Going for a walk with Mom

Marshall turned three yesterday. Three! I can hardly believe it. I had actually forgotten his birthday was yesterday until I was reminded the day before. I always get confused about his birthday. I’ve answered with the wrong day at least two dozen times at the hospital when we check in. I almost always say the 26th, even though it’s really the 21st (Quinn was born on the 26th of another month, in another year; same planet, though).

My little guy is a full-fledged little boy, running around, causing trouble with his brother, curious as can be, and starting to talk to us. He feeds himself, he walks around with his backpack, eager to go to school and play with his friends. Marshy follows his big brother around, acting like a clown and making everyone laugh with his silly antics.

Playing a board game with me

He has come a long way, certainly. I can hardly believe what he has had to go through to get to where he is now; I can also hardly believe how much more there is to come, but that’s not for today. Bridget hit this point long ago, but I am just now starting to relax and not be in a constant state of worry. Besides the things I can’t control, what is there to worry about? We walked home after I picked him up yesterday afternoon, a slow, meandering walk (putting him in the stroller is like applying hot coals to his feet these days) with Quinn and me following behind while he tries to strike up a conversation with every person we pass.

At one point yesterday during the walk, I looked up to see Quinn laughing and running ahead, while Marshall called after him, wobbling along, trying to keep up in his clunky winter boots, and I felt happy. I was calm enough to recognize that.

Curious (or just trying to see what he can break)

It’s time, I think, for me to take a step away from writing this blog. My output has certainly diminished, partly because many of my early posts were written during long nights at the hospital while Marshy half-slept and machines beeped, and those types of emergency visits are extremely rare these days. Our visits and stays are scheduled now as his health has stabilized and we’ve learned more about what Marshall’s Apert syndrome means. The blog has provided me with an outlet for my stress and anxiety. The therapeutic value of sharing my fears and hoping that it will help another family in the future provided comfort during times of worry. Just as importantly, it allowed me to keep family and friends in the loop without having to recount difficult details multiple times. I may still drop in from time to time if major events happen, but people who know me are probably already shocked I stuck with an activity for three years.

Finally, Marshall is growing up, and I think it’s time to stop speaking for and about him soon, and allow his voice to narrate his life. I was the trailer hyping his movie, and now that the film is in theatres, all eyes should be on him.

So for now, thank you for reading and following my special family and all the heartache, joy, pain, and delight that comes with being a father to my little guys. Over the last few years, I have been stopped by people who tell me they read about Marshall online. I appreciate the emotional support, the kind words, the unending love and unconditional encouragement from everyone. It’s not that I’ve run out of things to say about Marshall, but rather there’s too much to say.

I love these guys. I love you, Quinn and Marshall.





Super (Mario) Bros.

Quinn at 3.5 years-old
I’ve been looking at this photo since it popped up in my FB Memories a few weeks ago. It’s just a photo of Bridget teaching Quinn how to play Super Mario Bros 3 on the train to Montreal just over 3 years ago. It was a nice train ride.
You can’t see it in the photo, but Bridget is very pregnant. She must be about 32 weeks pregnant if my math is correct. There is nothing sad about the photo itself, but it is very hard for me to look at it without breaking down. I don’t know exactly what I mean by this, but I guess it was a much simpler time before a lot of scary and unexpected things happened.
“Why do you think about that time when everything is okay now?” she asked me the other day. I really don’t know. It sends me rushing back to that day (week? month?) when precious Marshall was born, and for a brief time in our lives, I was scared absolutely shitless. I don’t know how else to put it except that way and with more expletives.
And in the spirit of honesty, I’m appalled that the photo elicits this reaction in me. I know the healthy and right thing to do is to look ahead and realize all the triumphs Marshall has achieved and see that things are much, much, much more okay than I expected on February 21, 2015. And then I think THAT sentiment is wrong. It’s all very confusing.
But maybe it isn’t? Social media has given us the chance to connect with other families in similar situations, to share knowledge and experiences, and to offer and receive emotional support when necessary. It’s wonderful. It has also served as a reminder of some scary times.
I want to look at the photo and fondly remember that last little trip before the latest phase of life, and yet because of the way I think of it, guilt about missing that simpler time ends up suffocating me.
One day, Marshall, you might read this. By this post, you’re probably thinking, “Man, my dad was a mess.” You’re not far off, though I want you to know that all the times you saw me worry or have a hard time with things, or all the weird posts where I was fretting and wringing my hands – despite all that, my life would be incomplete without you and Quinn. While I feel all these emotions when I look at the photo, I also remember that you and Quinn give me my best reason to get up every day, to go to work, to come home, and to go to sleep again – all to do it again the next day.
Mesmerized by a tortoise!

Another year


I’ve been posting less and less. In many ways, this is a good thing, because my posts have generally been triggered by some real-world occurrence involving Marshall’s health or well-being. In this case, no news is good news.

Marshall has settled into his daily routine at pre-school. Because of our work schedules, Bridget drops him off each day and I hear stories about how much fun it is to take him to school. And so, one day a few weeks ago when I was not at work, I took Marshall to school. The moment we walked in, you’d think Freddie Mercury and Elvis Presley had come back from the dead to record a new version of “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”. Volunteers and staff at the school burst into a cheer, and Marshall proceeded to do a circuit of the room, high-fiving anyone interested. My cold, cynical heart just about sputtered to life. Upstairs, he hung his things up, changed his shoes with my help, handed his teacher his communication book, and then said hi to his friends. I don’t know how Bridget drops him off without crying every day.

Marshall at a birthday party

It felt very comforting being at the pre-school. Maybe it’s because I know that of all places – even more so than the hospital – there is no judgment in that building. No staring. No wondering. Nearly all of the children attending the program are growing up with some kind of challenge. I still look down when I walk into the building, but at least there’s no tightness in my chest.

Marshall has made it to the end of 2017 healthier than he was when we rang in the new year. He’s growing, he’s thriving – all good things. I’ve spent the last 2.5+ years worrying and worrying about what has happened and what hasn’t happened yet and what may or may not happen. The stories my brain creates in an instant could pack movie theatres for years (starring Ryan Gosling as me, naturally). Perhaps it’s time in 2018 to let go of some of that anxiety that has become an unfortunately all-too-comfortable companion. I can’t spend the rest of his childhood with my guard up anytime another child comes within two hundred metres of us (I can probably get that down to a 50 metre radius). I have to stop making comparisons when we are in the company of other families, wondering what other parents are thinking or if they are comparing or what if this or that or this. And I have to stop gritting my teeth when I hear another parent talk about how hard a night they had with their newborn because of course they have a right to complain. Being Marshall’s dad doesn’t mean that knowing parenting hardship belongs solely to me.

I love his sweet little face

As I’m typing this sentence, I can hear Marshall upstairs with his mother, learning how to access Netflix through the Playstation 4. “SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH THE PS!” Bridget calls down to me (I can’t believe she calls it “the PS”). I can hear Marshall tugging at her sleeve and trying to get her to pass him the controller while I call out instructions to get her where she wants to go in the menu. He’s probably wondering why she doesn’t just pass him the controller and get out of the way.

Just pass him the controller and get out of the way.

Hanging out with grandpa

Back to school


Marshall at my school

Two years ago, as I railed against the injustices Marshall faced in the only way I knew how (by being angry), Bridget took it upon herself to approach a negative playground interaction by introducing Marshall to a classroom of young students.  There, kids asked questions in a safe space, and Bridget educated rather than eviscerated, which is what my brain would scream to do all the time.


I followed her lead and brought Marshall into my own classroom late that school year.  It was the most anxious morning of my life, wondering who would react how and maybe it was a bad idea and things were going to go horribly wrong and oh my god why did I do this.

Well, unsurprisingly, it turned out much better than I had predicted.  Sure, I still lost a few kilograms of sweat that morning, but it was an overwhelmingly positive experience for me.  As for the impact on my students, that’s harder to say.  I could guess, but the most tangible evidence that it made an impression is that those students – now in grade five or six – still ask how Marshall is doing on occasion.

Recently, Marshall came back to my school to meet several more classrooms of third- and fourth-graders who recently finished reading Wonder at school.  When he last came into a classroom here, Marshall’s life – and my outlook on the future – was starkly different. He had no fingers.  I believe he had just started sitting up on his own.  Walking was still many months away.  He could not hear clearly.  Sleep was still coming in one-hour bursts every night.  I re-read a few early posts from that time, and the words are like a sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden nightmare.


Marshall at a special screening of Wonder at the SickKids in Toronto


I walked Bridget and Marshall to the first of two classrooms earlier today.  I excused myself and then walked away to finish some work before turning around and watching secretly from the hallway, as far from the door as possible.  I watched students learn something new in the moment Marshall sat down on the little blue chair at the front of the class.  Marshall, of course, had no true grasp of the situation, so he looked around quietly, listening to his mother introduce my little muffin to the curious children seated in front of him.  I lingered a bit too long, and in the course of his scanning the walls, he saw a face he recognized.

“Dadda,” he called out as he waved his little left hand at me.  I smiled and walked away, caught peeking by the clever little monkey.


Helping Mom do some work





My Words, Not Marshall’s

Keeping him still enough to pose for a photo is like herding cats.  Here he is, in front of his photo at the See Beyond My Face photo campaign.

Early Tuesday morning this week, we made our way downtown to a civic building where a photo campaign is taking place.  See Beyond My Face is part of AboutFace’s campaign to increase awareness around living with facial differences.  Marshall’s portrait is one of many on display in the building’s foyer, and we joined other families at the launch event. Like the other photo subjects, Marshall’s has some words about his facial difference printed beneath his image (thank you to Heather Davidson-Meyn of Fun Love Photography for taking his portrait).  For Marshall, unlike his older peers, the words printed are not his, but mine.

Marshy’s caption was taken from some writing I did about him in the past, and upon reading it that morning, I was struck by the difference between my tone and that of the men and women who have written about their own experiences.

My words, though recent, are still full of anxiety and fear about how Marshall is treated by people who don’t know him.  I wrote about girding myself against pointing and teasing and protecting him.  In contrast, other subjects’ captions are more positive, confident, and hopeful.  That’s missing, still, from my daily thought processes unless I make a conscious effort not to dwell on negative experiences.

I realize that Marshall cannot yet speak for himself, and that I have taken on the role as his public advocate, but my eyes were opened Tuesday morning.  My goal as his father, and as Quinn’s father, is for my boys to grow up feeling loved, happy, and confident.  My words on behalf of Marshall don’t convey that.  Two and a half years later, I’m still thinking about many of the same things that were on my mind then.  Of course, I have fewer fears about his immediate health and well-being, fortunately – we are very fortunate in that regard – but I’m clearly still dwelling on things I need to get past.

I’m someone who holds onto things from the past and lets them have power over me instead of learning from them and moving on.  When I compare the words I have spoken on my son’s behalf, they do not sound like the words that have come straight from the minds and hearts of people who, like Marshall, are living with a craniofacial difference.


All of this makes me wonder again whether I have should be putting Marshall out there before he can decide for himself whether or not he wants to be written about and put out there for, potentially, the world to see.  Throw in the ever-present fear that his photos will be co-opted for some awful meme, and it’s enough for me to step back from Facebook.  How do I answer him if he one day asks, “Dad, how do you know whether or not I wanted you to write about me on the internet?”, or “Is there any way to erase everything you wrote?”  On the internet?  Probably not.

I have that constant fear that I’m doing it more out of my own fears than for him.  Now that the radio piece and the magazine article from earlier in the year have happened, there is definitely no hiding that part of my personal life and separating it completely from my professional (or even just “outside-of-the-house”) life, which is what I have tried to do for two and a half years so that I could make it through each half of the day emotionally intact.

This is a long and entirely obtuse and rambling way to say that despite all the doom and gloom that gets into my words, Marshall’s life does not, ironically, reflect my words (Can someone actually tell me if that is irony?  Alanis Morissette effectively destroyed the word’s proper usage for everyone approximately my age).

He is doing well.  He is happy, healthy, and hirsute (come on – give me the alliteration, right?).  For all that I still wish life for him was different (there I go again…), I can’t imagine not having him exactly as he is – beautiful, funny, and my little boy.

Quinn and food – the two things Marshall loves most

(I am listening to a piece on CBC Radio’s Metro Morning about the photo campaign and AboutFace as I type this.  For all of the beautiful, wonderful people who spoke about their craniofacial differences on the radio, I love you all, and you are strong – stronger than most of us will ever have to be.)


A Running List of Marshall’s Medical Teams

At the annual AboutFace awareness ride

Up front, I will admit that I am completely incapable of scheduling and keeping track of Marshall’s health care. Left to me, he would miss most of his appointments. In case anyone is struggling with keeping track of what medical care your child with Apert syndrome might need, I’m going to try and keep an updated list of the facilities and professionals who are part of Marshy’s care.

If you think I might have missed an important area of care, please let me know and I will add it to the list. Note also that care and certain procedures offered differ in various parts of the world.

Hospital Services

Plastics – syndactyly release; eventual cranial and possibly facial surgery

ENT – tubes for drainage of ears; tonsils and adenoids removed; partial septumectomy; monitoring hearing along with audiologists

Orthopedics – monitoring lack of normal shoulder range

Opthalmology – monitoring vision and checking for scarring due to inability to fully close eyes at night; monitoring pressure on the eyes (an indication that skull surgery is necessary)

Respirology – sleep studies to determine severity of sleep apnea and to find possible solutions such as using a CPAP machine

Neurology – using yearly MRI scans to check for increased intracranial pressure and enlarged ventricles

Dentistry – dental and possible jaw issues being monitored

Cardiology – apparently, heart issues are common; Marshall’s echocardiogram at 9 months did not indicate any heart problems

Occupational Therapy – monitored and lead the recovery from his syndactyly release (healing from skin grafts to his hands)

Bare-chested dancing for his grandparents

Outside of the Hospital

Speech and Language Pathologists – this is key, especially since many of our children are late to hear or speak; look for courses on how to work with your child to develop language skills

Occupational Therapy – home visits to work with Marshall on using his unique and stiff fingers; strengthening his arms and shoulders

Family Therapists and Social Workers – there is no shame in taking to people who can guide you through the powerful emotions that are inevitably a part of raising your child, as well as the effect it can have on siblings

Hearing – there are many options for assistive hearing devices you may need, in addition to devices that will your child’s teachers may need in the classroom

Government Grants – there is help out there depending on where you live; Canada has a few provincial and federal aids available. If you need help filling out an application form, let me know and I’ll try to help.

Schools – As a teacher, I can tell you that some schools may try to give up on your child. Do not let them push you around. Advocate loudly until they can do it for themselves. If you ate having problems with your school board being unsupportive, send me a message with any questions and I will answer them to the best of my ability.

AboutFace – without their emotional support, I’m not certain I personally would have survived the fear of the unknown. Take a look at their website. These are beautiful parents and families who can guide you through the scariest and hardest moments.

Facebook – there are several private groups where news, questions, and tears are shared. Meeting and talking to others who have gone through what our family is going through had been enormously helpful.

A reminder of how much Marshy has grown

It Changes You


Good morning, Wallace!


To kill time on subway rides, I used to imagine what each rider’s life might be like.  Married, kids, pets, jobs, worries – I would make it all up.  There were usually some sordid details, and happy circumstances were rare but special.

This week, we spent a little time at the hospital for appointments and checkups (no cavities!  hearing is normal!  and I didn’t have a Subway sandwich!).  While walking down the main hallway, something must have triggered my brain, and it started playing the subway game.  The Hospital for Sick Children is not the ideal place to play this game.  I watched a mother, probably exhausted from a long, sleepless night, help her daughter go for a little walk.  She has Down syndrome and is going through radiation treatment.  As soon as I started imagining her thoughts, I had to shut it off.  I don’t know how many of the parents I pass by at the hospital do it.


Life is like a walk in the park!


As for the children, especially the young ones, you can tell many don’t know what’s going on quite yet.  The older kids, though – they probably know.  And I’ve noticed that many are more quiet and reserved than their peer group.  Sure, they might be in pain at the moment, but something tells me it’s not just that.  I wonder if they are quiet in order to blend into the background, to not be noticed.

Marshall, at the age of two, doesn’t give a damn.  He’ll wave and call out to every car that passes our house.  He smiles at every dog-walker, and tries to make friends with anyone who will let him.  He doesn’t hear the kids who whisper or, as I heard the other day, “He looks like a pug!”

Even at the hospital, though, you see examples that give provide hope.  I saw you the other day at the dental clinic on the service floor.  You were at the hospital alone.   I have never met you, and at first, all I knew of you was your voice.  There was a mellifluous quality to it, and your vocabulary was stellar.  I was sitting in the small waiting room off to the side of the main area, my eyes closed for a quick second while Marshall played with his dump truck.  You were also so funny!  The way you were engaging and interacting with the office administrator – you were quick, and your voice so confident.  I opened my eyes to see who was talking, and there you were!

I saw you the other day at the dental clinic on the service floor.  You were at the hospital alone, a rarity in a children’s hospital.   I have never met you, and at first, all I knew of you was your voice.  There was a mellifluous quality to it, and your vocabulary was stellar.  I was sitting in the small waiting room off to the side of the main area, my eyes closed for a quick second while Marshall played with his dump truck.  You were also so funny!  The way you were engaging and interacting with the office administrator – you were quick, and your voice so confident.  I opened my eyes to see who was talking, and there you were!  Still a teenager if you are still accessing services at a pediatric hospital, a young black man, exuding confidence.  And you also have a facial difference.  Without staring, I have to admit I eavesdropped on you for the next minute, just to hear you talk.  I saw you later that morning while we were coming down from Marshy’s ENT appointment.  You must have been on your way to another of your appointments.  You had a self-assuredness and familiarity with the hospital that was at once an impressive example of your independence, but also sad because of the amount of time you must have spent there.  I could hear you mention an appointment at plastics, with the same surgeon that is helping Marshall.  I hope this isn’t condescending, but I’m so proud of you.  Your friends and family are lucky to know you!  And honestly, if the rest of the dental waiting room was any indication, a lot of people likely notice how wonderful you are on a daily basis.


Daddy’s little helper (Who am I kidding?  I never remember to vacuum.  Nor can I spell vacuum without looking it up.  Thanks, Google.)


For the parents in the Apert community, I know it changes you too.  The shock of finding out your baby has Apert syndrome has faded, but it has never worn off for me.  It’s always in the background, and has fundamentally changed every single thing I do and think.  This could very well be a by-product of an unusual brain damaged by years of no-helmet bike-riding as a child, but I can’t stop thinking about it.

I love going for walks with Marshall, and truly, negative interactions are so rare, but as soon as we leave the house, I put on my mental armour and harden my stare whenever we pass people, especially kids.  Kids!  It’s true – I furrow my brow from afar when new kids meet Marshall for the same time.  I’m ready to shoot lasers from my narrowed eyes, just in case.  And you know what?  I know it works sometimes, like the time a few weeks ago when a group of teenagers had just started to laugh at him when they saw me sitting about 20 metres away, clearing glaring at them.  They shut up instantly.  When they started to talk quietly, I stood up, and they immediately backed off.


Watching his brother ride a bike


Is any of this healthy?  Of course not.  Only a lunatic would think this is going to be good for Marshall’s social interactions, but I cannot.  My skin is thicker, and if it wasn’t for Bridget’s sanity and optimism, we’d be in trouble.

My singular purpose in life has become raising my kids and helping Marshall prove that Apert syndrome is nothing more than a bump in the road.  It has to be like that, even if it can’t be like that, because it has to be.  It just does.

It takes a lot more to feel emotions now than it did before.  A routine bad day at work or a rough night of sleep feels relatively like a joke compared to anything Marsh has come through.  Happiness is seeing my kids hug and hearing Marsh learn a new word or two.  It would be nice to broaden my sphere a little closer to the way it was before, but maybe you can’t?  Maybe that’s just what happens when your child needs a lot more care.  There is a necessary tightening and focusing of your concerns and how you spend your time, as a friend and parent of a child with special needs put it.

On the other hand, I’m sure many parents don’t feel the same way I do, and that’s great.  I wish I could do it!  And maybe I will.  One day, I hope Marshy reads this and says to me, “Dad, why did you waste so much time worrying?  You could have been playing board games instead of stressing out!”  It was all worth it, will be my response.


There is such love between these two.