His curved limbs and long toes, creases of new skin. He might even be able to play sport in time, though they are not to raise their hopes too high.Īt home they watch their baby closely while he gurgles and kicks in his drawer-for-a-cot.
He will never have full use of his right arm, of course, and manual labour will be impossible, but the absence of a pectoral muscle need not be a significant hindrance. Provided he is given regular physiotherapy he will certainly be able to write, and do all the tasks required in everyday life. Put simply, their son is missing a muscle in his chest. The new parents are told it is a congenital condition, but not serious. The clinic is busy, the doctor brisk but sympathetic, recommended by the midwife. Unlike his wife, he never gets to look at his son and feel him perfect: to love him prior to knowing his fault. Heads him off before he reaches the bedroom door. The midwife takes her husband aside when he arrives home from work. He is a little premature, but not too small, and his miniature fists grip fast to her fingers. Happy to hold this life she has felt within her all these months. His mother cuddles him and cradles him, and feeds him his first meal.
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