Wednesday, July 24, 2013
I don't remember everything, but I remember it was in the second half of March. The phone rang. I answered.
It was genetics from the big city. They had ordered an array CGH (Micro-array comparative genomic hybridization) 18 months before and they had the results. This was a last ditch effort to figure out what was wrong with Finleigh. We'd tested her for a myriad of different genetic disorders and they'd all come back negative. Downs Syndrome. Nope. Fragile X. Nope. Prader-Willi. Nope. MPS1. Nope. Muscular Dystrophy. Nope. And a couple others. All fine. One doc had thought it might be Turner Syndrome. Also a nope.
Her MRI had come back clean, so not likely Cerebral Palsy.
We had accepted that we would never know what was wrong beyond autism. But when we were told about the CGH that was available to us, where they would go over her chromosomes with a fine toothed comb, we jumped at the chance. We needed to know.
So, we had the blood work done and forgot about it. Until the phone rang. 18 months later, a month after she turned 6.
"Your daughter has Smith-Magenis Syndrome."
My head started floating. You know that feeling? Where you're in a state of disbelief about what is happening to you? It was surreal. We had a name. We had an actual diagnosis.
Smith-Magenis Syndrome. I had never heard of it. But it meant that it wasn't my fault - a thought that had haunted me from the day she was born four weeks early under less than ideal circumstances.
We talked about it for a bit. She told me some of the main issues with the syndrome and booked an appointment for us to come down and talk face to face.
Immediately I went online. Wikipedia gave me a general sense of what we were dealing with. Then I called my husband at work. And from that moment on, whatever I was doing lost all meaning. I spent the next couple days combing over the internet for every piece of information I could get. I read blogs. I perused the Prisms website, reading most of it. I talked on the phone to those I was closest too. I was fine.
My husband and I were amazed at how perfectly SMS described our daughter. Right down to her little hands and feet. There were other Finleighs out there! We laughed at stories we read from other parents of SMS mischief. We chuckled at a shirt we found online that said "I void warranties." We kept pointing things out to each other. Suddenly everything made sense.
A few days later, reality finally hit me. I realized that, actually? This diagnosis really was going to change our lives.
I suddenly started seeing Finleigh differently. All I could see was SMS in her face. I had lost my little girl. And the question of whether she was going to grow up to be independent was all but answered. She would always need some help. And no, she would likely not ever get married. Or have children. Or a career. Or drive.
And those tantrums that she was going to grow out of? They were going to be a permanent fixture. They felt different too. Could it be true that her emotional maturity would never grow much past a 3 year old's?
Oh. My. God.
That is when I really lost it. That is what I was sure I could not live with. That is what broke my heart. I imagined an older version of Finleigh... acting like a three year old. That was just not okay.
Once we talked with the geneticist, who thought that we - and Finleigh - were doing quite well, all things considered, we told the school. The SMS diagnosis has not really changed how her education or therapies are done, but it has allowed everyone involved to understand why. And that is a good thing, even if I don't want to face the truth of what the future could bring.
Five months in, we're still getting used to our new reality, but we're okay. Finleigh looks like Finleigh again, I'm beginning to get my feet back under me. The diagnosis gave me the impetus to argue for more support and we now have respite. And hopefully another year of funded therapies for her through the school. We've had several other specialist appointments now and know that her heart and kidneys and liver and bladder all look fine. We just saw the ENT and audiologist, her hearing and vocal chords are fine. We'll be seeing an ophthalmologist soon to talk about her lazy eye(s). We saw a sleep specialist who will be helping us work on getting Finleigh the best sleep she can.
I started this post over a month ago. I keep coming back to it. Wondering how to finish it. Am I being too positive? Because somedays I just want to say fuck you to the universe and the odds that my child would have a syndrome as rare as 1 in 25,000. Or am I being too negative? After all, she is healthy. I draw strength from those that have gone before, often without the benefit of knowing what we know about SMS today. I know we will survive. We'll get through this, stronger for it, even. But life looms long in front of me. There are so many hard things about this syndrome.
It's a syndrome that gives us a child with a funny, endearing personality. People love her. WE love her. But it is also a syndrome that brings on unexpected tantrums, messes with her sleep cycle and delays her emotional development far more than her intellectual development - which by the way is not so great either.
Everyday, life is a fight. From the beginning of the day when it's a fight to get dressed to the end of the day when it's a fight go to bed. It's exhausting.
And yet, she is beautiful and we will do whatever we can to make sure she's happy. The dreams we had for her are different now, but she brings a light into our lives that is special and unique. And that, I suppose, we would not trade for the world.