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I remember when I discovered I was pregnant with my first child. In the wee hours of that cold January morning, my husband held me close as I cried tears of joy onto his striped pajamas.

At 11:54 AM, August 26, 2006, my son, Jamal, was born at our local hospital. I looked at this squinting, pale little seven pound wonder, and was instantly and overwhelmingly enamored with him. He lay in my arms, peaceful as could be, and suddenly there was nothing but my husband, me, and our sweet baby boy.

Unfortunately, the euphoria was short lived. Though our son appeared healthy to us, it soon became clear that the doctors had concerns. He wouldn't nurse; anything he took from a bottle was immediately spit up. He only had one stool in thirty six hours. During our requisite two day stay, we spent very little time with our young son. He was whisked out of our arms for various tests on an almost hourly basis. I lay in bed, sore and swollen, feeling utterly helpless. Our baby was being subjected to so many invasive tests; numerous heel sticks, even a barium enema. I wanted to swoop in and rescue him from the assault of prodding hands and cold metal instruments. But all my husband and I could do was watch powerlessly as he was taken away time after time, even in the middle of the night. We were told that one of the tests would determine whether Jamal had Trisomy 21, or Down Syndrome. The results would take ten days.

We wanted so badly to bond with Jamal, but constant interruptions hindered it. I went through so many emotions; fear we wouldn't be close, anger at the constant procedures, guilt and sadness as I wondered if I had somehow caused his condition. Had I not eaten well enough when I was pregnant? Had I done something I shouldn't? Had I not prayed enough?

On discharge day, we found out that we would not be going home, but to a large hospital two hours away. There, at one of the nation's top neonatal care facilities, doctors would be able to treat the condition Jamal appeared to have: Hirschsprung's disease. We'd never heard of it. It was usually seen in kids with Down Syndrome, they explained, and it involved a section of baby's intestines lacking the cells they needed to expel waste from his body. How can we fix it? I asked. Only with surgery, came the response. I looked at my small, helpless child and wept. He had already gone through so much. Why was this happening to him?

Jamal spent the first two weeks of his life in that neonatal unit. At six days old, he underwent a surgical procedure called a pull through, which involved removal of the non- functioning part of his intestine and connecting the functioning parts. We were at his bedside day and night, reading to him, singing to him, praying for him; grandparents, aunts, uncles came too, as we waited for him to strengthen .

During his recovery, a very nice geneticist gave us the test results: Jamal had Down Syndrome. My husband and I barely blinked; after all we'd been through, it only mattered that he was out of danger.

September 11, 2006, we took Jamal home. These days, he's very active baby to whom happiness is a stuffed green frog and a warm blanket. Although we manage his care with relative ease, his ordeal changed us. Our marriage has grown in intimacy. Our hearts have expanded to love this very special little boy. And we have learned that the greatest joys are sometimes born of the very hardships that disquiet us. Jamal is the child that God intended for us, and we welcome him, and all the adventures to come, with open arms.

Learn more about this author, Eboni Manning.
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