When we met my son Max in 2011, my wife and I knew nothing about Down’s syndrome.
We knew only that we had adopted a beautiful baby boy, just a few days old, and that he had wires coming from his chest and tubes coming from his nose. We knew that his lungs had trouble breathing, his heart had trouble pumping blood, and that it took him an hour, at least, to drink just an ounce of formula.
Almost a year later, we’d come to understand the mechanics of his disability. We were experts at nasal cannulas and juggling therapies. We knew about hypotonia and ventricular septal defects, speech apraxia and baby sign language.
