Shehecheyanu is the brachah on fresh chances. At the brink of a new year, we look back with gratitude over what we’ve achieved, and look forward to possibilities and potential ahead

A Step forward

Elana Moskowitz

Moskowitz children are notoriously late walkers. While their contemporaries swagger proudly across the living room like little drunken sailors, my offspring are considering crawling.

Over the years I’ve learned to relax when their first birthday passes without monumental gross motor achievements; instead, I enjoy the reprieve late walking affords (think safe kitchen cabinets and drawers). At least until I was expecting Meir.

As the ultrasound screen glows in a shadowy exam room, I marvel at the delicate threadlike fingers (“count them, five!”) and gape at the pulsing contours of a beating heart (“do you see all four chambers?”). Scans from previous pregnancies have honed my ability to recognize the fuzzy image on the screen of this tightly curled creature, and I admire the myriad components of a wondrously evolving being.

At some point in his running commentary, the doctor nimbly weaves a question: “So, do you have any orthopedic problems in your family?”

Orthopedic problems? All I can think of are the sprains and breaks that typify a healthy, active bunch of kids.

“Have you ever heard of clubfoot?” he continues in an even tone.

Unfortunately I had. My brother-in-law was born with clubfoot, a congenital orthopedic condition in which one or both feet are turned inward and downward. A century ago, people born with this defect never walked properly, relying on wheelchairs or crutches for mobility. My brother-in-law had endured multiple painful surgeries to realign his feet, and still occasionally suffered discomfort and leg fatigue.

“See your baby’s feet?” The doctor thrusts a finger at the glowing screen. “He seems to present with a classic case of bilateral clubfoot.”

“Meaning…” I press him to continue.

“He’ll have to see a pediatric orthopedist shortly after birth. There’s nothing to do until then,” he hastily concludes, eager to move on to the next appointment. And with that, I’m summarily dismissed.

I spend the next four and a half months digesting the news. I do some research and learn that my brother-in-law’s invasive clubfoot protocol has been thankfully updated to a non-surgical procedure that garners good results.

But the clubfoot moms who blog about their experience leave me overwhelmed at what seems like an endless timetable for proper treatment. Months. Years. And the detailed before and after pictures they thoughtfully provide leave me battling waves of nausea that are decidedly not pregnancy related.

The only person we update is my father, a veteran oncologist. Decades of treating brutally ill patients has given him the perspective we desperately need.