Our Gift of Dominic

It begins with a few loud footfalls, followed by the clicking of switches.

One by one, lights throughout the house turn on, including, if it’s winter, those on the Christmas tree. An ambient glow oozes its way into our bedroom until the door swings open and the full light of the hallway, followed by its source, bursts its way inside.

It’s 3:00 a.m., and Dominic has arrived, ready to snuggle. He shuts the door behind him and utters not a peep, climbing into the bed and wrapping his arms around whichever one of us has the good fortune to receive the day’s first hug. Within seconds, he’s fast asleep.

At eight years old, Dominic may seem a little old for predawn visits to his parents’ bed. But being blessed with the gift of Down syndrome, he’s temperamentally more like someone half his age and comparable in size. Still, he often manages to take over the mattress, and on many a night we’ve eventually carried him back to the room he shares with his brothers. But his visits are, like Dominic himself, sweet, endearing, and full of love.

When we were expecting Dominic, we didn’t know that he had Down syndrome, but we were mindful of the possibility, given our age, his small size, and a maternal premonition which we would have dismissed as imagined, except that it proved true. In the tense final moments of his difficult, drawn-out delivery, as we prayed for a safe birth, Mary Kate heard a voice from deep within ask, “Will you accept Down syndrome?” Her swift, silent answer was “Yes!” — and immediately our Dominic was born, safe and well.

It was all joy. At that moment of meeting Dominic, we were carried by grace, relief, and gratitude. Dominic’s beautiful eyes, which told us of his special need, seemed just part of the gift of him. For that moment, we had no fears about his future or our own.

But fears would come soon enough. A few days later, when we received Dominic’s formal diagnosis in our pediatrician’s office, we both wept. The doctor let us cry. Then, in a fatherly way, he set out tasks for us to tackle, and we got to work on arranging the initial team of specialists and therapists who have since become an everyday part of Dominic’s life.

This parenting journey would be a little different from the six that have preceded it, but the Lord sent us an army of helpers to cheer us on, give us tips, love our child, hold our hands. From these wise ones, we learned to think of Dominic as Dominic, as unique as any child, whose diagnosis is only a small part of who he is.

Dominic has big brown eyes, freckles, and an impish grin. He is a natural athlete who throws a ball into a hoop with ease, the same move he uses to mischievously toss tomatoes into the grocery cart. He has an impeccable sense of direction, and when we make a wrong turn, he lets us know about it.
He adores learning, birthdays, and slapstick humor. He dances whenever music is playing, and sometimes even when it’s not. Most of all, though, he makes people feel loved, making introductions, giving gifts, touching faces, and intuitively reaching out to those who are feeling down. When he says goodbye, he hugs everyone in the room — three times!

Dominic warms hearts and changes hearts, especially our own.

“My friends with Down syndrome,” his first physical therapist once observed, “tend to make their families more patient, more humble, less self-conscious.” He was right.

The effect is obvious in Dominic’s six older brothers and sisters. Having watched their baby brother push through two-and-a-half years of arduous PT to learn to roll, then sit, then walk, they’ve stopped complaining about hard work. They’ve also adapted their games — and invented new ones! — to make sure he’s included, no longer worrying so much about who wins or who calls the shots. Dominic’s mere presence has softened their edges and brought out their best.

Dominic draws out our quietest child and inspires our most efficient child to slow down, our most professorial child to become simple, and our most socially aware child to care less about what others say and do. Our most organized child rejoices in his messes, and our shyest child best understands his speech and interprets for the rest of the family. As our 13-year-old recently confided in us, “I just can’t imagine who I would be without Dominic.”

He’s also changed the two of us, though perhaps more slowly. As we look back at those fearful, early days, we wonder: What, exactly, were we afraid of? Why did we cry upon receiving his diagnosis? Was our sense of human dignity and worth tied up more in ability and appearances than we, an idealistic Catholic couple, wanted to admit? Or did we simply not trust God as much as we thought we did, not believe that, in time, He would give us the necessary tools, and Dominic the necessary graces, to thrive?

It all seems so foolish now. But God, in His mercy, was making us — in those prescient words of Dominic’s physical therapist — “more patient, more humble, less self-conscious.”

When Dominic was two, we were thrilled to learn that we were expecting once more, even though, given the two miscarriages that had preceded Dominic, the odds of carrying our baby to term were against us. At 11 weeks’ gestation, Lupe was born into our hands and eternal life, one tiny hand to her mouth, as if she were sucking her thumb. She had a sweet, wide face like Dominic’s and his same round cheeks. Perhaps she, too, was blessed with the gift of Down syndrome.

We wonder what Dominic and Lupe might have been like together. We delight in imagining them teaming up to light the Christmas tree, en route to visiting us at 3:00 in the morning.