All is not quite right

I took in Gilmartin's words with an odd sense of optimism. This was, after all, my son whom he was talking about, and I did not feel alarmed nor want to cry or scream. Perhaps my early-morning brush with the couple who had lost their child was enough to make it almost acceptable. Aidan was not dead or dying; he was not in mortal danger like the night before when his lungs stopped. Or maybe it was the way in which the doctor seemed to play down the negative possibilities. What did it mean to be without a corpus callosum? "Normal" people could do just fine without it. That might be our future: Aidan would be fine and the peculiarities of his brain would be our secret; no one would know.

Maureen, too, was not outwardly upset by the neurologist's report, even though she has always been one to focus more on the worrisome "what ifs" of life. There was enough good here to leaven the bad, for the moment at least, and she did not dwell on what might follow; indeed, she, none of us, could know what Aidan's prospects might be. He was only 11 days old, a small bundle of potential whose brain and nerves and cells and all were just beginning to grow in the air and light of day. If others had thrived, he could too.

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We turned our attention to our world outside of the hospital. Things had happened so fast that we had just driven off to Springfield without talking with family or friends. My mother had visited us just two days before the onset and she had returned home believing her first grandchild was healthy and strong. We had not found the time in the midst of the crisis to phone or explain what we were going through. What would we say? What could we say when we didn't know ourselves? More pressing were Maureen's parents. They were due at our home that very afternoon to meet the new grandson, also the first of their children's children. I would have to return as quickly as possible, to be there when they arrived and break the news to them.

I came down our street from the west just as they arrived from the east, and turned into the driveway two car lengths ahead of them. Without taking time for pleasantries, I hopped out of the car and bade them into the house. I knew that they knew immediately it was bad news, but I could not say that Aidan had nearly died; such a start would have been too much.

They had borne enough tragedy in their days, had lost a daughter, their only other child, to an unexpected heart failure. Of course, whether I was blunt or not would make little difference in the long run, but at that moment I tried to put it as gently as possible without deceiving them. Their faces dropped as the words tripped from my mouth, worry straining their eyes. They were not the kind of people who push for details in such situations. Silence has told many tales in their family. No tears, no exclamations, just a few questions -- and they dejectedly settled in for a stay.

This was not the hardest part of that day, however. Shortly after breaking the news to her parents, I called Maureen to see how she and Aidan were faring. As I said "Hi" she gasped in tears. The MRI report had confirmed Gilmartin's earlier suspicion: agenesis of the corpus callosum. The tissue connecting the two halves of Aidan's brain had not developed properly. Other irregularities were found as well. Polymicrogyria, more and smaller folds in the brain than normal, was suggested, as was dysmylenation, or underdevelopment of the sheaths of certain neural pathways. Gilmartin did not elaborate, unwilling to try to predict the future of such a young child, but his expression signified a bad prognosis. Aidan's brain was abnormal; the seizures were a sign of more profound structural problems.

Next Page: It would take some months before a diagnosis could be confirmed

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