Over this past week, I’ve had three people say to me, “Oh well, it’s just a hand,” when they’ve met Hero for the first time. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve also met some wonderful, inquisitive and kind people who have somehow managed to convey just how perfectly OK Hero will be without her right hand, without dismissing it entirely.
I know, from the bottom of my heart, that she will be just fine. That she is just fine. I am acutely aware how much “worse off” people can be. I don’t worry about any of the things that terrified me during pregnancy. I don’t mourn for her loss anymore. I see before her a world of possibilities. Given the chance, I wouldn’t even go back and change it.
But it is not just a hand.
It might well be “just a hand” to you, who is enjoying the full use of both of yours. It might well be “just a hand” to me some of the time. But to some people, and to me as well on the rare occasion, it’s a barrier that our little one must overcome.
It’s looking at little kids struggling to do their shirt buttons, tie their laces, open a bottle top and then wondering how Hero will achieve that. It’s not a case of if, but simply of how. It is knowing that whatever she wears, buys or does in order to fit in, she’ll always be a bit different. She might love being different. I hope she loves being different. I do. But it took me a few years to get to that happy place and deep down, there will always be a tiny part of me that secretly wants to belong.
It might be a small disability. I might well be grateful every single day that it isn’t the “something worse” the doctors threatened. It might be a minor difference on an utterly perfect baby.
But it is not just a hand.
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I’m a writer, a teacher and mum to a little girl, born in 2016 without her right hand but with a whole lot of heart! Join us at: thoughshebebutlittle2016.com
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