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I am tamra's father
I was a reluctant father, one who feared the responsibilities and
diapers of those whirlwinds we call kids. Nine years had passed in our
marriage, when the biological clock finally shattered our peaceful,
kidless existence.
My first view of Tamra was a spinning pair of legs and a rotating
tush. Her head was too big for the Cesarean incision and wouldn't
come out! After much tugging by the doctor, she finally decided to join
us. The pediatrician and I carefully counted toes, fingers, eyes and
limbs. Excluding some slight, spotty skin discolorations, she looked
perfect!
I would like to report that life returned to normal, but, as all
parents discover, there is nothing normal about life after kids. Still,
I was excited-- even about changing diapers.
Being proper parents. my wife. Deanna, and I would accompany Tamra
each month to her "well-baby" examinations and ask the
pediatrician a thousand stupid questions. Each month, Tamra was
pronounced to be in excellent health, but the pediatrician would frown
at the spots on her skin. "Nothing to be concerned about yet,"
she would say, "but let's keep an eye on those."
Wait a minute, what does she mean by "yet?"
Finding out about the spots
When Tamra was six months old, we brought her to a
dermatology-geneticist. It was time to find out about those spots. We
waited nervously as the dermatologist carefully examined Tamra. That
done, the doctor turned to us, and sternly asked us to remove our
clothes. Remove our clothes? Shocked into silence and praying that I had
worn some semblance of clean underwear, I did as I was told. After our
examinations, we dressed and waited in silence.
The doctor told us that Tamra's skin discolorations were called
cafe au fait spots, because they are the color of milk and coffee. They
were an indication that Tamra had neurofibromatosis, more commonly
called NF. Can you pronounce it? We couldn't. The doctor explained
that NF is a dominant genetic disorder, but since Deanna and I showed no
signs of the disease, Tamra's condition was a spontaneous genetic
mutation.
NF is one of the most common genetic disorders, the doctor explained,
occurring in one out of 4,000 newborns. Half of those cases are, like
Tamra's, the result of a new mutation. People with NF develop
tumors--called neurofibromas--of the central nervous system, nerves
(including the auditory and optic nerves) and skin. The tumors are
usually benign, but may be removed if they are painful or press on other
body structures. The doctor continued with a list of other possible
problems--bone deformations, learning disabilities, high blood pressure
and itching.
My hearing seemed to turn off after a while, but it awakened to the
doctor saying, "...used to be known as the Elephant Man's
disease."
Back up a minute--"Elephant's Man's disease?" I
asked
The dermatologist explained that for a long time NF had been
associated with Joseph Merrick, the so-called Elephant Man, but it had
been recently discovered that Merrick's condition was Proteus
syndrome, not NF.
What are the odds?
I couldn't have identified my emotions at this point; it was as
if everything inside of me had gone dead. We listened to the doctor
further explain that many people with NF have no significant health
problems, and go on to have careers and families. The doctor told us
that the odds were that Tamra would not have significant problems. But
what did odds mean at that point? I mean, what were the odds of us
having a child with NF in the first place?
Indeed, a few weeks later, we brought Tamra back to the dermatologist
with a mumps-like swelling under her left jaw. Surgery to ensure that
the tumor was benign confirmed neurofibromas on her facial nerve, which
couldn't be removed without causing facial paralysis. What else did
the future have to offer?
Running away
Work became just a way to pass the time. I shut out my fellow
workers, conserving my energy to put on a brave face for my family at
home. I burned off my anger and fear by putting on my running shoes and
running as far and as fast as I could--which was neither very fast, nor
very far. I learned that nobody can tell whether runners are happy or
sad; mostly they just look tired, which I was. I came home drained, but
sufficiently free to present an optimistic face to my family.
After a child is diagnosed with a disability, it seems fathers often
act as if nothing is wrong, while mothers act as if their world has come
apart. But eventually, most parents come together in attitude. The
mother realizes that there can be life with the disability, and the
father realizes that the disability exists.
I, too, had to face my anger and fear. I thought about what life was
like before Tamra's diagnosis, and I asked myself what had changed
the day the doctor gave us a name for her condition. Tamra hadn't
changed--she had always had NF; I just didn't know it. So what had
changed? I had.
Controlling what we can
I feared the uncertainty of the future. I knew there was nothing we
could do to prevent Tamra's tumors; we could only react to them
once they appeared. I felt powerless.
For two weeks after Tamra was diagnosed with NF, I couldn't stop
crying. Then I returned to the basics--got the facts, educated myself,
prepared. I learned to enjoy life again; I did not ignore Tamra's
condition, but I also didn't let the fear of it dominate my life.
It has been a long, eight-year struggle. I had to learn that NF will not
go away and that I will survive.
I've also come to believe that the best-adjusted adults with
disabilities come from supportive families. This is something my wife
and I can control. We believe that our daughter's attitude toward
life will be a reflection of our own. No matter what happens, we try to
overcome problems as a family. Tamra's self-confidence reflects our
conscious decision not to fear NF.
Continuing the marathon
Rather than suffer from hopelessness, we've redirected our
energy and much of our free time into working with our local NF chapter.
I treat NF as a marathon--one foot in front of the other, one day at a
time.
In many ways, my life has become richer because of Tamra's NF.
It would have been easy to spend my time and energy pursuing the
American dream of the greenest lawn, the cleanest car and the most toys.
Now, my rewards are different--the smile of a child selling lemonade to
support NF research, the handshake of a parent who needed to talk, and
the knowledge that, no matter how small our successes, we've fought
hard.
Fathers' Voices is a regular feature of Exceptional Parent
magazine. This column, coordinated by James May, Project Director of the
National Father's Network, focuses on fathers' experiences
rearing children with special needs. Your contributions to this column
are encouraged.
For more information about the National Fathers' Network (NFN)
or to receive their newsletter, write or call: National Fathers'
Network, the Kindering Center, 16120 N.E. Eighth Street, Bellevue WA
98008, (206) 747-4004 or (206) 2849664 (fax). Funded by a Maternal and
Child Health Bureau grant, the NFN networking opportunities for fathers;
develops support and mentoring programs; and creates curriculum
promoting fathers as significant, nurturing people in their
children's and families' lives.
Bob Miyamoto is a research physicist and oceanographer at the Applied
Physics Laboratory at the University of Washington His wife, Deanna, is
an art director at Image Ink Design Studio. The Miyamotos live in
Bothell, Washington, north of Seattle, with their daughters, Tamra, 10,
and Leah, 5. The Miyamotos are very active in the Washington state
chapter of the Nation Neurofibmatosis Four Bob served as chapter
president from 1990 to 1994; he is currency the chapter's vice
president. The family also enjoys swimming, skiing and hiking.
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