A Mother's Worst Fear

     I will never forget the day that my role as mother of a normal child ended, and my role as advocate for a disabled child began.
     When my husband and I decided to have a child, we both envisioned this beautiful, healthy, glowing cherubic treasure. We planned (and argued) for months over what to name the baby once it was born. We were not fortunate enough to learn the gender beforehand, but this only added to the mystery and wonder that is pregnancy. It was finally decided that it would be named Teagan for a boy or Trista for a girl. Regardless, when our child was born, we were excited and a little scared. We had gone from happy couple to family of three in a matter of hours, and neither of us was fully prepared for the transition.
     Teagan was everything we dreamed, ten fingers, ten toes, cherubic face; and ours. At every pediatric check-up, everything seemed fine. He was a little chubby for his percentile, but fat babies make happy babies.
     When Teagan was four months old, we noticed he held his head to the left. We weren’t overly concerned, until we looked back at the hundreds of photos we had taken of our precious gift. In every photo since birth, he held his head in the exact same position. Red flags went up and sirens were wailing in our heads. We took him to the pediatrician, and explained our concerns.
“He’s just holding his head that way, there’s nothing to worry about,” was the pediatrician’s reply.
     Here, I will explain briefly, about the type of mother Teagan was born to. I was never one to take no for an answer, and if I tell you something, it would be best to just do it, than incur my wrath... in other words, one very forceful bitch.  I obviously returned to the pediatrician a few weeks later with photos, website information about a condition called Infant Torticollis, and one very bad temper.
     The pediatrician looked everything over, and agreed it was Infant Torticollis. He’s lucky he left work that day with his life intact, because at that moment, I wanted to strangle him.
     Six months of physical therapy later, and all seemed to be going very well for little Teagan, or so we thought. As you have read from my earlier posts, Teagan has been diagnosed with many other diagnoses, so the battle still wages on.

     I became a mother when Teagan was born, but my role as advocate began with Torticollis. Teagan is 8 years old now, and I am still waging war with his school, therapists, and doctors, to ensure he receives the necessary services to succeed as far as he is able. To a mother, the sky is always the limit for her child.