Little Da the pugilist

The first time I ever saw Little Da...the embryo that would eventually grow into Little Da...I was alone (except for an obstetrician) and scared out of my wits. Having conceived two weeks after a DNC for "retained products of conception" after a missed abortion, we had come home from a dark, cold, and windy walk on Crissy Field, and I had found blood. Not just a little, but a lot. I figured that was it, that it was happening again, so soon, that everything was over. I'd already weathered the feeble congratulations of a couple of family members wary of the success of this conception, and now...blood. It was only seven weeks.

Of course, I immediately went to the ER, a special ER for pregnant women at a local hospital. I went alone because Mr. DMFP had to stay home with our other two, very young children. I wondered why I always had to be alone for the dark times. The OB frowned on me for conceiving so quickly after a DNC. I didn't care. She plastered on the KY and started rolling the ultrasound wand over my belly. "It's in utero," she said, "and it's viable." And there it was, that little silver heartbeat, flash, flash, flash. Suddenly, there was light again, a hopeful, flashing silver light.

I continued to bleed, off and on, into the second trimester. But at 10 weeks, the future Little Da was in there doing somersaults, practicing his best moves. At other ultrasounds...for nuchal measurements, a thyroid scare, a level II anatomical...there he was, growing and developing and flailing around. Even with the ominous signs of failure, he was hanging on and hanging in there. Even as I experienced near-strokes and astronomically high blood pressure and toxemia, he hung in there. Even as we were induced, he stayed with me...until they made him come out.

From the beginning, he had "issues." He could not breastfeed, the efforts of an experienced mother, two lactation consultants, two MDs, and a midwife notwithstanding. I pumped day and night and searched high and low for a bottle nipple that he could manage. He grew and thrived.

As he did so, little things emerged, "red flags," but never as frightening as the feeling of impending doom I had just after he was conceived. I was so grateful just to have him that none of it really fazed me, and it still doesn't. He is who he is, and we love who he is.

He's going to be doing therapy twice a week, three appointments, one for OT, one for speech, and one "spiral" appointment where they work together. The word "spectrum" is being tossed around, but it doesn't matter: spectrum or not, he's still Little Da, and we're just going to try to help him out a bit.

From the moment I saw that little silver heartbeat to the time we first saw him doing in utero gymnastics to now, I've always thought of Little Da as a fighter, as the one who would wrangle his way, one way or another, through what needs to be done. And although we'll do these therapies in an effort to help him along, I think our Little Da will always be our pugilist, always doing things his way, dammit, and always hanging on and hanging in there.