My little Samson turned four years old earlier this month. We adopted him from Kansas City, Mo just before he turned one. His foster moms saved him from a home where he sustained a non-accidental broken leg and a twist break of his arm. He was just left laying on a soiled bed, suffering from his injuries, until the state found him and took him. I remember sitting in a hotel room and holding him while he just stared at me, refusing to fall asleep until three in the morning.
I ...have such a deep hatred for his biological parents that it scares me.
When Samson was in the hospital where they had to re-break his leg to set it properly - they found a blood abnormality which lead them to discover that he had Duchenne - a form of muscular dystrophy. This disease isn't discovered until a child turns three - when their health and movements are so behind that doctors start testing.
This means that Samson will die in his early twenties. He will get pneumonia. His body will be unable to dispel the mucus filling of his lungs. His heart will already be weak from the disease. It will quit and he will be gone.
I don't dwell on his muscular dystrophy prognosis, but birthdays are a distinct way of marking time. I can't help but think about it.
He's very small for his age. He looks like a two-year-old. His language reflects that of a child between one and two due to the compromising of his oral muscles.
He is absolutely beautiful.
The worst of all pain stems from hope. Hope that there will be a cure. Hope that it won't be too late.
We named him Samson. Samson, right before he died in the bible, prayed to God to once more return to him his strength. We pray that God will do the same for our little one.
I love you, Samson. Happy Birthday.
I ...have such a deep hatred for his biological parents that it scares me.
When Samson was in the hospital where they had to re-break his leg to set it properly - they found a blood abnormality which lead them to discover that he had Duchenne - a form of muscular dystrophy. This disease isn't discovered until a child turns three - when their health and movements are so behind that doctors start testing.
This means that Samson will die in his early twenties. He will get pneumonia. His body will be unable to dispel the mucus filling of his lungs. His heart will already be weak from the disease. It will quit and he will be gone.
I don't dwell on his muscular dystrophy prognosis, but birthdays are a distinct way of marking time. I can't help but think about it.
He's very small for his age. He looks like a two-year-old. His language reflects that of a child between one and two due to the compromising of his oral muscles.
He is absolutely beautiful.
The worst of all pain stems from hope. Hope that there will be a cure. Hope that it won't be too late.
We named him Samson. Samson, right before he died in the bible, prayed to God to once more return to him his strength. We pray that God will do the same for our little one.
I love you, Samson. Happy Birthday.