This is the hardest thing I've ever had to write...

I'm going to just cut straight to the chase: today was not a good day. In fact, today has been the most difficult day of my life. Today, I learned my son has a congenital heart defect. Today, I learned there is a 1 in 10 chance that my son also has a chromosomal anomaly. That is to say, there is a 10% chance he also has Down syndrome, or something similar. They drew fluid today to run the tests for that possibility. We should have the results some time next week. Regardless, it is 100% certain that he will need at least one surgery, if not several, after he is born, just to have a chance to survive. We will be meeting with the cardiologists at Vanderbilt soon to discuss that very issue. Today was not a good day.

Although much of what the doctor said after "your baby has a congenital heart defect" registered as little more than white noise, based on what I have been able to piece together by replaying it in my head, I think my son may have hypoplastic left heart syndrome. In layman's terms, the left side of his heart is grossly underdeveloped, which leaves the right side to do all of the work. While apparently that is sustainable within the womb, outside of it, it is not. It is not curable, at least not in the sense that it can be healed. There is a series of surgeries that can, for the most part, alleviate the problem. According to the doctor we saw today, that has around a 70% success rate. Even if the surgeries are successful, my son would have "limited exercise capacity" throughout his entire life. Today was not a good day.

***

I don't even know how to codify how I feel right now. I was just starting to get used to the idea that I would get to teach my son how to throw and catch a baseball and football, that I would get to teach him how to swing a golf club. Now, I can't shake the thought that I will never have those opportunities, at least not on Earth. As I sit at the computer and type this, I can't help but wonder if the "I (heart) Daddy" frame that Allison made me after we found out she was pregnant will ever have his picture in it. I know these are emotional responses based on a series of outcomes that may never come to pass, but I can't make them go away. It is as if someone has pulled the rug out from underneath me right after I have finally learned to stand up on my own.

A friend asked me tonight, after I told him the status of my son, whether or not this is something that could correct itself. My answer was that, medically and scientifically, it isn't possible. The obvious implication of my response is that it is possible, supernaturally. I want to believe, maybe selfishly, that it's true. I want to believe that it can happen, but it's hard. As an abstract concept, I unquestionably believe that miracles happen. Faced with needing one, however, turns your unwavering belief in an abstract concept completely on its ear. A line from our church's Christmas production, which we performed for the first time tonight - and which had practically no resonance with me until tonight - now seems prescient: "a miracle isn't a miracle unless it isn't supposed to happen." I have no idea whether or not my son will be the target of a miracle. I do know that, if he does become such a target, he wasn't "supposed to" be, in the Earthly sense. I will be praying that it is so. And preparing myself for the possibility that he won't be. Either way, I can only hope that I find comfort, and some semblance of hope, in the truism expressed in that line from the play: miracles, by their very nature, are not supposed to happen.

***

I will end by simply saying that, if praying is something that you are inclined to do, I humbly ask that you pray for my son directly.

His name is Ayden Avery.