An Open Letter to My DYRK1A Son's Doctors

By: Candice Brown

To Whom It May Concern:

Congratulations! Your business has shown an interest in working towards becoming an inclusive space for parents and caregivers of people living with disabilities and/or extra needs. 

My story:

My son has been in my life for eighteen months and has a rare chromosomal syndrome which has a lot of challenges including feeding, neurological differences/developmental  delays and a few more. My son is a loving, quiet, low key kid who loves the simple things like rubbing his face on blankets and laughing at the garbage truck. One parent stated that most people spend their whole life finding joy when our kids are born with it. Recently, when calling businesses and organizations to book appointments or be added to wait lists (childcare, general doctors, dentists etc) I’ve noted a lack of knowledge about how to approach questions pertaining to the appointment. It’s tough in this world to know what is “okay” to say or what might offend or upset someone. In the most honest way, I’m hoping to write this to inform so you can navigate this terrain in a honest, open way that I think most people have full intentions of. I send this letter with the hope that it gives a road map on how to navigate these conversations with knowledge and questions that empower you to gain the information you need to proceed. With this information, I hope to bridge the gap of awkward good intentioned questions or assumptions about what it means to have a child with extra needs.

A few things to consider during this call/interaction or even as an afterthought email or call:

You may have an idea of what extra needs/special needs/disabilities looks like but you likely don’t know this child/person. 

I’ve often had assumptions made about my little dude based on the terms I use “special” “syndrome”—we’re often told “he won’t do well in this space, it’s too loud, too busy, too stimulating” which is so well intentioned to help us navigate a space that might be tough for him. However, uniquely himself, his personality is low key, quiet and fascinated by loud and busy surroundings, especially people. 


Consider asking questions instead of assumptions:

“Will the loud sounds and busy atmosphere be bothersome to your son?” 

“Does your son deal with sensory issues when it comes to loud sounds?”


When I mention my son’s extra needs, I am always hoping the person won’t change how they’re talking to me or interacting with him.

If I mention it, it’s because I think it’ll help you be prepared for some things. If I mention a few challenges, it’s particular to his experience in your area of business. In some cases, people want to cut the conversation short, move on so they don’t say something …maybe “wrong” or “offensive”. I want to trust that this is a good place for us to interact and if I mention his certain needs, I personally am open to any questions or concerns you have. I would much rather that then being dismissed quickly —which I never think has a bad intention.


What the heck is Normal?

While there’s no “right” way to speak to people with different abilities and needs, when you tell me that your business only works with normal kids, it does sting. And I always hope I hear some form of self awareness after “shoot, maybe not normal but…you know what I mean” it’s an after thought but it helps :) My baby boy is my only kid and that’s my normal. 

Behaviours that you don’t understand

Some kids like my son have bizarre behaviours that draw the eye. Including big emotions and odd particularities, sounds or movements. We know as parents that it isn’t what you see with every kid. We know it draws attention and can be challenging but we ask that you have patience and try to see the world from our kiddos eyes. Sometimes you may suggest ways we “fix” their behaviour but please know we know the VERY best way to deal with this. My son may lose his mind if touched on his mouth or held still for too long by professionals and sometimes he requires a small part of his favourite song to be played or sang to him. It’s socially awkward when a doctor is asking me questions and I reply singing in his direction but I always know this will help him be more cooperative and keep him happy. Let the people that know lead the way and you can’t go wrong!

How old is your kid?

I’ve been dealing with this one a lot in daily conversation. When you do have a child with significant developmental delays, this is a sensitive question. I’m working on responding to this with a regular age as well as a quick mention of where he lies developmentally. Eighteen months, working on his crawling to standing independently and loves the word dada, kind of gives you an idea which kids he may have a lot in common with which is probably why you asked! Or so I hope. 

What is his syndrome?

You can ALWAYS ask this. It’s not a dirty secret, it’s human nature to notice the differences in our kids or the people we care for. Asking what that is like is asking what THEY are like. Because a syndrome often gives certain traits that become blurred with their own personality and characteristics, it is all one. Our kids have syndromes which makes that syndrome apart of our kids and who doesn’t love to talk about their kiddo? 

Overall, just remember that we are above all caring for humans we adore and for a lot of us, we have no shame discussing the things that not many people experience. Please don’t be afraid to ask questions or to learn from our kids because they teach us every day. My hope is this can help you create a safe place for parents and caregivers of folks with extra needs who may just need a pleasant interaction that day.


Thanks for your interest,

Have a great day!

-A mom of an amazing boy!

A Long Train Ride to Destination... Gratitude

By Trotter Cobb

The adventure began with a train ride. My wife Anne, my DYRK1A son Trot and I decided to take a train from Birmingham to New York City instead of flying. Sure, flying would have been easier, but there was something magical for me about the idea of a train ride.

We were hurried and frantic when we got to the train station. Once we boarded, we were taken to our room, which would be our home for the next 22 hours. We tried to relax, enjoy being with one another; Trot, a curious guy in his 20s, played with his iPad and we settled in for the long journey north. 

A few hours after dinner, it was bedtime. When you go to bed on a train, you lay down knowing that the world is passing by right outside your window.

PEACEFUL FEELING

For me, it was an incredibly peaceful feeling; fulfillment of a longing I had had for years, a time for me to just enjoy life. I thought about how lucky I was to be able to take this trip with my wife and my son. 

The train ride met my expectations. I was relaxed and able to take in the landscape. It felt as if I were suspended in time. 

When I was growing up, my mom and dad used to tell me wonderful stories about trains — they took the train a lot because my mother refused to fly. My mom always told me how great it was to spend the night on a train — the “clickety-clack” against the tracks lulls you to sleep. She was right.

While the journey north was enjoyable for me, the train ride was less enjoyable for Anne and Trot because their sleeping accommodations weren’t as comfortable. Their disappointment made me feel less excited about the trip. Anne really wanted to fly to New York City, but I pushed to ride the train. 

It was an adventure I wanted to share with my family, but my family ended up not sharing it with me in the way that I had imagined.

We arrived in New York City and faced new hurdles. Our Uber didn’t show — it was a madhouse trying to get a cab. Plus we had five suitcases. And it was pouring. 

Getting to the hotel was additionally stressful. I was frazzled and Trot and Anne were as well. We ended up spending the afternoon and evening in the hotel. The first day was basically a bust because of the weather. But the highlight of this long, tiring day was meeting the hotel’s concierge. 

We quickly found out we had something important in common.

The concierge had a great personality, someone who you just enjoy talking to — she was warm and helpful. But you often can tell when someone has a sadness about them and I sensed that in her. 

HAVING AN EFFECT

I could tell that my son Trot, with obvious special needs, was having an effect on her. We were talking to her about what we were going to do during our visit and the conversation began to deepen.

It turned out that the concierge had a special needs son a few years younger than Trot and she was carrying a major burden. 

She and her husband had divorced and her son was struggling in school — she was not receiving the support she needed from her local school system. 

We live in Mountain Brook, Alabama where special needs education is so great that people move to the community specifically for that reason. We are also part of our wonderful DYRK1A community!

From what we could tell, this woman lived in an area where special needs is not a priority.

When we were talking with her, trying to share our own experience to hopefully help her, Anne and I forgot about our stress and concern over our trip being disrupted. 

After speaking with her for a bit, we went up to the room and I remembered that I didn’t tell her that Trot, like her son, is an only child. With having an only child who has special needs, there come unique worries and concerns about the future. Who will take care of them? Where will they live? I thought about it and went back downstairs immediately to tell her.

Speaking to her made me feel connected. And I felt grateful for the special needs resources that were available to us back home. Yes, we were frazzled and hassled, but I felt so content and engaged talking to her, because the parents of special needs children share a special bond. I felt that I had helped her and she had helped me. 

Here, in the middle of New York City, I felt so at home because we were talking about the thing closest to my heart — special needs families and the challenges we face. The ongoing conversation with the concierge also reminded Anne and me about the depth of our relationship and shared lives as the parents of Trot.

At one point in our conversation with her, I saw out of the corner of my eye Trot talking with the hotel doorman. Nobody was in the lobby — there was a lull in its usual buzz. I had been so concerned before the trip that Trot would be in someone’s way or he would be bothering someone — New York City moves so much faster than Birmingham. 

I saw Trot talking to this hotel staff member. They were bonding. I was relieved. Watching the two of them talk reminded me that Trot connects with people, he draws them to him, and, because of this, I believe that he will ultimately be okay.

I felt like my family was starting to have a great experience in New York City. In some ways, it was even better than seeing the sites.

PS The train ride home was great — and thankfully everyone was happy!

(Trotter Cobb, a retired businessman, lives in Birmingham, AL. You can learn more about Trotter’s family and his writing by going to http://www.trottercobb.com/)

Our New Way of Life with DYRK1A

By Alison Sherwood

Our daughter, Hannah, was diagnosed just before she turned 3 years old and has been diagnosed for 3 years now. It was known from birth that something just 'wasn't quite right'.

Sometimes we only hear the negatives of the condition, what it is and what it causes, so instead, let me tell you about some of the positives.

Having Hannah in our lives (Mum, Dad and her 11-year-old sister Caitlin), completely changed the way we look at the world. It’s taught us exactly what is important in life, and also shown us so much support from family and the friends who have stuck by us. We have also made some amazing new family friends through Hannah.

Hannah is nonverbal. Yes, that can be a negative, but it's also shown us how we can communicate with no words. Hannah used a picture exchange first of all, but then, being her cheeky self, wondered why she should do sentences when she had only ever had to get one picture! We have moved on to Makaton (sign language), and Hannah is picking up a few signs, especially the ones for food.......!

There's not a lot of eye contact involved with Hannah, but when she does do it, you get lost in her little eyes and pleading face as you know she's looking at you wanting something that is important to her.

We don't need the words to know that Hannah loves us. The smile on her face when she sees us after a day at school, the run and jump into our arms when we've been out, the snuggles we share on the sofa, they're all the signs that we need.

Milestones aren't always met when they should be, or sometimes even close to when they should be. However, every single little achievement that is made, feels amazing for us and our little ones. I cant even put into words how proud we feel when a moment like that happens.

Life changed for Hannah’s sibling Caitlin. Of course there are negatives for her, but she also shares a lot of positives. Hannah looks up to Caitlin. Her name is the only word that Hannah has consistently said for over a year (not sure if that's always a good thing for caitlin who can be on demand a lot then!).

Caitlin is the first to stick up for her sister when others are not being as nice as they should be. She loves trying to help teach Hannah new things, such as the alphabet or colours, and will sit for as long as Hannah allows. Caitlin loves learning the Makaton also and being able to communicate with Hannah in that special way.

Caitlin and Hannah enjoy music together, play parks, toys, watching TV snuggled up together, building sandcastles (or knocking down sometimes in Hannahs case!) just to name a few things. They always say 'if you want to know how to treat a person with special needs, ask their sibling'. This is definitely the case. We are so lucky to have Caitlin as Hannahs sister.


Others would look at our life and think it’s not normal, but this is our normal and we wouldn't have it any other way. We have been so blessed with having Hannah in our lives. There will always be the negatives, it’s just part of the journey we are now on, but there are so many positives and rewarding moments too.

A “Special” Connection

By Trotter Cobb

Far and wide, country to country and across different cultures, one thing that binds people is parenting special needs kids.

This was brought home to me not too long ago through a Zoom chat with an Israeli diplomat, Anat Sultan-Dadon.

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Anat professionally is Israel’s Consul General to the Southeast, an important posting. Based in Atlanta, her region covers a broad swath of Southern states, including Alabama, where I live.

She also is the mom of a special needs daughter, and a mutual friend, knowing this, was the one who connected us. I’m glad he did.

Anat, warm and engaging, has had several important diplomatic postings which have taken her family — her husband, two older daughters, her special needs child and herself — to different parts of the world.

A Full Day

As I have come to learn, a diplomat’s life is a busy one, often 24/7, as they and their staff represent their home country in a variety of ways, from managing visas to meeting with high-ranking officials to creating new relationships.

Anat, for example, had recently spent a full day in Alabama in Montgomery and Selma accompanying the Washington-based Israeli Ambassador to the U.S. on a civil rights tour. Her day also included a meeting with Gov. Kay Ivey and other high ranking officials, and a news conference.

She was back in Alabama a few weeks later to meet with Gov. Ivey and others to mark the signing of a State of Alabama resolution supporting Israel.

However, if you had listened to my Zoom chat with her, you never would have known she was the Consul General from Israel. Rather, you would have thought of her as a devoted and loving special needs mom. Which she is.

The Consul General’s youngest daughter, now 10, is profoundly challenged by a rare genetic defect known as Kleefstra Syndrome.

Her daughter’s name is Niv, which means “expression” in Hebrew. She struggles with a condition that has been identified just in the past few years and there are only several hundred known cases in the world.

My adult son, who we call Trot, is challenged by DYRK1A, something our family has lived with, learned about and navigated since he was born.

Same Bond

In my chat with Anat, I felt the same bond that I always feel when I talk to parents of such challenged kids. We soften when we talk about our children.

Who we are and our professional accomplishments in life just fade away, and we listen intently to the other’s story, deeply interested in their child and the challenges their family and child face.

And there always is a look of understanding on our faces, as there clearly was in this Zoom chat.

Special needs moms and dads make time for each other. This was evident in my Zoom with the Consul General.

Hours earlier there had been a terrible accident in Israel. Forty-five people died and about 150 more were injured during a religious pilgrimage.

I suggested to Anat that our Zoom be postponed but she insisted we go forward. I could sense our conversation was important to her.

She reflected what I’ve found to be the case with most parents and families with special needs children — a willingness to help others. I was interested in hearing about what Israel is doing to help its special needs citizens become all they can be.

I’d read about how much the Israelis loved, included and took care of their special needs community, treating these citizens as a normal part of society. What the country offers in the way of services, facilities and teaching life skills can serve as an example.

I felt especially inspired by hearing how the Consul General has been able to manage a demanding career as an international diplomat — while being a mom not only of a special needs daughter but also of two other daughters, and being a wife as well, and having to move every 4 or 5 years.

During her career, Anat has served in Germany, Cameroon, the Netherlands and Australia. In 2016, she was the recipient of the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Outstanding Employee of the Year Award.

The foreign service has always been in her blood. Her father served as Israel’s ambassador to Egypt, Turkey and Canada, three important postings, and Anat would like to continue in his footsteps.

Yet being a woman at the upper echelon of the foreign service can be challenging, and additionally, wherever her family goes, she and her husband have to make sure there are support services for their youngest daughter. (She is pleased with Atlanta’s offerings.)

The One Comment

Anat admitted all of this can be challenging. She’s happy to talk to other parents of special needs children to encourage them. However, she is reluctant to portray herself as a role model, noting that she has been blessed with a supportive family and resources — things other such parents may not always have.

The Consul General and I are from different backgrounds — I am a retired Christian businessman who has lived much of my life in Alabama; she is a mid-career Jewish Israeli diplomat who has lived in countries across the globe; we are a generation apart. Yet in our conversation I again heard the one comment that above all else connects special needs parents to each other.

We both remarked that when we share our experiences with well-meaning people outside of the special needs community, they often tell us how lucky our children are to have us as parents.

What Anat says to these people is exactly what I say: “We are the lucky ones to have them.”

A New Path Forward: 2 Years of DYRK1A Parenting

By: Jessica Plassman

Questions. In the beginning, when Ida was first diagnosed with DYRK1A (and a separate but equally astounding FEVR diagnosis that caused low vision), all I had were questions. What will life be like for her? Will she have the same or different symptoms from others? What will life be like for me? For my husband? For our neurotypical kids? What happens when we die and aren’t able to care for her? The list goes on and on. The early days felt so overwhelming and insurmountable. 

Ida was diagnosed at 6 weeks old. She is now 2.5. Since those early days, I continue to move through the stages of grief. Slowly those questions have turned from a crushing fear and general sadness regarding the futures of everyone in my family to the happiness and joy that abounds in the everyday. Sure, if I allow myself to think too far beyond this day or week, the gravity of the unknown and sadness creeps in. But, having a child with special needs has brought about a new path forward. 

Outside of the unique challenges -- the laundry list of therapies, specialists, and medical interventions -- there is a child that is equal parts stubborn and enigmatic. Watching her learn and grow at her own pace is wonderfully rewarding. Her relationship with her older brother (4.5 years old) continues to blossom. Her expressive communication, and our understanding of her needs and desires, improves daily. She gets a thrill out of throwing her food and frustrating mommy and daddy. She’s absolutely adorable and gets away with too much as a result. She’s the happiest person I know. 

What really makes my heart sore is watching both my children, enveloped in their childhood imaginations, living life to its fullest. Yesterday, it was pouring rain and the kids wanted to stay outside. So, we all ran around without inhibition and got soaked in the process. I laughed so hard and felt so much joy. I’m lucky to experience a million beautiful moments like this every single day.

For a long time, I felt thrust into a life of chaos. I was angry, sad, and selfish. Now, I relish the fact that raising Ida is a daily reminder of my own path to happiness. 

For me, remaining in the moment and experiencing life at their level is the best gift I can give them and, simultaneously, give myself. Of course, presence is always a practice. But, if I can get this one thing right, this one thing I can control, I will have lived life to its fullest. 






Olympic Heroes

By Trotter Cobb

They are my heroes.  These young teenagers who struggle.  Watching them compete at a Special Olympics event is deeply moving.  Seeing these wonderful and endearing kids put forth the most sincere effort I have ever seen is inspiring.

Even when they are in wheelchairs or grappling with other disabilities, they have just as much enthusiasm as typical kids competing in a sporting event.  Maybe even more.

My son Trot, a DYRK1A guy, who just turned 21, is one of these special needs Olympians.  My sense is that he and the other competitors want to feel normal, to be seen as typical kids delighting in competing against friends at a sporting event. 

They may even appreciate the opportunity to do this more than a typical kid might, based on their exuberance and energy.  They have passion, gumption, drive, enthusiasm and competitiveness.

They get a lot of pride from competing and being recognized by others who cheer them on.  It doesn’t matter what team they are on, or what school they attend; everybody cheers for everybody.

In fact, this environment is a reflection of our DYRK1A community — where everybody cheers for everybody.

After attending many special needs sporting events over the years to root for my son and the others, I still love seeing the pride and desire to compete on the faces of the kids — and the love and pride on the faces of their parents.

For these contestants, the accolades are special; there is nothing routine or expected about the awards or trophies they take home. Every ounce of recognition they receive is celebrated by all.

And, as often is the case with my DYRK1A son, they want to hear about their events over and over  — so even more pleasure comes in the retelling of their achievements and the continual celebration of their feats.

For these athletes, Special Olympic events are their opportunities to shine. They wait at the gate, well before starting time, anxious for each event to begin.

At my son’s last competition, there was one girl — probably 12 or 13 — standing at the gate anxiously, impatiently waiting her turn. I’ve developed the ability to read the facial expressions of many special needs kids over the years and I could sense she was fearful of being overlooked and missing her event. 

“When is my time? When is my time?” she kept asking, despite her parents promising her she was five events away and her time would come.

Competing in the Special Olympics puts a “normal face” on situations so many DYRK1A and other special needs families find intensely challenging.

For example, I often find myself worrying about Trot’s future. However, at these events everything seems normal, at least for a few hours. My wife Anne and I become absorbed in the competition just like Trot.

When you get there and take in the atmosphere — the pageantry, the color, the crowd, the smiling faces, the cheering and the sea of kids running around —  you can’t help but be happy.  It is so uplifting.

I’ve watched University of Alabama football for years. Yet, nothing I have witnessed rooting for my beloved Crimson Tide moved me more than what I saw at Trot’s last Olympics.

There was a small boy, probably about 14, who before the event was incapable of controlling his arms, legs and head. He was severely challenged. Yet this all changed once his race began. This young man somehow burst into the lead, even as his body flailed. 

You could tell he was giving it everything he had, trying desperately to control his legs.  He was relentless, he was determined, he would not be denied.  He captivated the crowd.

Coaches ran ahead to cheer him on along the sidelines. He finished third in the race.  He finished first in everyone’s hearts. 

He is who I will take away from Trot’s last Special Olympics, another powerful face in the chain of young heroes I have come to know over the years.

At these events, you can get a Coke or a hot dog, just like you can at any typical high school sporting event.  For those few moments, all is right with the world. 

Trot will be leaving this family of friends, as will we. Our family is moving on to the next age group.  For years, he has competed against the same group of kids and we have gotten to know and love many of these other young people and their families.

My definition of a hero is someone who inspires me to do better.

I have never seen any special needs kids complain or cry when competing or waiting for their events to begin. They just give it  their all,  pushing themselves to the limit, enjoying their success.

They never seem afraid, they never seem conflicted. They always seem determined.

They are my heroes.


Dad Reflects on His Son Luke's 18th Birthday as He Lives with DYRK1A

Author: Daniel O’Neil

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Our son with DYRK1A recently turned 18 - a new phase in his life and a new set of challenges.

Like with Amarinsk’s brother, Luke didn’t get a diagnosis early in life. We went from specialist to specialist trying to figure out what made Luke different. We had a disjointed list of symptoms with nothing tying it together. When he was around two, a neurologist told us, “I don’t know what he has, but it isn’t degenerative. The more that you can do for your son, the better chance he has of living a full life.” Getting this news was both a wonderful blessing but also a terrible curse. Now anytime that we were not working with Luke, it felt like we were depriving him of having that full life.

When Luke started elementary school, he could only say a few words. Because he didn’t talk, people assumed he didn’t understand. We constantly fought to avoid having people underestimate Luke’s abilities. We focused long and hard on trying to get Luke to read and write. By the time he reached fifth grade, we finally gave up. That was painful.

By the time Luke reached high school, we finally had the DRYK1A diagnosis and Luke had finally started talking. His sisters give themselves credit for getting Luke talking. It clearly had much more to do with his desire to talk to others (especially girls!) than any of the therapies that we had tried.

We had also come to understand Luke and his strengths and weaknesses. We had given up on our dreams that he would grow out of his issues and come to accept his limitations. Like what Trotter wrote, our son lights up our day. He is funny, happy, engaging, and passionate about his interests. 

The scary thing about having a child with special needs is the fear of the future. Luke dreams of being a meteorologist (and has his own video channel!) but he reads at the second grade level. He loves talking, but his diction is not very clear. Luke loves people but doesn’t really have any friends besides his family. 

Luke has two older sisters who are wonderful people and have bright futures. My wife and I look forward to seeing them grow in their careers and to start their own families. As Luke enters adulthood, we fervently hope the same for him.

From "Tommy the Tummy Tube" to breastfeeding success: Candice Brown shares her journey with infant feeding and DYRK1A

By Candice Brown

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Creating our Routine

Going Home. The words I had waited to say to my family that filled me with such relief. The numbers from the NICU would be behind me, no more monitoring the levels of spit up, no machines beeping during our attempted breast feeds, just me and my instincts. Which was enough…right?

I look back at the photos we took as we introduced Macklam to his home; a snap of Mack on his Grandma’s shoulder for the first time, a shot of his new uncle holding him, joining our busy full house. There were, however, no pictures of Travis and me rummaging around to find a makeshift IV pole to set up Macklam’s feeding pump, or of struggling to figure out how to anchor his new g-tube to his clothes in order to keep him from pulling it out. Being a great student my whole life, I had a small binder with medical jargon and diagrams sitting on the table. I was so thankful for this resource gifted from the nurses as we grappled through our first at home feeding.

The g-tube was a small medical device placed in his belly the week prior to assist with his eating. The NICU compared it to an earring, placed through the hole with a balloon keeping it inside. Two ports were on the surface: one resembling the plastic tab you pull off a beach ball and wrap your mouth around to fill it up with air. This port went directly to Macklam’s stomach, often giving us a glimpse of his stomach content. This would be where we would attach a straw like device with a blue port on the second end of it and a tab to secure it. It would twist into place, flexible enough to move with our little man. We were told to ensure it was secured to Mack’s stomach with a sticker or safety pinned to his clothes. The second port was used to insert medication with a special syringe. A third mechanism on the side allowed the balloon to be emptied inside his body. This kept the back of the earring secure and allowed us to refill it when needed. Once the straw was attached and secured to his clothing, we would warm my breast milk and pour it into a feeding bag which resembled an IV bag. The next step was referred to as “priming the line”. It required us to hang the bag and use gravity to force the milk through the tube and out the plastic tip, catching any drops that escaped in a cup placed on the ground. We would check for bubbles through the tube, so as not to fill his belly with unnecessary gas. Once the line was filled with milk, a tiny insecure lid was placed on the tip. We would hang the milk bag to a makeshift IV pole and attach the long thin tube filled with 10 mls of milk to his straw, plugged to his tube. We would place an oval shaped part of the tube coming out of the milk bag, referred to as the “cassette”, into the pump which resembled an old tape player. The machine would let out loud beeps as we prepared the math equation. How many minutes would we be feeding him? How many mls? Therefore our runtime will be 130. The math equations were in the later pages of the manual, notes in the margins. Stickies littered the first page of my manual from our pediatrician. Each pound required a set amount of milk in mls. I needed to keep eyes on the increments to not miss the opportunity to feed him the correct amount of milk. After 90 minutes were finished, the pump would beep loudly at us and I would turn it off and remove all the items as swiftly as I had put them together. It was like creating a small factory that would feed our child. As I sat watching the milk pump from the bag, I waited for his belly to fill.

His feeding schedule was every three hours for a 90 minute period and later 60 minutes, using his Infinity Pump. We decided we would split the night shifts with Travis staying up for the first two feeds and me waking up for the 3am and 6am feeds. Mack’s new soft sleep sack had a thick medical tube coming out the bottom, allowing us access to attach and detach during the night without disturbing him.

It all sounded convenient and simple and some of my friends with babies exclaimed “how incredible to have your baby sleep through the night at one month since he’s always full!” I would smile and joke “who knew this would be so much easier than typical parenthood!”

In reality, the tube was easily the most emotional chapter of motherhood for me. The one thing Macklam required to live was food. My breasts would fill with milk for him, my body was responding to his needs, flavoring my milk to match foods I had carefully selected during the day. I would pump my milk for him, watching him sleep. I was acutely aware that he couldn’t taste the milk I was providing and that we weren’t sharing an important moment that most mother’s get to share: feeding.

The night required a series of alarms on my phone. I would fall asleep at 9pm, then an alarm sounded at 1am to pump, then an alarm at 3am to prepare his bag of milk and attach it to his tube, sleep until the pump alarm woke me at 4am, remove the milk bag, clean it, put it away, go back to sleep and wake up at 6am to do it all over again. Our days were filled with the same routine, every three hours.

A Mother’s Love

My mom, Julie, became my life line at this time. Mom has always been my biggest cheerleader and best friend. I’ve idolized and admired my mom’s ability to overcome the challenges of teenage marriage and parenthood, challenging herself further to jump into a male dominated career path at 28 . Until meeting Travis, I was sure she would be the only person that I could be my best and worst self with. My mom has always been my safest place; warm, reflective and fiercely protective. She has never hesitated to choose us over anyone in her life. My brother and I have always looked up to her strength and unwavering love for us. My mom has always regarded us with respect and admiration, ensuring our confidence was built in realism about our abilities and strengths. My mother’s heart is in her kitchen, a small place that few get invited to. To create another person who would own a seat at that table felt like an honour. The unending hope and determination I’ve had for encouraging Mack to eat orally stems straight from a hope that he can enjoy my mother’s cooking and recipes she’s passed on to me.

I consider it a normal rite of passage for new moms to have their mothers guide them into their own motherhood through stories of similar scenarios and encouragement. Sharing our feeding routine did not feel at all as expected: I felt deep resentment and failure when I looked at the pump and medical equipment. I felt like I was doing motherhood wrong because it didn’t look like how my mom had fed me nor how I had planned to feed my baby.

My mom had often described how early motherhood looked for her. My brother and I would often wake up crying at one month old and she would prepare formula and heat it in a pot on the stove in our trailer. We would fall asleep eating and she would place us back in our crib. My reality would look different. On the off chance Mack woke up in the middle of the night, I was required to get a lot more creative putting him back to sleep. Feeding to sleep wasn’t an option so my husband and I had to go to other standbys such as rocking, swaying, shushing, bouncing on a ball etc. Nighttime feeding is a feat for any new parent but also a rite of passage. Imagine a 2am wake up, 45 minutes of creative parenting aerobics and your phone alarm going off, catching it with one hand. The baby didn’t wake! Thank goodness! The alarm means it’s time for a feed. Which means getting your kiddo comfy in the bassinet, preparing milk and getting the tubes all attached to him without him waking. Imagine the typical parenting moment of putting baby down in their bassinet without waking them, the fear with each movement, not wanting to disturb them and holding your breath. Imagine now that you have to go back to this sleeping baby and attach a tube to another tube attached to his stomach...without waking them. And then pressing loud buttons with no sound control...and not waking him. And finally, having the alarm go off on the pump after the feed finished which...inevitably would wake the baby.

I grew up near Mt. Washington, a well known Canadian skiing mountain. Though I was never brave enough to explore the slopes, I learned that each route was categorized by difficulty: from bunny hill to black diamond. I used to tell Travis I would have loved to start parenting on a bunny hill, but we managed to get ourselves a black diamond. Yes, the risks are terrifying and pain staking, but the views are exquisite.

The mornings were chaotic as I shifted our feeding equipment from our downstairs make-shift IV pole, an easel that took up half the living room of our small suite, to the upstairs set up. I would haul up a bag of supplies and a small insulated bag full of my milk bottles, measured to exact amounts.

Lactation consultants assisted with our breast feeding attempts and had told me to keep Mack on me as much as I could, close and naked if possible. This was an impossibility. The fluidity and flexibility of motherhood was replaced by a military schedule around the clock. I would hold Mack and enjoy his warmness on my chest…until my phone buzzed to pump. I would then pass Mack to my mom, placing him on her chest the same way, telling myself he would be just as comfortable. I would then pump, measure my milk, store my milk, clean the pumping equipment. I would rush back to Mack who would be sleeping soundly on my mom. Should I disturb him? I would prepare the medical equipment for the next feed. Warm the milk, run the line, clamp, cap, attach the machine, set up the time on the pump. Then I would need to reach under Mack and bring him to his change pad to put in the tube that would feed his milk from the pump to his g-tube and stomach. He would often cry as he was jostled awake. I would wrap him back up in his swaddle and try to get him comfortable while he was attached to his feeding line. He would root and suck on his soother, imitating feeding. My heart broke each time, often crying while I felt so close but also so far away, unable to physically handle attempting to breastfeed while tubes were tied around us both.

For some moms, they are able to master breastfeeding in the early months and make it look effortless. For me, I was still new, having only done 1-2 a day in the three months of Mack’s life. In the mornings, we would do a breastfeed “attempt”. I always referred to it as an attempt, thinking of the paperwork from the NICU that our occupational therapist wrote. It never felt like a real way to feed Mack but more like something to give him better chances at oral development and a way to make me feel I was at least trying. I was dogged about these attempts. Mack was unable to latch, coordinate his suck, swallow, breathe and was found in the NICU to slightly aspirate if given full rein to feed. Breastfeeding was my time to see where his feeding abilities were each day, to access, to hope and to, inevitably, fall apart when things had not improved. Each morning, I woke up wondering if today he would learn to eat. Some days, Travos or Mom would suggest taking a break and I would reply in a small determined voice that I would not give up on him. I refused to turn to the machinery running my son’s feeding and let it win. I believed he could learn.

Each breastfeed attempt required a nipple shield and a lot of patience. Mack would eagerly attach to the nipple shield, often pulling it off several times through our “feed”. I would place Mack in his bassinet or with my mom to reattach the nipple shield, which required a thorough cleaning and reapplication with water. I would let him suck as long as I could, from six to ten sucks, pacing him to ensure he was breathing. If I missed his subtle cues that he had taken in too much milk to handle, he would hold his breath and let out a tiny squeal. I knew from the NICU that, without monitoring, this was a sign of danger and lowering oxygen levels. Mack’s improvements were frustratingly slow but were improvements nonetheless.

Throughout the day, my mom’s arms became the constant calm for Mack. She held him while I whirled around in the daily activities, appointments and chores. I still feel broken thinking about this time, like I wasn’t present for him in those early days, so caught up in the feeding struggle and whisked away for appointment calls. When you see your son warm and cozy somewhere you trust, it makes sense to continue to do the difficult chores, tasks and correspondence that goes with special needs parenting while my mom got to enjoy holding him, smelling him and listening to his breathing. I knew the safety of my mom’s love and I trusted her to keep him safe while I continued the job of resource shopping, e-mailing and zoom meeting for Mack’s appointments. On top of this, I carried a burden of guilt that my mom was becoming such a required help since the tube and his complications had so many more things to worry about than what I expected of motherhood. I felt codependent and unable to handle motherhood on my own. Special needs parents need to be everything; a receptionist, a doctor, a nurse, a therapist. I was learning this role at hyper-speed with the enthusiasm of an overachiever. My phone was full of notes I thumbed through while holding Mack. What do I do next? Which calls and appointments? Can I fit in a second breastfeed with him tomorrow? I couldn’t slow down, couldn’t stop. If I did, he wouldn’t succeed. I know now that this is a very common feeling for moms and special needs moms especially. We often forget that breaking for our own mental health makes us better moms.

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Bottles and Battlecries

By the second month, I bought a few different types of bottles. I had the urge to start using them. The struggle with the nipple shield and the difficulty with learning to breastfeed made me want to use them. For most moms, this decision is a far less complicated one. Perhaps there’s a sense of loss in deciding to discontinue breastfeeding but generally, it’s simple. Switch boob for nipple. For me, I had my own brain to battle. I had paper evidence that bottles would harm my child. The OT from Children’s Hospital printed a feeding report card when we left the NICU with bold red letters reading “DO NOT BOTTLE FEED”. The trauma from my experiences in the NICU plagued me. Anytime I picked up a bottle, I would feel the ache in my mama heart remembering our experience during our feed study and Mack’s terrified face as he drank without breathing. I would relive the nurses running in to resuscitate Mack while he drown himself in milk. Each morning, I would take out the report card and finger over the words. “DO NOT BOTTLE FEED”. I would grit my teeth. I knew my pacing and my own knowledge of how Macklam eats would keep him safe. But this OT, this hospital, did not trust that. And what the NICU taught me was that I couldn’t trust my instincts, only the opinions of medical professionals. So I postponed. I would bring a bottle upstairs, clean it, prepare it and then put it away in the evening. When my mom would question me if I planned to ever use the bottle, I would get defensive. I would pick fights with my husband about it. Because on the inside, I was in a battle with my own mind. My instincts told me this was as safe as breastfeeding and would ease some stresses but my brain wrestled with the idea of disobeying a rule. Overachiever, A student, Goody goody, didn’t drink til I was of age...why would I disobey?

The first day I used the bottle, my throat was sore from holding back tears. Mack reached for the nipple excitedly and loved the adventure of bottling. My fears slowly eroded as I could clearly see him drink the exact same as on the breast. He was safe. My baby is safe. I know what keeps my baby safe. I continued with bottle attempts each day for a week, making slow progress. I needed complete attention and listening to Mack’s cues to know if he was breathing properly or at all. The TV needed to be off, the room quiet and everyone needed to be silent. His sounds were so slight but I was well-equipped with a list of possible aspiration signs. Mack eventually took a full bottle with a lot of pacing, never letting him go so far as to squeal and hold his breath. I felt so full of hope for him but near the end, his old patterns of losing his breath and gasping for air threw me off. Was he ready for this? I felt so unqualified to make the decision to continue his feeds with bottles. I was aching to have him feed orally but something about his sounds made me feel uneasy. I emailed our local OT and speech pathologist. They had agreed that my arguments for bottling made sense and listened to his paced eating over zoom, giving me a thumbs up. I wrote in the email that I could hear wetness in his throat. I knew this was one of the aspiration signs, I knew this was something to pay attention to. I didn’t know how hard the email back would hit me: “We know you don’t want to hear this but he might be aspirating and we want to keep him safe”. Safe. My baby needed to be kept safe from me. He needed to be kept away from me because I over eagerly am putting him in danger. My selfishness to have his tube taken out, to get him feeding orally was putting my child at risk. The day I received that email was devastating. I cried so long that I missed calls, so long that I missed my alarm to pump…there was literally no time in my life for this. My mom who had observed for the month, quietly, taking whatever I assigned her, stood up, Mack in her arms. His little head rose and fell on her arm as she lifted him toward me.

“Hold your baby.”

I shook my head. Pumping, phone calls, laundry...I can’t. There’s no time for this. She placed Mack in my arms, his head making its way on my chest, his body instinctively curling around my breast. Take your baby. She wrapped his warm blanket around us both. And I cried without moving. I closed my eyes and felt his small hand twitch on my chest.

That was the best thing my mom ever did for me. With those three words she gave me permission to stop. Permission to turn off my phone’s alarms. Permission to forget the plastic and medical grade equipment, permission to be late on pumping, be late on anything. I held Mack and cried. His little warm body snuggled on my chest comfortably, he hadn’t forgotten me. I’m his mom. I’ll always be his mom.

That day changed a lot of things for me. I contacted the lactation consultant and started working on the breastfeeding, not to get him feeding orally, but to try to bond better with Mack, to remind him where his milk is coming from: a mom that loves him unendingly and will do anything for him. My mom took up the running around because it still needed to be done. She gave me the gift of a breath between moments that required me to step away from Mack. I pumped while petting his face, I held him every second I could and my mood and emotions seemed to feel more secure. I mastered the road trip feeds in the back of the vehicle going to appointments. I cleaned and kept his bags in a cooler full of ice, I pumped in the back of the vehicle while his feed ran. We were well oiled and strong, a team of three: Mack, me and mom. A part of me felt inadequate some days relying on her so much but it gave me moments to breathe and enjoy Macklam’s growth.

The Tongue and Lip Tie

I reached out to Facebook groups and found a tube feeding caregiver’s group that gave me immense strength. I didn’t feel alone. I felt strong and lucky to have such a support system right now. It was on this group that I posted photos of Mack at three months, giving me a gummy smile and I received a message from a stranger. Was I aware that Mack had a fairly severe lip tie? My first reaction was to scoff. We were seen by how many specialists? Obviously he didn’t have these ties otherwise they would have pointed it out. But it weighed on me for the day. I reached out to the OT from Children’s hospital, our feeding team, the Lactation Consultant. The LC responded immediately “I was thinking Zebras, not horses” she wrote. Apparently a lot of Mack’s issues with feeding could be rooted back to struggles with a lip and tongue tie.

Like most things I learn as a special needs mom, I took this idea and ran. I joined a local group for tongue and lip ties, I googled, I researched. I found a pamphlet with 15+ symptoms of tongue and lip ties most of which Mack was struggling with currently. Mack had learned a lot in his three months, finally coordinating his suck swallow and breath but still struggling with latch and milk transfer. I was aware that his coordination was likely related to DYRK 1A, that a lot of his feeding troubles could be related to by other parents on the DYRK 1A caregivers Facebook group. The idea that a tongue and lip tie revision could make things easier for Mack to learn gave me a bit of hope but the procedure felt more like a last ditch effort.

Two days before the procedure, our breastfeeding attempts took a dramatic step in the right direction. Mack was able to take 10 full mls of milk and was now coordinating his breathing enough to stay on the breast for over 5 minutes. It was small strides to some but huge for us! That night I debated if going through with the procedure would be in his best interest. I feared the trauma of a painful surgery for a three month old. We agreed that we needed to give him every chance with his oral development and that this could be the difference between breastfeeding “attempts” and “feeds”.

The specialized dentist office was small enough that the stroller barely fit in the room with all of us. Mack’s mouth was assessed thoroughly with notes on all of his feeding issues which took up most of the margins of the form we had filled out. The dentist’s main concern was that we had tried everything up until this point. I explained about his g-tube and the dentist looked confused. He had never met a baby with a feeding tube and informed me this may not be thwart fixing Mack’s eating issues. I smiled patiently. I wasn’t expecting a miracle. This choice was a last ditch effort, a response to medical professionals' constant reminders that Mack may never speak or develop orally due to his syndrome. My doubts were loud, as I sat in the dental office. What if this was a mistake? What if cutting his tongue and lip was maiming my baby without cause?

The procedure lasted all of two minutes, the dental assistant showing us the small board they would swaddle him to before we were whisked out of the room. My stomach was in knots, my throat was burning from tears held inward. I thumbed through the pamphlet in the bathroom around the corner, “nursing is the best pain relief for your baby after the procedure”. I bit my lip, tears welling in my eyes. That wasn’t possible but I did prepare a bottle of my breast milk. Where would be a safe place to feed him? Where I could hear his sounds? As I pondered this, I walked out of the bathroom to find my husband gesturing that they were finished. I reached for the bottle in the bag and found nothing. Where did it go? My dear husband, who had been by my side in NICU but had missed a substantial part of this feeding journey due to his work schedule, looked up at me innocently, informing me he handed the bottle to the assistant when asked. My heart raced. Safe. Someone else bottle feeding my baby is NOT safe. They don’t know him. They don’t know his cues and sounds. I rushed in to find the dentist upending the bottle while he talked to us. Macklam’s eyes had tears but I couldn’t hear his sounds due to the loud portable air conditioner. I grabbed the bottle from the dentist. I took it away, tears rushing to the surface, my heart pounding in my ears like after a hard run. The dentists’ eyes widened, Travis’ mouth gaped open. I could see guilt and fear in Travis’ eyes. He forgot that Mack could not drink straight from a bottle without my supervision. I checked Mack and his breathing was normal. He was groggy and cried out, his mouth swollen. I put him in the stroller, my hands shaking. He’s safe. My baby is safe.

Healing was difficult. Multiple times a day, we were required to rub Mack’s sore mouth and re-open the site. The day after surgery, I prepped the nipple shield for a breastfeeding attempt. My well meaning mother grimaced. Did I really want to do this? Should I give him the day? The dentist had suggested nursing immediately after surgery for pain relief and I was determined to find a way. The first few days of breastfeeding attempts were a disaster. Mack wanted nothing to do with my breast, veering away as though my nipple would cut his mouth again. I was devastated. The words oral aversion were rooted in my brain and I was terrified that this was it for our oral feeds. I wondered if the NICU knew something I didn’t, not mentioning his tongue and lip tie. Do these procedures cause permanent harm? Developmentally, Mack refused to bring toys or his hands to his mouth. I sat in a pit of regret. What have I done?

The night time was worse. Mack would wake up in pain, screaming. We would have to keep him attached to his pump while he ate but his fussiness meant moving him around the chords, ensuring he doesn’t fuss so hard that he pulls his g-tube out of his body. His crying jags would go on most of the night, with him falling asleep on and off on my chest. He would wake himself up and remember the pain in his mouth, fussing and crying. His regurgitation meant that each crying jag would lead to massive spit ups and projectile vomiting. Face clothes piled up next to our rocking chair. My arms ached from parent aerobics, my brain ached from regret and fear, and my heart ached everytime Mack cried out in pain. What had I done?

By Day 3, Exhausted by the work of healing, Mack and I needed a moment of joy. I decided to bring him into the bath, his happy place, to let us both recover after a particularly difficult night. It was quiet and warm, the only time we could have skin to skin in a busy house. Mack laughed and kicked, content and happy. As we usually did in the bath, I would give him a chance to feed from my breast, never to any avail but just to remind my baby boy that my breasts were still here for him when he was ready. There was no technique or anything different that first day but Mack latched. For the first time, I felt him drink bare breast. It was a magical moment, calm and quiet, just us. I knew this procedure was the right choice for him. And this was his thank you.

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Goodbye Tommy the Tummy Tube

The weeks after, I felt like we were sprinting to the finish line with feeding. I bought a baby scale and micromanaged every last milliliter of milk. Every feed, he was weighed before and after, times and weights on a white board next to the scale. Within three weeks, we managed to get his milk intake high enough to have the recommended amount of milk per feed and day. I didn’t follow my baby’s cues the way I imagined I would. Instead, had him clocked to be put to the breast every two hours, weighing him before and after, methodically measuring and calculating to ensure he would gain weight. Some feeds were rough as we found our footing, an hour of latching and unlatching, weighing and trying again in a half hour. My husband and mom used the term exhausting to describe my feeding routine. But I was determined and Mack was eager. He loved his nursing time with his mama.

After about a month, I was able to pry myself away from the scale and breathe. I know you Mack, I know what you need now. I learned to trust and read him. I feel so privileged to have been given the chance to see my baby feed orally, as I know not many tube fed babies ever can. I feel immense pride in the accomplishment of finding a way to trust what Mack needs. For some moms this might be the need FOR a tube, for Mack and me, it was trusting that he would learn to drink and eat for himself in time. Though I still struggle with trusting Mack’s timing and feeling impatience setting in, this first accomplishment often reminds me to trust that his mind and body will move forward when it’s the right time.

I became intently focused on getting the g-tube out of his stomach. It became a frustration, something I cursed daily. Mack’s struggles with tummy time? The tube was bothering him. Mack’s consistent spit ups? Irritation from his tube. Laundry load? Due to his leakage getting on his clothes. Several times a day, I would sop up the leakage which would grow slimy and sometimes bloody with granulation tissue. I would sometimes find myself crying with anger. Why did I do this to him? I knew, logically, Mack was unable to eat when he was born and the tube saved his life! But emotionally? I felt like I had harmed Macklam and caused him more pain than needed. His granulation tissue would grow and bleed. The red wet tissue looked sore and angry. I ached for the tube to be removed.

At a week of fully orally feeding, I phoned BC Children’s Hospital to ask about the removal. I took notes intensely. Give me any hoops and I will jump through them. Three months of pure oral feeds and proving that he was gaining weight. I worked vigilantly with him to meet these requirements and approached the hospital in early December, eager and proud. Goodbye Tommy the Tube!

Mack and I entered the hospital that day with boxes of supplies and premie clothes for donation. Mom and I had worked hard to create several packs of homemade tubie pads, used to soak up leakage around a gtube, for parents who were celebrating their holiday with a new Tommy the Tube of their own. We came early and I snuck up to the second floor, in the familiar elevator that I had gone up for a month while we stayed in the NICU. I remembered living in their small hospital bed, Travis sleeping on their couch. I remembered the beeps, the voices, the heavy door opening and closing during the night as moms and babies were admitted. The elevator door opened to the desk we passed by every day. I delivered the donations and took a deep breath as the familiar smells of these halls quickened my pulse. I looked down at Mack with the irrational feeling they would take him back. I had to leave. I had to get him out of here. For a split moment, my instincts felt like I was in a horror movie, going back to the haunted house the day after when the sun is out and the dark corners no longer house ghosts. I turned to the elevator without a glance back.

We dropped to the basement level where general surgery would be removing Tommy the Tube. I could barely hold back my excitement, sharing our story with anyone who would listen.

Christine the g-tube nurse was the professional who would remove the tube and treat his stomach hole with silver nitrate to encourage natural healing. She assured me he would likely heal well since the tube wasn’t in for very long and was so small. “There will be leakage,” she said casually. I nodded. We’ve handled that. We left that day with Tommy the Tube in a small plastic bag and my baby no longer carrying around medical equipment in his body. I felt triumphant. Our first challenge? Aced! Mack and I! The dream team! The g-tube nurse waved as we left “Congratulations and hopefully I won’t see you again!”

This would turn out to not be true. Christine, the g-tube nurse, and I would call, email and have many appointments to close Mack’s stomach hole. The next four months would be sobering. Much like all things with a special needs kiddo, each win leads to more challenges. Tommy the Tube was out but Huey the Hole was about to become the bane of my existence.

(to be continued…)

Birthday Candles

By Trotter Cobb 

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At that moment, I took a deep breath.

Tears were creeping into the corners of my eyes.

The birthday candles were lit, ready to be blown out.  We all would share in the honors and then the singing would begin.

Twenty-one candles that my wife Anne had so perfectly arranged, with an extra one to grow on, adorning a colorfully-iced cake that looked simply delicious. 

A happy moment. 

Yet amid the family singing "Happy Birthday" to my now 21-year-old son, a terrific DYRK1A guy called Trot, I was lost in thought:   “If I love this young man, and I do, then this is the moment that I must begin letting go.”

Letting go, I believe, is one of the biggest challenges we face as DYRK1A parents.  And it doesn't just happen at 21.  

It can happen at 2, 10, 16 and points in between -- whenever our child, whom we hold so dear and have nurtured and protected so lovingly, is ready to take a step forward.  A step toward whatever level of independence he or she will achieve. 

Understanding that your son and daughter, in some small or large way, is about to venture off into the unknown can be challenging, perplexing, unnerving and even sad -- no matter how much you've planned.

In Alabama, where I live, and perhaps in most places, at 21 your son or daughter must exit the public school system.  In our case, this is the point in time that Trot finished the programs that our local school system provides. 

It was a day that Anne and I always knew would come.  

What would it be like when Trot -- as well as Anne and myself -- no longer had the daily routine that gave our family such a predictable and productive structure?  The unknown was at hand; logistically, structurally and emotionally. It was a moment of gulping uncertainty, the kind of moment that we, as DYRK1A parents, live with on a recurring basis.

So while this story begins with singing "Happy Birthday," I know in my heart that it is really about my fear of the unknown -- and the comfort and friendship that the DYRK1A community has provided my family and me. 

Past DYRK1A conferences have given Anne and me the opportunity to talk to other parents.  For the most part, we have found that the challenges and concerns we all struggle with are similar and reflect many commonalities. 

One common thread, which I've smiled about at times, is that in many DYRK1A families, it seems that one parent is optimistic and upbeat about their child's future.

In our family, that parent is Anne, a woman of deep religious faith.  She is indomitable, the anchor in our family and Trot's North Star. 

Then there's the other parent, in this case me.  Overprotective, often worried, intrusive, anxious and, at times, anguished.  What will Trot's life be like when Anne and I are gone?  How will he manage?  Will there be people in his life who will love him?

The answers are as elusive as the flames of the birthday candles.  Anne would say, "Relax.  All will be fine.  The candles are burning brightly."  I would say, "Those candles are flickering, alone.  I don't know how long they will continue burning."

What I do know is that I love this son of mine with an intensity that even out-burns the flames on a birthday cake.  We who love and nurture special needs kids develop a unique intensity in our love for them; a passion for their well-being that never quits, a protectiveness that at times, as in my case, can be out of balance.

Trot is 21.  He may not have the mental abilities and social skills of a typical 21-year-old, but he has a unique sweetness that powers me through my moments of turbulence; a beautiful way about him that radiates and draws people to him.  In fact, he is the one in our family who burns the brightest.

Thank you, DYRK1A community, you have been and continue to be my GPS.  Through conversations and friendships with many of you, I've been able to develop healthier perspectives, more informed insights and a growing sense of serenity.  Our journeys as DYRK1A parents can be lonely, but if we have one another we are never alone.

So that's my story for today, except for this:  

We've gotten Trot a cell phone and he's taken to it like the proverbial duck to water.

In fact, I called him the other day to chat and check on him.

“Dad,” he said with a hint of impatience. “I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you back."

***

(Trotter Cobb wrote the above when his son turned 21. He son will be 25 in July.)

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Cooking Spaghetti

By Trotter Cobb

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How could spaghetti make me the happiest dad in the world?

All it took was a few FaceTime minutes with my son.

My son and namesake, Trotter, who my wife Anne and I call Trot, is a DYRK1A guy.

He had called me while in the midst of an amazing program called Crossing Points, held at the University of Alabama.

The program is for young adults, such as Trot, who have special needs and who are in their late teens and early 20s. The purpose is to give them the skills and guidance they need to function as semi-independent adults.

Trot didn’t know how to FaceTime before the program. But he learned quickly. And gosh did he ever FaceTime me while there!

I would light up every time I saw his incoming call, knowing that I was about to see his sweet face on my screen.

"I cooked spaghetti for dinner last night and it was so yummmmmy!” he exclaimed exuberantly one day. I thought he was going to jump through the phone.

"I want to cook dinner for Mom when I get home,” he told me.

"She'll love it," I said.

"Will you help me?” he asked.

"You bet I will. I will be your assistant,” I promised.

"Thanks Dad!” he responded, as excited as can be.

Trot cooking spaghetti, his favorite food, is something I never could have imagined

before Crossing Points.

Nor could I have imagined him going away for most of the summer; thriving, and meeting new friends who, almost immediately, lifted him to a new level of happiness, confidence and maturity. Friends such as his suite-mate Bobby.

Bobby’s not his real name, I’ve changed it here to protect his privacy. But this kid, also special needs, was a big boost for Trot and our family. He was a little older than Trot and very protective of my son. He would tell us how well Trot was doing.

My wife Anne became friends with Bobby’s grandmother and they chatted all the time.

They were talking on the phone one day when she told Anne what Bobby had said to

her about Trot: "He's my best friend, and he's cool.”

The next time Anne and I talked to Trot we told him what his suite-mate had said about him. "He's my best friend,” answered Trot.

One of the things we’ve tried to do as DYRK1A parents is teach Trot to be more specific,

so I followed that up with, “Now, who is your best friend?” — knowing it was Bobby.

“Hold on...wait, wait,” Trot said, turning to his suite-mate to ask him, “What’s your name?”

Such moments remind me that within my son’s adult body still resides a mind that is not fully developed. This is why helping to navigate a new path for our son is so challenging — and rewarding.

Never did we imagine that he could go off by himself for nearly two months and function so well.

Other FaceTime exchanges with Trot have been as uplifting as our spaghetti chat.

“Guess what, Dad! We went swimming. Everybody clapped for me. I climbed the ladder to the top of the water slide.”

Then there was our chat with Trot about him having gone bowling.

He’s always loved bowling and has won a local Special Olympics gold medal. So bowling is something Anne and I have encouraged.

His bowling report from the Crossing Points program, of course, was exactly what he tells us every time he goes bowling. He always gets two spares and a strike or two strikes and a spare. It never changes.

But so what? Each time he sounds as excited as if he were telling us for the first time. Anne and I respond with excitement as if we were hearing it for the first time.

Whenever he FaceTimed us from the Crossing Points program, I asked myself these questions after our chats concluded: Does he miss us? Does he want to come home? Would he actually be happier in a group setting?

The answers weren’t clear. What was clear, however, was that the two months he was away eased my concern about whether Trot will be able to manage once Anne and I, both in our late 60s, have passed away.

That’s in the future, though. Hopefully a long way off.

For now, I’m looking forward to cooking spaghetti.

***

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Son Shine

By Trotter Cobb

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I’ve come to think of my son as my GPS.

Whenever I veer off-course onto paths of cynicism, fatigue and despair, it’s his voice, spirit and way with people that get me back on track.

It has been easy to become jaded this past year and distracted from the essence of life.

Politics has torn friends and family apart; a plague has put us under house arrest; travel, movies and restaurants became off limits. It got dark too early at the end of each day; not only outside but inside of me as well.

For me, my son has been my sun.

He continues to shine brightly, this 24-year-old young man with special needs, wherever we go. When we do venture out, safe-distancing and wearing masks, he lights up other people. He has a magic about him — others have told me this. He softens hearts and brings smiles to faces wherever he goes.

Yet he also has the sweetness and innocence of a young child. He lives his life wide-eyed with a never-ending wonderment and curiosity. Though at times this requires a lot of patience from my wife Anne and me, these traits of his never cease to lift and soothe our hearts.

His interactions with others get me back on course. They steady my hands on life’s steering wheel and motivate me

to keep going. Even when the terrain is unfamiliar, his sweet and innocent personality are constants, as people react warmly to him wherever we go.

I believe that we all are God’s children and that the Almighty endows us with gifts. For my son, known as “Trot,” it’s the gift of connecting with people and making them smile. I have seen it over and over as the years have gone by.

Moreover, he cares and worries about others deeply, whether he sees an ambulance whizzing by, someone who appears lonely walking down the street, or somehow senses that someone he knows is having a bad day. He wants everyone "to be happy" -- and says it over and over.

Anne, a woman of deep religious faith, has instilled the same faith in Trot. He, like his Mom, is a believing Catholic, unswerving in his faith in God and Jesus. He loves to pray for people; sick people, lonely people, homeless people. His heart aches if he sees someone struggling, and he often asks me to join him in praying for the person.

Which I do — because he has asked me to.

I believe that people respond to Trot because he responds to them.

At restaurants, especially those where we go often, they know him. No matter how busy they are, everyone -- from the waitresses to the owners -- stops and opens their hearts to my son. "Hey, Trot, how ya' doing?" they smile, already knowing his favorite order.

Then Trot, because he's always been the kind of kid who feels at home anywhere, often starts wandering from table to table, saying hi to other customers, most of whom he doesn't know.

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Oftentimes, it makes me anxious. I can see these are folks involved in business discussions or social engagements or just out enjoying themselves with their families. I worry that my son -- who you can easily tell is a special needs person -- is interrupting them, even disturbing them.

Yet, this never seems to be the case. No matter how serious or involved in conversation these other folks may be, when Trot approaches and begins engaging them, simply telling them things such as "have a nice day," they smile and stop what they are doing.

The problem is not Trot. It is me. And that's the way it's always been. Even going back to his younger days. I'd let him roam the grocery store while I was shopping, knowing that he was looking for treats. Yet, I'd be worried.

What if he annoyed people? What if he got in their way? But that also never seemed to happen. He'd always come back with a treat or two, having made at least one new friend and endearing himself to the cashiers and other grocery workers.

It truly is an amazing thing to watch.

I don't believe that people respond so warmly to him because they feel sorry for him. He's become a strong, strapping guy, and though obviously challenged, he carries himself in a way that inspires warmth and puts people at ease. He always has a smile on his face and can't wait to see the next person; he is kindness personified. These are his magical ingredients.

My son, in fact, has made me "famous" -- I've come to be known throughout town as "Trot's dad." That's how I am seen on the outside; perceived as dutiful, loving and protective of my son.

What people don't see is that on the inside, Trot's zest for life, willingness to reach out to others, appreciation of every moment, and kindness are my GPS. Striving to be like him is what guides me and powers me along life's journey.

My sun is my son.

Living Without a Diagnosis; A Journey

Author: Amarinsk Abels

Almost four years to the day is when we found out my brother Bergtlef’s diagnosis of DYRK1A. He was 30 years old at the time. After receiving his diagnoses, things fell into place. It turned out he didn’t have hundreds of different disabilities; they were all just part of this one thing. A genetic disorder that led to various other symptoms. But has this diagnosis changed anything for us? No.

‘Now we know’, our father said when I asked him what he thought after finding out the diagnosis of DYRK1A. It didn’t really mean anything to us since we’d already gone through pretty most stages in life with Bergtlef.

When he was born, in August 1987, the ignorance of the paediatrician resulted in him saying that my brother had Down syndrome. Purely because of his single palmar crease. When our father mentioned that he had one single line on his hand as well, the doctor had nothing else to say. To him, this was it. As it turned out, it wasn’t. Nor was he “a dog you can teach tricks.” Something another so-called professor told our father. Even hearing about this made me feel furious, let alone our dad at the time. Our parents filed a complaint and the doctor was reprimanded for his behaviour at the time.

Fortunately time passed and even though this was a very hard thing to hear, it also turned out not to be true either. The journey with my brother has had its ups and downs and some things he never learned, but some of our “tricks” have helped him to grow.

As with most people with DYRK1A, Bergtlef has a smaller head (microcephaly). This was established at a young age, when our parents found out that he was behind in his development. They realized this as they were comparing him to my sister and I. As babies, we would start turning in our playpen at some point, but my brother would just keep still. Our dad said that you could come back an hour and a half later and he would still lie the same way. After a visit to the general practitioner things started to snowball.

Bergtlef as a baby

Bergtlef as a baby

My brother was referred to a place where they tried teaching him (and us) sign language, as he didn’t speak until he was about 6, but that didn’t really work for him due to poor motor skills. So they started using Bliss symbols, something that turns out is actually more difficult than the pictograms we use nowadays, and one way or another, it sparked his use in language.

He received speech therapy and motor therapy and at a much later time in life he had creative therapy because of several traumatic experiences. He was taught to ‘stand like a king’, to stand up for himself because he had been bullied and even threatened with a knife as he was walking towards the bus station after school.

Bergtlef learned how to go to school by bus, after years of going by school taxi, to improve his independence. At the time I was studying and had some time to spare, so I would go with him and study while he was in school. I remember the time when he ran into the awning at school, while I was there. He hadn’t seen it properly (severely myopic) and the architect had apparently thought it was a good idea for these things to come down too low… So we ended up in the hospital, which was just around the corner. He was such a trouper! Just as he had been when he was really young and had fallen down on a car park and a car actually drove over his arm. The lady was in horror over what had happened that she couldn’t move a muscle anymore and the car had literally stood on top of his arm. Other shoppers came to the rescue and were able to tilt the car so we could get my brother out. All he had was a broken arm.

I have lots of stories about my brother growing up, as you can imagine. And as I continue to write, more keep springing to mind. A hilarious one is when he asked the cashier, a pretty young girl, if she had a boyfriend. Of course she didn’t know just how to react and I was flabbergasted as well! Or the time when there was a special needs outing in a discotheque and I had lost him and found out that he was breakdancing on the dance floor! He had never ever done something like that before (and hasn’t since either) and fortunately there was someone with a camera: so we have proof!

Bergtlef showing his moves on the dance floor

Bergtlef showing his moves on the dance floor

We never assumed that Bergtlef couldn’t do something and as it would come to light that he indeed didn’t understand or couldn’t carry out a task, we would adjust. That is why he was never really treated any differently because we just did what could be done. We accepted Bergtlef in the way that he was, because otherwise wouldn’t life become very stressful indeed?

One thing that may have well caused our parents stress must have been the idea of what would happen in the future. Something most of you will think about as your child grows up. Because ‘normal’ children will flee the nest at some point but how about a child with special needs?

After watching a documentary about a 36-year-old disabled man who still lived with his 80-year-old parents, our parents eyes were opened. As the parents in the documentary got sick and unable to care for their son, they tried to figure out what to do with him. Where could their child go? While this was a documentary, we actually knew of a similar story close to home. One of Bergtlef’s school bus drivers had a son with Down Syndrome who still lived at home too, while the chauffeur was already in his sixties and he planned to always look after his son.

Now, Queen’s question ‘Who Wants To Live Forever’ may be answered with ‘I do’ for some people because can you really trust someone to take care of your son and daughter, just as well as you do? It is an immense question that is very difficult to answer (probably because the answer is no), but there is no eternal life just yet, so we have to deal with things as they are.

Our parents wanted to make sure my brother would be well taken care of so they decided to set up sheltered housing accommodation. In the year 2000 they started talking with other parents of disabled children, obtained advice and found a healthcare provider. Meanwhile the housing association had a wonderful location available and the architect told them they would be able to make this suit this new target audience.

Fifteen young people aged between 18-25, all with some sort of disability, would be future tenants of a new-to-be built flat. Bergtlef (and most of the other residents) saw the flat take shape and he even got to turn the first pile into the ground; a very special occasion.

Ten years after the idea was first put forth, the flat was finished and we were able to decorate Bergtlef’s home, just as he wanted. We’d gone shopping together and he chose almost everything for his apartment, like his queen sized bed, just in case one day he would end up finding a girlfriend (like the cashier perhaps)…

Bergtlef helped dig the first pole of ‘his’ sheltered housing accommodation

Bergtlef helped dig the first pole of ‘his’ sheltered housing accommodation

Ten years on, my brother doesn’t have a girlfriend, but he still lives in his apartment. Over the years we have definitely found out that there certainly is no one who can care for your own child (or in my case, brother) better than you. Even though our parents chose this particular care provider because they thought they were different, they weren’t. Our family has always been and will always be very hands on because we want the best for Bergtlef.

So much hands on that my sister and her husband took my brother in for weeks on end just last year because when we were in lockdown due to Covid-19, things didn’t go too smoothly at the sheltered accommodation. While he stayed with them, he bonded immensely with our now 2-year-old niece and he became a much happier and active person. This and other negative experiences with the caregivers, led my husband and I to really look into houses with a bit of land so we could accommodate Bergtlef in a unit that would be attached to the house. We were all very excited about the opportunities but unfortunately it all fell through and Bergtlef is still in his apartment. He does feel that his apartment is his house, but he isn’t always happy with the carers. This has led to heated discussions between the care provider and ourselves. So who knows what will happen in the future, perhaps Bergtlef will move somewhere else at some point. Perhaps we will take over the sheltered accommodation. Perhaps. For now we can pass on and share our worries but also our responsibilities.

Life is always a journey. We’ve spent most of that journey without my brother’s diagnosis and now that we know, we haven’t actually changed anything. The information regarding DYRK1A may be helpful for carers but as we’ve been going through life with him, we understand all there is to understand when it comes to my brother.

Not one person is the same though, and your stories may differ slightly or immensely. And of course there are so many things that I haven’t written about, like how do you travel with someone who has various (dis)abilities, how do you cope with loss? We’ve been through lots of things in life so perhaps I can answer (some) of your questions personally.

Please feel free to contact me if you think I may be of help.

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Bergtlef now: He has excellent computer skills, even though he cannot read, but apart from gaming he also has countless other fascinations like checking out pictures of feline, face painting & costumes (this all started after watching the musical The Lion King in theatre a long, long time ago), trains, books, traveling…et cetera.

Meeting Macklam: A Mother’s Perspective on COVID, NICU and Diagnosis

Author: Candice Brown

This month, we have the opportunity to hear Candice Brown’s birth story. She is a first-time mom to son Macklam who is currently 9+ months and was born during the pandemic. She shares her heart-felt journey — living 2 hrs away from home during COVID lockdown, feeding difficulties in the NICU and processing the DYRK1A diagnosis.

Note: Emotional content may elicit strong feelings. Read time ~30 minutes.

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My Birth Plan Goes Out the Window

I reached over my third trimester bump to pick up the remaining blue and white plates from the living room. The balloons had begun to unstick and I smiled at the success that was my first baby shower. We were surrounded by love and support and best wishes for my soon to be little boy. To Instagram and Facebook, it was the same as every other shower; blue and white decorations, smiling faces, a cute maternity top and sparkly gifts for a nervous new mom who had no idea what was coming. To my mom and husband, they watched a nervous new mom clench her jaw at each mention of a “happy and healthy delivery and baby” because, for the first time in my life, I questioned what “healthy” means and revelled in the fear of the phone call received the night before. It also didn’t account for the future understanding of “healthy” based on an impending pandemic which, at the time, still seemed to only reside in Asia.

When I answered the call the night prior, my midwife’s tone was new; one of caution and pauses to read my tone. She informed me that my results for the growth ultrasound were irregular and the most shocking numbers she had ever seen. Our baby Mack was measuring under the 0 percentile in his femur length, a sign of a genetic disorder. As well, the scan showed a high amniotic fluid level and a swollen kidney. Midwife recommended we go to BC Children’s Hospital, two hours away in Vancouver to get more scans done.

The two days of scans and results came in a blur with snapshots etched in my memory. I remember our optimistic smiles to one another as my partner and I entered the hospital. I remember the ‘discovery’ of a heart abnormality and my husband's eyes brimming with tears at the suggestion that these signs of a genetic disorder could have our little man incompatible with life. I remember feeling his hand squeezing mine as they punctured my stomach with a giant needle for the amnio. I remember telling people that my partner and I are a fortress and our baby will be safe and loved no matter what. And those people responding with phrases that made me uncomfortable “you’re such a hero” “you’re an inspiration to us all”.

Was I a hero? Coping with the reality of your kid being different and knowing you will have challenges other parents don’t, does not make you feel like a hero. Heroes aren’t depicted feeling scared and alone, consistently worrying they won’t be enough. I had to remind myself in those days heroes don’t start out as heroes, they have lessons and challenges to overcome first. So there was still hope.

Coming home after these days, my birth plan needed to be tipped out and started again. Goodbye birthing suite with a midwife, holistic forms of pain relief, coming home the day of Mack’s birth. The things I feared most would now become my life until I could bring my baby boy home with me: doctors, needles, medicine and machines. The doctor recommended relocating to Vancouver, 2 hours away, in March 2020. The same month our province went into Covid-19 shut down. With this came another plan tipped out and started a new: the weekly medical appointments attended by my partner or mom? I would need to attend solo. The park nearby where I planned to waddle around keeping active? Blocked off to the public. I was mostly barricaded in a house that wasn’t home, fearing the unknown germs outside the door. I had read stories about women isolated from their newborns due to contracting Covid-19 and this fear had me paranoid.

Following our appointments, the amnio results came in slower than expected due to Covid-19. Out of the four tests, three came back genetically average. My family smiled and hugged me but I felt a constant knot of fear. I started to have nightmares about the exome testing, the one test that we were told likely wasn’t going to come back with anything scary.

As my due date got closer, I was itching to meet Macklam. His goofy personality was so apparent from my belly; kicking when I played kids music and bucking his dad whenever we cuddled. I needed to know my little man, needed to dress him in his cute little clothes and wrap him in the flannel blankets I was packing and unpacking in the baby go bag. It was about once a day I would get a wave of fear; would my baby make it out safely? Would I? Would Mack be breathing? I thought of every worst case scenario and tried to push them away. My heart broke at the realization that my mom was no longer welcome in the birth room as I could only have one support person. I cried when she left the Air BNB, feeling the shift from being someone’s baby to someone’s mom and the sheer responsibility of becoming this baby’s world.

Ready or Not, Time to Meet Baby

We walked into Women’s Hospital full of nerves and excitement. My cervix was completely closed (which feels only mildly insulting) and my brain was wrapped around being induced “for our safety” and how that would feel. My water broke in the evening and once the show began, it moved fast. From 8pm to 3am, I had every birthing term thrown at me that I had read in the chapters I grimaced through of my pregnancy books. Cervical check, dilation, contractions and pushing were all things I was ready for. The epidural, IV, oxytocin drip, low baby heart rate, infection, fever and having blood taken while forceps were assisting my birth were not expected. My most painful memory, however, was not the contractions or forceps but, rather, the nurse who stood at the door thumbing through my file and reading out each terrifying thing we had learned in the last few months about our baby and possible signs of abnormalities. Between physical painful contractions, she seemed to ruin the peace in-between by reading out lines each doctor had said to me before including genetic abnormality possibilities, complications, defects, smallness. My heart and body ached.

When Macklam came into the world, I was trying to zone out the 20 or so medical staff milling around, and the two NICU beds with full medical equipment. Just make it through this and he will be here. Mack’s presence brought a hush across the room. He came out with no sound. I took a breath of relief while everyone tensed. I somehow knew he was breathing and healthy. I felt it.

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When Mack was put into my arms, I was excited but felt oddly disconnected from him. Who are you stranger? How were you my roommate for so long and yet so unfamiliar? The immediate bonding and love that I had heard so much about seemed to take longer than I thought. Now, I believe it was a bit of self protection assuming my baby might not make it home, having the whirlwind of words from staff hanging in the air “could not be compatible with life”.

On the second day of my son’s life, the intern for genetics came in, masked and gloved, with her phone. An aging man spoke in and out as the signal cut out. What I could gather was that he was a doctor of genetics. We had heard his voice the day of Mack’s birth saying he appeared genetically average, apart from a club toe and recessed chin. Now this same man started his speech with “unfortunately” and took the world's longest pause.

Exome Test Results Come In & Feeding Difficulties Ramp Up

“We got the results of your exome test and I am sorry to say, the results showed a deletion…” I stared at Mack as he looked into the air around him, adjusting to life out of my belly. He would never remember this moment but I always would. I took notes to absorb everything the geneticist said which was…very little. A rare chromosomal disorder which has only 200 people in the world that are diagnosed.

Mine and my partner’s digesting of the diagnosis came at different times but followed a similar pattern. Our first few days, we were able to digest the tip of the iceberg “it’s okay if he can’t read very well or struggles in school”. On the third day, my mom came to visit outside the hospital, unable to meet her baby grandson in person. She was eager to share in the research she had done on DYRK1A, explaining how some of his physical attributes matched the diagnosis. I remember her using the term “special needs”a lot and cringing each time. I was finding adjectives to describe Mack on my own time in the first week of his life: dramatic, sweet, goofy and special needs just felt like an impossibility.

With each passing day, I began realizing my feeding journey was not the same as other moms who had offered their support. Day 1, we were told Mack was struggling to suck due to his high palate and recessed chin. Day 2, a nurse who prided herself on bottling techniques asked our permission to try to feed him with formula orally while my milk came in. I agreed and watched her explain several ways of getting him to latch. Milk poured out of his mouth and she finally started pacing him as his breathing would stop while drinking. She was confused and turned to me to explain his behaviour. This became a theme throughout the NICU stay. I felt like they were asking me why he couldn’t take his food and I was completely useless, left with a feeling of anger towards them for not having the answers for me.

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By day 3, it was established that Macklam had a weak suck (after working with him with a soother), regurgitation to the point of puking up his full meal and no suck swallow breath coordination. We were told an occupational therapist would come in if necessary to assess his eating.

The tube feeds continued while I pumped every 3 hours to get my breasts working. I woke up on night 3 shaking uncontrollably and, after a 4 hour urgent care visit, learned that was how my milk coming in looked in my body. Once those few drops of milk started to come in, I became obsessed with providing something for my baby, the only thing I had full control of. I wrote giant letters on our white board “BREAST MILK ONLY” and checked each syringe of milk to ensure it wasn’t formula. I have never been anti-formula as I was raised on it but the idea that I could sustain my baby in some way became paramount to the start of my self confidence as a mom. My body had an unfamiliar ache to hold my baby but often the wires and tube would stop me. I would put my hand over his head and pet him, waiting for a nurse to help me unravel each chord so that it didn’t set off the machines to place him on my chest. Many nights when Mack was crying and my husband and I tried to soothe him, we were left a ball of anxiety and sadness, caught up in chords, feeling useless and wanting to be home.

The days consisted of endless professionals coming into the room with news or updates, appointments and pop ins. It was an exhausting and unpredictable schedule.

Breastfeeding attempts with the lactation consultant were both a joy and a terror. I used a nipple shield to entice Mack on to the breast. His latch was weak and milk transfer was impossible at the start. The breast shield would slip off easily without the latch and I always felt placated when a nurse would congratulate me when he was on the breast. I knew it looked like he was drinking but, in fact, he wasn’t. We discovered his response to milk in his throat was one of panic, he would pool the milk (suck, suck, suck) then it would begin to drip down his throat and he would panic, holding his breath. We would have to wait for it to pass, hoping he catches his breath again. Twice in our NICU stay, his spit ups would lead him to breath hold and the suction tool was required to help him get his breath back.

By the time Deb, the Occupational Therapist, was called, I had found a groove with Macklam on my breast. Twice a day I would work with Mack to attempt breastfeeding. It was the most exciting and nerve wracking part of my day. Nipple shield, breast feeding pillow, organizing the hold, holding his tiny head in my hand, now weighing less than when he was born. He would partially latch and suck enough to get milk in the shield, then I would pace his sucking. One, two, three, I would pull him off to take a breath. I simulated the coordination he needed. We would do this for 15-20 minutes, watching the machine dip from 100 to 95. He would come off the breast and recover his breathing. It felt like simulating something so natural but so impossible for my little guy. It made my heart ache and I would cry after, feeling like this was a game of pretend and Macklam would never feed. When OT arrived, I was elated. I imagined using the bottle to pace the way I had on the breast would be much easier since we could choose the right nipple and control the milk flow consistency. Our OT arrived full of new words; side lying, premie nipple and Dr. Browns. She was pleased with his eagerness for milk, letting Mack lead the feed. The nipple went in and he sucked; one, two, three, four, five, six…my heart raced. Nope, nope. She should know, 6 is enough. But she’s the expert. The machine binged and she looked up, shocked. She pulled the nipple out and he squealed and held his breath. I explained his pattern and she didn’t respond to me. My heart was broken as her hopeful face turned sour. She looked up at me and I saw a familiar expression I hadn’t placed yet. Pity maybe? She popped in with a write up; an OT report card. She gave me a nugget of hope: the next visit she would find the answer for his feeding issues. I fervently searched the DYRK1A site for answers and suggestions.

The first video that popped up on the group feed was for a Gofundme for DYRK. I had NO clue what to expect or how different each person’s experiences are. The video had an adorable kiddo walking (oh my gosh amazing!) and playing, full of joy. My heart swelled and I smiled, this would be Mack! It panned to a mom and dad and my heart sank. Their eyes were red and sullen. They said the words that would circle my brain on repeat “I went from hoping and preparing for my little girl to get married to now preparing for our eventual death and who will take care of her”. Smack. Reality. Mack may not ever be independent. Smack. He may never leave our home. Smack. He may never eat unassisted. Smack. I imagined the couples with sick kids, asking for money to help them in their unfair, awful journey. Were we those parents? Will we be those parents? Would an email go out in the office asking for financial assistance…please go and fund ME because my life has taken an unfortunate turn to where I will need to be five times the parent…always… I don’t remember the decline that afternoon but I remember silently crying in the hospital bed and a nurse coming in and calling a social worker. My whole life has been a very very blessed one with very few times I have felt that kind of dark pull. And that day, that nurse saved me from the dark pull of the reality of our diagnosis and the biggest fears you can imagine when you’re holding a tiny little innocent babe.

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When Deb came that afternoon, I had given myself time to grieve and was ready for hope: new bottles, nipples, fresh warm milk straight from the breast, my heart in my chest, holding my baby’s hand while he looked up at me excitedly “Milk?” Yes baby boy, milk made straight from mama. It was a total of 5 minutes of Deb bottling and two dips in the machine before she turned the bottle up and looked at me. “I don’t think it’ll be safe for you to bottle feed him without a swallow study”. My husband was behind me, holding my shoulders and I felt his hands go limp. We were explained why a swallow study was necessary, to ensure he would be feeding safely and not aspirating.

The Only Way to Leave the NICU was Surgery

The last week of the NICU stay went by rapidly. After our first swallow study, a second came. My partner and I went back and forth requiring the other person to be a single fortress, holding up the mud that we became on rough days. We left the NICU beds for a hotel nearby to get a bit more rest and to recover from the toll of all the doctor’s appointments. We enjoyed the hello each morning with Mack and watched him wake up, stretch, hands behind the back of his head in that cute way he does. We gave him baths with the NICU scentless soap and I started to dream of all the baby things stored in his little nursery that I was excited to use. We battled his “regurg” depending on the nurse on staff. Some were moms and if he had a small wet spot under him they declare it “normal” and not log it. But there were other nurses who would guesstimate the amount and log it in his giant file. I hated those nurses. They constantly tsked at his 5 ml spit ups and would state things like “he doesn’t seem to tolerate this feed speed” or “there are medications for regurgitation that I’ll make a note for the doctors to talk to you about”. Our go bag had 4 swaddling clothes and burp clothes that I would, on good days with less spit up, wrap Mack up in, feeling the flannel touch his skin. I loathed the mornings when I would come into the NICU and find the flannel blankets folded up in a bag with a sticker that said “SOILED”. It began to represent the hope of going home. Each time I wondered “will this swaddle stay clean for the ride home?” And then nope, “soiled”. I would clean them and we would start again. Day after day. I continued two breastfeed “attempts” a day. I started to dream about the amount of sucks before he needed breath. I dreamed he was on my chest in the hotel, waking up to feeling lonely and missing him. I would wake up every three hours for pumping in the hotel, quietly putting my bottles in the hotel fridge, waking up and packing them up for the NICU. We were on a consistent three hour schedule of 90 minute tube feeds. My husband and I became frustrated with nursing staff running late and adjusting his schedule by an hour here, an hour there. I started discussing with him what an NG insertion would be like at home. We came to terms with the fact that likely we would need to ween him from home. How long would that take? A month maybe? Maybe one NG tube insertion? Watching the nose tube be inserted into Mack’s small nostrils was hard enough, the idea of doing it ourselves felt impossible but if that was our option to go home, I was willing to figure it out.

Our lower GI study, the second feed study, was deemed to be the turning point for Mack. They explained if he isn’t aspirating, they would be able to find a nipple that worked for him and get us feeding him for our way home. We were excited at the prospect but cautiously optimistic. Nothing went the way we thought in NICU. I got up the courage to sit in on the feed study, nervously ringing my hands out as we wheeled him in. I had the urge to hold him the whole way down but, for hospital reasons, he remained in his bed, hungry and irritable. The GI study was conducted using a giant machine that took up the whole room and contained a seat made for a 5 year old, hard and large. Mack was far too small and required blankets and swaddles to make him fit. The OT upended a bottle into Mack’s mouth and they recorded. One, two, three, four, five, six…..seven, eight….ten, eleven, twelve…my mouth hung open. He wasn’t breathing. The machine was delayed, always was but I knew he wasn’t breathing…the machine started to beep and they continued. twenty…twenty one…his squeal came through the milk and I started to cry. I was behind the plastic, helpless, as I watched staff suction out his mouth. What the heck is this place? Where is the exit?

It’s hard to explain to someone that has never felt the feeling of being trapped in a medical capacity. Wanting to leave but being told it is in your best interest and your baby’s interest to stay.

The results of the study showed a ‘slight’ aspiration. I gritted my teeth. Slight when you upend a bottle and send my child into a panic where he’s not breathing…yes, that doesn’t surprise me. My mom later compared it to my own fear of the water. I have never learned to swim and one mouthful of water leaves me in a panic to find air and a way out. Mack would go through this any time a bottle or breast was left to him without pacing.

After this traumatic study was done, the OT left her final report card stating she felt comfortable with me breastfeeding Mack when we left (carefully, pacing etc) but wrote in red bold letters “no bottles”. I spoke to a paediatrician after this who assured me that breastfeeding would not be recommended as my child would aspirate on the milk. I argued and eventually learned there was a large disagreement amongst professionals whether I was capable of keeping my child swallowing safely through breastfeeding…a real confidence builder as a new first time mom.

In the final week of our stay at the NICU, my hopes were broken. My husband was surprised by my usually sunny personality being replaced with pure pessimism. The glass was no longer half full. One paediatrician sat with me to explain why we couldn’t go home on the NG tube and that a full surgical G-tube would be Mack’s only option and that he might get off it but it’s also possible he may not be capable of eating ever. I nodded numbly and said okay. I watched Mack get wheeled off to get his tube put in. I cried over his perfect, smooth belly. I said goodbye to having a pure, untouched little human. He came back with a small piece of medical miracle inside his belly. Giving permission to have them do this to my baby felt like a personal failure, like giving permission for my baby to be injured.

My relationship with his belly tube has been tumultuous. I was explicitly told this would be our ticket to get us out of the NICU, the hardest month of my life. I sat through the lessons and took avid notes. My husband was eager to learn quicker than any other family so we could make our way home. We learned fast and were frustrated when anyone got in our way. Let us feed our child, we can do it. Leave us alone. We texted family “we can’t wait to get home” to rude responses like “oh you just wait, enjoy the sleep you have now” no one could relate to what we were dealing with and we felt achingly alone, unable to have anyone meet Mack or know him.

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It was Mother’s Day when we finally left the NICU. It was fitting that each nurse and medical staff seemed to forget the occasion. The morning wait for a doctor to do Mack’s exit exam was agonizingly long. I’ve heard a lot of parents explain the feeling of leaving the hospital with a fragile baby; so new and scary. They talk about not being sure they can keep this baby safe, nervous when they were driving with them…it was not like this for us. We packed Mack up in his carseat, the one we stared at each day in the backseat waiting for our leave day, and I was acutely aware of how tiny and pale he was. Was this normal or did the NICU do this? We did not walk from the hospital, we ran. We craved a new beginning where Macklam could be a baby and not a patient. I missed my family, my things and wanted away from the masks and smell of hand sanitizer that was the hospital.

I had always considered the NICU to have somehow stolen the expected experiences of parenthood from me that first month but, as I ventured out into the sun and my husband carried the boxes of medical supplies, I realized the parenthood I expected will forever be shifted. Mack had already fallen asleep, his chin dimple to his chest, his tiny body surrounded by nurse receiving blankets for support, his newborn outfit oversized. His cupid mouth rested in a small pout and it melted me. Parenthood would be harder because I have a child that will forever test my strengths.

It had been 48 days since I arrived in Vancouver with my belly too big to see my toes, 25 days with Baby Mack outside my body and 25 days of enduring rounds, destats, machines and the experience of the NICU at BC Children’s Hospital. This would mark the first day as a family outside the care of medical professionals, taking on the upcoming challenges together as a little family.

DYRK1A Association 2021 Organizational Chart

Every year, we have a team of volunteers who facilitate awareness for our cause and access to information that will improve the lives of our children and our families. We are pleased to provide our full list of team members and an organizational chart that illustrates our structure. We certainly hope to evolve as we add new initiatives and organizations. Plus, we would love to add your name to our ever-growing list of volunteers. To volunteer, send us a message via our contact page.

Download chart as PDF.

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