby
for being flat-out ugly.
She wants a baby that will roll over, sit up and take those first
steps right on schedule
Every mother wants a baby that can see, hear, run, jump and fire
neurons by the billions.
She wants a kid that can smack the ball out of the park
and do toe points that are the envy of the entire ballet class.
Call it greed if you want, but a mother wants what a mother wants.
Some mothers get babies with something more.
Maybe you're one who got a baby with a condition you couldn't
pronounce,
a spine that didn't fuse,
a missing chromosome or a palate that didn't close.
The doctor's words took your breath away.
It was just like the time at recess in the fourth grade when you
didn't see the kick ball coming,
and it knocked the wind right out of you.
Some of you left the hospital with a healthy bundle, then, months,
even years later,
took him in for a routine visit, or scheduled him for a checkup,
and crashed head first into a brick wall as you bore the brunt of
devastating news.
It didn't seem possible.
That didn't run in your family.
Could this really be happening in your lifetime?
There's no such thing as a perfect body.
Everybody will bear something at some time or another.
Maybe the affliction will be apparent to curious eyes, or maybe it
will be unseen,
quietly treated with trips to the doctor, therapy or surgery.
Mothers of children with disabilities live the limitations with them.
Frankly, I don't know how you do it.
Sometimes you mothers scare me.
How you lift that kid in and out of the wheelchair twenty times a
day.
How you monitor tests, track medications,
and serve as the gatekeeper to a hundred specialists yammering in
your ear.
I wonder how you endure the cliches and the platitudes,
the well-intentioned souls explaining how God is at work
when you've occasionally questioned if God is on strike.
I even wonder how you endure schmaltzy columns like this one-saluting
you,
painting you as hero and saint,
when you know you're ordinary.
You snap, you bark, you bite.
You didn't volunteer for this, you didn't jump up and down in the
motherhood line yelling,
"Choose me, God. Choose me! I've got what it takes."
You're a woman who doesn't have time to step back and put things in
perspective, so let me do it for you. From where I sit, you're way
ahead of the pack.
You've developed the strength of the draft horse while holding onto
the delicacy of a daffodil.
You have a heart that melts like chocolate in a glove box in July,
counter-balanced against the stubbornness of an Ozark mule.
You are the mother, advocate and protector of a child with a
disability.
You're a neighbor, a friend, a woman I pass at church and my sister-
in-law.
You're a wonder.
By Lori Borgman
Expectant mothers waiting for a newborn's arrival say they don't care
what sex the baby is. They just want to have ten fingers and ten
toes.
Mothers lie.
Every mother wants so much more.
She wants a perfectly healthy baby with a round head,
rosebud lips, button nose, beautiful eyes and satin skin.
She wants a baby so gorgeous that people will pity the Gerber baby
for being flat-out ugly.
She wants a baby that will roll over, sit up and take those first
steps right on schedule
Every mother wants a baby that can see, hear, run, jump and fire
neurons by the billions.
She wants a kid that can smack the ball out of the park
and do toe points that are the envy of the entire ballet class.
Call it greed if you want, but a mother wants what a mother wants.
Some mothers get babies with something more.
Maybe you're one who got a baby with a condition you couldn't
pronounce,
a spine that didn't fuse,
a missing chromosome or a palate that didn't close.
The doctor's words took your breath away.
It was just like the time at recess in the fourth grade when you
didn't see the kick ball coming,
and it knocked the wind right out of you.
Some of you left the hospital with a healthy bundle, then, months,
even years later,
took him in for a routine visit, or scheduled him for a checkup,
and crashed head first into a brick wall as you bore the brunt of
devastating news.
It didn't seem possible.
That didn't run in your family.
Could this really be happening in your lifetime?
There's no such thing as a perfect body.
Everybody will bear something at some time or another.
Maybe the affliction will be apparent to curious eyes, or maybe it
will be unseen,
quietly treated with trips to the doctor, therapy or surgery.
Mothers of children with disabilities live the limitations with them.
Frankly, I don't know how you do it.
Sometimes you mothers scare me.
How you lift that kid in and out of the wheelchair twenty times a
day.
How you monitor tests, track medications,
and serve as the gatekeeper to a hundred specialists yammering in
your ear.
I wonder how you endure the cliches and the platitudes,
the well-intentioned souls explaining how God is at work
when you've occasionally questioned if God is on strike.
I even wonder how you endure schmaltzy columns like this one-saluting
you,
painting you as hero and saint,
when you know you're ordinary.
You snap, you bark, you bite.
You didn't volunteer for this, you didn't jump up and down in the
motherhood line yelling,
"Choose me, God. Choose me! I've got what it takes."
You're a woman who doesn't have time to step back and put things in
perspective, so let me do it for you. From where I sit, you're way
ahead of the pack.
You've developed the strength of the draft horse while holding onto
the delicacy of a daffodil.
You have a heart that melts like chocolate in a glove box in July,
counter-balanced against the stubbornness of an Ozark mule.
You are the mother, advocate and protector of a child with a
disability.
You're a neighbor, a friend, a woman I pass at church and my sister-
in-law.
You're a wonder.
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