D-Day
So, this week is rare chromosome
awareness week, and I’m attempting a blog-a-day in the spirit of raising some
awareness around the impact of a rare chromosome disorder on every day ordinary
life with our everyday ordinary family.
I thought I’d start at the
beginning, seeing as much of the focus on social media today is on D-day-
diagnosis day. I can’t remember the
actual day or time we received our news, but I do remember not having the first
idea what any of it meant. And I also remember how I felt. There had been almost
three years of appointments, therapies, watching my baby boy’s future unfold
into an entirely atypical toddlerhood and fighting to get medical professionals
to listen to my concerns in the lead up to D-day.
When B was born, he was dead. Clinically
speaking. His Apgar score was one, and when he was placed into my arms he was
the same grey-blue colour as a dolphin. Unfortunately due to all my babies
being back-to-back, and the odd labouring pattern this brings about, I only had
a student midwife present at the delivery since they thought I would be pushing
a lot longer than I actually was. After what seemed like an eternity the
student midwife pulled the emergency buzzer and a whole paediatric crash team came
bursting through the door. I had just enough time to watch S’s wavering
expression as he weighed up staying with me versus following our lifeless
newborn outside as they worked on him beyond my view. He went with B, which I
am forever grateful for. B was small and vulnerable and he needed his daddy.
Apart from some hypoxic shock (where
your blood gets too acidic since it’s been transporting carbon dioxide rather
than oxygen around, and your body tries to compensate) B pinked up nicely after
being bagged and we were allowed home the next day. Or, as is the case in a lot
of overflowing maternity wards, politely moved along! We proudly took our
beautiful firstborn son home, but B was unlike any of my other children- while
the girls had to be constantly upright and watching the world go by, B lay on
his playmat disengaged and disinterested in his surroundings. The girls sat up
at five months and continued to hit every milestone far earlier than their
peers; B was floppy like a ragdoll and didn’t manage to hold his head up
properly until around nine months. The girls were constantly babbling and chattering,
while B made no noises at all. The only way I can describe it is he seemed to
be born without instincts; no recognition or crying for hunger or tiredness,
and no outward need to be held or interacted with.
He also did this odd little thing
from time to time where he would suddenly go blue, pedal his arms rigidly, and
stop breathing. Me, being the no-nonsense mum that I was, presumed it was just
a wind issue or something because he would always return back to normal
afterwards. I was concerned enough to mention it at his eight week check-up
though, and the doctor looked at me like I was crazy. Right on cue, B decided
to show off his skill and the GP freaked out and sent us straight to A and E.
Absolute utter parent fail. He then did it again once we got to the ward and
the whole place erupted- they whisked him from me and worked on him to get him
breathing again. I was completely mortified- I’d been letting this go on for
eight weeks, and given the reaction of the hospital staff, this was clearly NOT
the right call on my part. Ooops. We were admitted and discharged a week later
no closer to unravelling the mystery, but had been made to undertake resuscitation
training should the need arise. B continued to stop breathing at random moments
throughout the first year of his life, and it became the norm for us, although
B has scared the shit out of many a Joe Public in his time!
One chaotic episode followed another
and it became increasingly clear our little boy was far from ‘normal’. We were
referred to Great Ormond Street to test for muscular dystrophy, but that came
back clear. B had weekly physiotherapy which (slowly) helped build up his
strength. Our community paediatrician was entirely unhelpful and wrote me off
as a neurotic parent since I was so young and as she saw it, slightly
Google-happy. I, however found the world wide web a brilliant source of help. I
did a lot of research around B’s symptoms and kept coming back to autism.
Heading to the National Autistic website I noted B hit every single one of
their 16 red flags for autism. Armed with this, I went back to the community
paediatrician and argued for an ASD screening. She reluctantly agreed, even
though she had labelled him with Global Developmental Delay which seemed to
satisfy the medical professionals involved with him. GDD is a term given when
a- they have no idea what is going on with your child or b-can’t be bothered to
investigate what is going on with your child. It describes the symptoms and not
the causes of a child’s delays, and in terms of accessing services is pretty
useless.
Unsurprisingly, B aced the autism
screening and came out with a clear diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder
(ASD). He was 26 months old, and all I felt was floods of relief. It was
something I’d known for a long time, and while it didn’t change anything, it
paradoxically changed everything. Now there was a cause, a reason and we could
arm ourselves with a strategy.
Yet I still had a niggling feeling
in my gut. A feeling that while ASD was part of the picture, it didn’t explain
everything. There were too many other weird and wonderful things about B that
were not encompassed by that diagnosis alone. So I carried on researching, and
fighting to get B a karyotype. A karyotype is a blood test that sets out a persons
chromosomes under a microscope to screen for any abnormality. Things like Down
Syndrome, Fragile X, and Angelman’s Syndrome- all examples of disorders where
too much or too little of certain chromosomes go on to have serious
implications in the bodies and lives of those affected individuals. My
community paed sensed I wasn’t the kind of person to give up easily once I had
convinced the rest of B’s therapists to support me, and she eventually agreed
to do the test. Blood work was sent off to London and usually took a few weeks
for results, so we waited. The medics told me there was a 90% chance it would
come back showing nothing, since autism and global developmental delay often
occur in otherwise healthy people with normal chromosomes.
A few weeks later. D-day. B was
almost three years old. The phone rang, and it was the paediatrician from the
local hospital with the long-awaited results. Something had come up on the
test. As she continued her words blurred and I heard splinters of information
but struggled to focus on the whole call. Too much chromosome 15….. maternal
side……rare…. geneticist……not much known……a handful of cases in the UK. I hung
up the phone and a numbness washed over me. What the fuck did this mean? As I
googled duplication 15q syndrome and read over the information I found, I went
through every emotion imaginable. Shock, fear, grief, despair, sorrow, anger,
relief, vindication. I had fought this all the way, and I was right to have
done so. My child was different. Every cell in his body had too much chromosome
15 material which explained all his difficulties. But this was super rare, and
not much was known about it. What was known was horrible and very hard to read.
Seizures, autism, risk of sudden death, recurrent infections, mobility problems,
severe communication delay, profound learning difficulty…. The list went on.
Finally gaining a diagnosis had
plucked me from Uncertainty Street and whisked me super speed straight over to Planet
Unknown. And then the real journey began…..
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