Dawn’s early rays filter through the curtains and I see bathe in the golden haze, a plump baby’s hand reaching out to me. I watch as a flicker of smile crosses her lips revealing two pinpoint dimples. Still asleep, she sidles closer until she is nestled cozily under my chin, her fine baby hair tickling my nose. She yawns and I breathe in her sweet scent of milky-vanilla and I feel strangely content. Slowly, she lifts her face and I melt – gentle almond eyes sparkle in happy recognition and the sunniest grin stoke my maternal feelings close to rapture.

She is Angela – she has Down’s syndrome and I love her.

Angela’s coming surprised us all. At 41 (then) I thought that I was a “completed” woman. Wrong, Angela proved to be the missing chip – the bond that inexplicably linked all the significant people in her life together.  A true-blue career person, I attributed by missed periods to stress and was dumbfounded when my obstetrician informed me I was pregnant.

For a brief moment, I savored the delicious secret of a new life growing within me, nurtured by a womb we assumed barren. I was so grateful to God who bestowed such a precious gift. Did He know of the deep loneliness I nursed so long but hid so well?

A day after, my total joy turned to despair upon being told by my perinatologist that there was cause for concern because ultrasound revealed ‘nuchal   translucency’ indicative of Down’s syndrome, commonly known as mongoloidism. I don’t remember much except that I kept badgering my doctor for a definitive answer on my baby’s viability. Though I must have been irritatingly persistent, I could not pin him down to a satisfactory answer that would allow me to sleep nights. In coming to terms with Angela’s Down ’s syndrome, I was blessed with a downfall of “bonuses’. Not that they were never there – just that it was all too easy to take them for granted. In the scheme of a material world, I ignored these nuggets that were instrumental to self-realization, joy and contentment. Accomplishing ordinary tasks or getting through a grueling day now becomes an occasion for prayerful attitude. I still cry but am now way past grief and despair. En route to giving Angela the best care, I unwittingly regained my true self and discovered that enjoying my life and loving my child are co-existent. Guilt is a poor facsimile for love so I have learned not to punish myself unduly by painting bleak scenarios of what may not come to pass at all.