Catching up--and divine inspiration, in the words of George Harrison

Until now, my first (and last) blogging attempt was October 26, 2006. I was on week eight of 10 weeks' bedrest, extremely pregnant, and bored to tears. Three years and some seven months later, here we are. I had the best intentions of writing something utterly captivating at least every other day until "Baby Uhl" arrived, but between stuffing myself with honeycrisp apples and cucumber slices, alternating between three pairs of pajamas, working my way through two books of Sodoku puzzles, and one final, exhilarating pre-baby trip to SuperTarget (I swear, the grocery aisles looked greener)...I didn't keep it up. And so much has happened since then. So many things anxiously awaited and expected--having Evan, for one--and so many things unexpected.

Anyone who's looked at my Facebook page in the past year or so has seen some 7,000-plus photos of Evan and our family (mostly me, thanks to a husband who works long hours so I'm able to stay home) going to the zoo, or to the museum, or to Broad Ripple to feed the ducks (and buy some ridiculously overpriced cheddar popcorn that's mine...all mine). There are photos of us playing soccer in the backyard, and eating 82-cent twist cones at the little mom 'n pop place by a nearby playground. And splashing at the sprinkle park. And fishing in the middle of Nowhere, Ky. And going to the most ghetto pumpkin patch ever. And playing with trains and cars on the living room floor. And dancing--lots of dancing. And just being plain goofy and doing the things families do. But life changed for us on November 7, 2008, when Evan was diagnosed with myotonic dystrophy, a form of muscular dystrophy. The phone rang, and I recognized the number of the genetic counselor we'd started talking to only a few weeks before. She told me that Evan's test for myotonic dystrophy was positive. In the midst of feeling strangled and numb and physically sick, there was a tiny amount of something akin to relief. Relief that my gut instinct of the past year was right, that something was wrong, and we hadn't put Evan through countless doctor's visits and blood draws for nothing. And relief that he didn't have some of the other things he'd been tested for, like a disease I stupidly Googled late one night when I found out the results for a particular test hadn't come back yet. I sat at the computer at 2 a.m. and gasped at the photos of middle-aged men who looked like they'd just walked out of a concentration camp. I ran to Evan's room where he was fast asleep, scooped him up from his crib, and stood there crying and rocking my beautiful little boy in the dark. The lab called eight hours later and said the test for Fragile X had come back negative. I remember breathing a little prayer of thanks after that phone call. But when I hung up on that Thursday in November, everything moved in slow motion. I only remember wailing like someone had just slapped me across the face.

That was a terrible day. But less than 24 hours later, God dropped hope in my lap. We drove home and met Nate's family and my mom for dinner at Magdalena's in Corydon. I don't remember why Dad and Allison weren't there--I just know I was feeling very broken-hearted. Evan being Evan, he was fidgety while waiting for dinner, so I took him to the cafe next door, where a father and daughter--who bore an uncanny resemblance to my dad and sister--were sitting in the window, playing guitars and singing. When Evan and I walked in, they were playing the Beatles' "I've Just Seen a Face," a song my dad used to sing to Mom when Allison and I were little. Music-lover that he is, Evan started clapping and bouncing on my lap. It was the perfect spot to wait for dinner, as we were the only audience. After the song ended, the father asked if Evan had a special request. I replied that we both loved the Beatles, and the father-daughter duo who looked so much like my absent family members said, "This one's for Evan," and broke into "Here Comes the Sun." Call me crazy; say I was so desperately looking for something to hold on to that I grabbed at a song. I say that out of a catalog of 300-plus possibilities, two people who had no way of knowing our newly-written story chose the perfect song:

"Here comes the sun/and I say/It's all right."

Such simple lyrics. But they said so much. And I still think about it, whenever I'm feeling discouraged, or when Nate comes home from the playground with Evan and tells me how many times Evan fell (but he got up every time and tried until he got it right, the little stinker). And especially when Evan finds something absolutely hysterical, like hanging from his rope swing in the backyard and yelling, "Higher!" while the sunshine bounces off his sandy-brown, moose-like hair.


I've told maybe two people what happened that night that got me through the next weeks, months, and still today, but I'm not sure I've told anyone this: After dinner that night, I ran out to the car, grabbed my purse, tucked a $20 in my pocket, quietly slipped into the cafe, dropped it in the empty tip basket, and walked out. It was the best $20 I've ever spent.