Running has never been my favorite activity. During my soccer days, I managed to forget I was running, but when it’s just me versus the pavement, I can’t stand it. Despite my attempts to listen to music, I often find myself stopping mid-run to belt out show tunes instead of keeping up my pace. Maybe it’s time to address my unresolved Broadway aspirations. I tried to channel that energy in college as a counterbalance to the Wisconsin cheese bread I was consuming. My roommate would cheer me on, “Just to the mailbox, Mia. You can do it!” But more often than not, my inner voice would suggest, “Why not just stop for ice cream first?”
So it came as a surprise one afternoon when I casually told my husband, “I’ll be right back, I need some fresh air.” I quickly slipped on my sneakers and ventured outside, taking a moment to escape the daily grind. As I walked down the street, I felt like a disoriented character from Edward Scissorhands, arms outstretched, without a phone or keys. Then, almost out of nowhere, I found myself running — and I wasn’t tired at all. I was just outside, enjoying solitary freedom.
To my astonishment, I ran over two miles, even tackling a hill. When I tried to repeat that feat later in the week, it was clear that it was a fluke; I stood at the hill’s base, turned around, and sang “Climb Every Mountain” all the way home.
Upon returning, I pondered what I was escaping from. That’s when I saw it: the bright red walker I had bought a month earlier to help my daughter learn how to walk. She had recently been diagnosed with cri-du-chat syndrome, a rare condition occurring in about 1 in 50,000 births. We didn’t know if she would ever walk or talk.
Initially, I was thrilled to bring the walker home, believing it could help defy the geneticist’s predictions. Her knee-height orthotics had begun to help her pull up, but Jordan’s body struggled to support its own weight. This walker seemed like the perfect solution. Yet every time she saw it, she would burst into tears. I knew I should encourage her, but we both preferred having kitchen dance parties over therapy sessions. My husband was great at working with Jordan; I found myself focused on rearranging her therapy schedule while watching neighborhood kids, half her age, play in the yard. Meanwhile, I measured our kitchen’s space to see if it could accommodate a wheelchair.
This milestone felt overwhelmingly painful for me. Our therapists were also feeling the strain, trying every trick to motivate her. Was her hypotonia preventing her from holding her weight? Did she understand the motor skills required for walking? Was her crying during therapy due to frustration, pain, or fatigue? Jordan spent hours with her team, engaging with hula hoops and drums, all while using weighted tools for support.
One particularly challenging day, our family trainer brought her dog, Max. Recognizing Jordan’s interest in Max’s fluffy coat, the team decided to leverage this fascination. Max was trained to provide the motivation Jordan needed. The desire to pet him finally encouraged her to take her first supported steps.
That moment when Jordan, my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, began to walk despite all odds, will forever hold a special place in my heart. It’s akin to how my mother feels about the movie An Affair To Remember — no matter what I’m doing, I get emotional thinking about that day.
A few weeks later, I found myself in a reflective state. “I’ll be right back, I need some fresh air,” I told my husband again. As I walked down the sidewalk, my heart swelled with pride. Jordan had crossed off the first item on her “won’t be able to do” list. I quickened my pace. If my daughter could learn to walk, I could surely manage to reach the mailbox.
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Summary: The journey of a parent witnessing their child learn to walk, especially in the face of challenges like cri-du-chat syndrome, can evoke a whirlwind of emotions. The story highlights the struggles and triumphs of learning to walk, showcasing the power of motivation and the unexpected joys that come from overcoming obstacles.