For Corrie

The birth of our third child was supposed to be a scheduled cesarean section, performed at the hospital where I practice. However, several days before the appointed date, my wife began labor, and her scheduled section turned into an urgent one. Not long after the procedure began, our new baby, our Corrie, was handed to me with the pediatrician's pronouncement, “Here's your perfect baby girl.” As I had done twice before, I cradled this new life in my hands as tears of joy and thankfulness welled in my eyes. Too quickly, the circulating nurse took our new angel from me to be officially weighed and measured.

Not more than five minutes later, I felt a hand, gentle yet insistent, on my left shoulder. One of the nurses was there, whispering to me that the pediatrician needed to speak to me. I thought to myself that he was simply being a polite colleague, wanting to wish us luck. Nothing could be wrong, I reasoned, because he had used the words “perfect baby girl.” But the look on his face as he waited for me in the hallway told me that something had changed. “I can't be sure,” he began haltingly, “but I'm concerned that Corrie may have Down syndrome.” He described “some things” that had him concerned, like very low muscle tone and a bothersome transverse crease on her palm. He told me about the tests that would be needed, the specialists who would be called. I shook his hand and thanked him for his thoroughness. I then felt a real physical pain, the likes of which I had never experienced in my life. It began in my gut, went up through my chest, and terminated in a wave of nausea and tremulousness that seized my entire being. I was helped …