How Sometimes, Grace Comes By Way of a Child
It is early summer in Virginia, our first here, and L is about to turn a year old. She is already walking, which doesn’t surprise us. For L, everything except cutting teeth has come earlier than expected. She picks up walking quickly; it’s running that gives her problems. Her little feet are slightly pigeon-toed, and whenever she breaks into a run, she makes it only a few steps before she trips and falls. Shoes seem to aggravate the issue by increasing the overall circumference of her feet, so she prefers to be barefoot.
Shortly after her first birthday, we go to the pediatrician for her 12-month check-up. L’s doctor is a sweet woman around my age who has three kids of her own. She adores L, and always jokingly offers to take her home, give us a night off. I tell the doctor I’m concerned about L’s feet, about the way she trips herself when she runs. I want L to walk for the doctor, but she is in the midst of a stage where people and places outside her daily routine terrify her, and she clings to me, refusing to get down from my lap. The doctor tells me not to worry. She suggests we video L walking and running, and bring the videos back at her 18-month visit. If there is an issue with her feet, they won’t do anything about it until after 18 months anyway, she says.
So we wait, and in early January, we video her walking and running. We take the videos with us to her 18-month check-up, but we don’t need them after all. We all – the doctor, L, and me – go into the brightly painted hallway outside the examination room, and while the doctor stands at one end, I walk the length of the hallway away from her, L trotting dutifully beside me, holding tight to my hand. At the end, we turn and walk back. We pass the nurses’ station on the way, and they all watch L, smiling and remarking on her sweetness. The doctor smiles, too.
“I think it’s time to see an orthopedic surgeon,” she says. “I’ll give you a referral.”
A few weeks later, we drive to a part of Northern Virginia I’ve never been to before, to see the orthopedic surgeon. We go through the same ritual – walking the length of a hallway and back – while the doctor looks on. She’s a grandmotherly woman with a kind face, and she nods knowingly as she watches us. By her reaction, I am sure she has seen a gait like L’s a thousand times before, and I am comforted by this.
After our walk, L sits on my lap and lets the doctor measure the angle of her feet, how much they turn in as opposed to being aligned with her calves. She confirms my thoughts – that she has seen this many, many times. L’s tibias are over-rotated inward, she says. L probably spent most of her nine months in my womb with her legs curled inward like a pretzel. Her voice is soft and gentle, reassuring me. Her tone says this is not a big deal.
There is a slim chance L’s gait could correct itself over time, but one foot is rotated inward more than the other, and the doctor says she’d rather not take any chances. She wants L’s feet to be evenly aligned. She says it is easier to correct the rotation now, while L is growing so fast. Leaving the over-rotation untreated could mean painful problems with her feet, hips, and back as an adult. Me, I’m not thinking quite that far ahead. I’m thinking about her elementary school days to come – about recess and gym class. I don’t want her to be harassed on the playground. I don’t want her to be the last one picked for games. I know what it feels like to be teased and unwanted, I know how mean little kids can be. If I can save her from that particular pain, I will do whatever it takes. I also think of things like soccer leagues and little league teams, things an uneven gait might prevent her from participating in. I think about how she loves to run. All her life, I want her to be able to do whatever she dreams of. I ask the doctor what we need to do. Her answer is simpler than I expect – no physical therapy, no exercises. At least not yet.
The doctor writes a prescription for a special pair of boots, which connect to a bar that will keep L’s feet aligned at a set angle. She is to wear this while she sleeps at night, and during her naps. In 6 to 18 months, her feet should be aligned. I am hoping for closer to 6 months. I know my nighttime wanderer is not going to like being trapped in her bed, unable to get up and walk on her own.
To get the equipment, we have to see an orthotist, a specialist who will fit her for the boots and set the angle of the connecting bar. So we make another appointment, drive to another part of the DC suburbs. We complete what is now a ritual, walking yet another hallway, down and back, while the orthotist looks on. He is kind and careful with L. He works with small children a lot, he says to me. He knows exactly how to gain her trust, how to ease his way into the examination, and with the help of a strawberry Dum-Dum, she sits quietly as he takes several measurements of each foot. Smiling, he tells me he will order a pink pair of boots for L. Because yes, color can make a difference in the speed of acceptance.
He tells me the biggest mistake parents make is to attempt “sneak attacks” with the boots and bar. They wait until their child is asleep, and then strap everything on. The child wakes up in the night and freaks out at the restraint. This causes intense fear, making the rest of the process far more difficult than it needs to be. He tells me to simply add the boots and bar to our nighttime ritual, to make them special, something cool she gets to wear. He tells me to be gentle but persistent if she resists – being lax about using the equipment will just slow down the process.
Two weeks later, I get a voicemail telling me L’s boots and bar are ready for pickup. The orthotist wants us to bring her in for a fitting, so that he can set the bar angle and ensure her boots fit properly. I am swamped at work, so E takes her. When they arrive home, L rushes over to my desk in excitement. She can’t wait to show me her new pink boots.
Until now, I have been stalwart, matter-of-fact, unemotional. But now, looking at these contraptions with their seemingly endless straps and buckles, their strange, hard plastic soles, I realize that they are more like casts than shoes. I am not fooled by their bubble gum color. The stiff, black metal bar is even more intimidating. As I hold it all in my hands, a lump fills my throat. I want to pitch the whole contraption out the window. My mind says I shouldn’t feel upset, that this is small peanuts compared to the challenges other children face every day, like my nephew Rhyse with his G-tube and breathing treatments. This is temporary. It’s not life-threatening. I have so much to be thankful for – and I am thankful, don’t get me wrong. But my heart says it’s okay to feel upset, too. I am a mama, and my baby needs to be “fixed.” This is a hard fact to accept.
At bedtime, L insists on putting on her pajamas herself, only accepting help when she becomes too frustrated to continue. Already, she is so independent. The new boots and bar are sitting on the floor next to her bed. Before I can say anything, she goes to them, picks up the pair of comfy socks I have placed there with them.
“Sockies, mama?” she asks. “Put new boots on?”
Although this is the first time I’ve strapped her into her new contraption, for her, it is the second time today. I have to stifle a laugh at how experienced she acts, pointing out the straps and buckles to me, basically showing me how to hook everything together.
As I lift her into bed, I realize that she has led me in this difficult moment, and I am amazed at God’s grace. This seems like a divine miracle to me. A verse from Isaiah comes to mind: The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the goat; the calf and the young lion will feed together, and a little child shall lead them. Inwardly, I say a prayer of thanksgiving.
I settle down on a pillow next to her bed to read aloud the next chapter of Betsy-Tacy and Tib. By the time I am done, she is yawning and her eyes are heavy. She settles herself into a comfortable position, moving her legs in the limited fashion the bar allows without complaint. Amazed at her peacefulness, I tuck in her blankets and kiss her sweet little cheeks, and I go out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind me. My mother-heart overflows with gratitude. I don’t know what the rest of the night will bring, nor the days to come, but I know His grace will be enough for it all.
