Let the Sunshine In

I DUG THROUGH BOXES of kid stuff I stash for later filing — 2029 at the earliest — and I still could not find the form letter, that peculiar birth announcement template some use to break the news that their new addition comes with Down syndrome.

This birth announcement template arrived in the mail with a packet about local resources, two books on the subject and a blue-and-green outfit with an alligator patch for a boy baby.

The Mile High Down Syndrome Association in Denver sent it about a week after the birth of my third son, Ray, in December 2009.

We’ve been feeling the love from the association ever since, a feeling that gathers me and propels me forward like a pebble in the surf — especially when we join this community at its annual walk at the City Park in Denver in late September.

There, children and adults with Down syndrome come from all over the Mountain States region served by the association since 1981 to raise awareness and money.

Both help the nonprofit organization promote inclusion and enhance independence in those born with an extra chromosome on the 21st chromosome.

But on walk day, I stop thinking about funding and the future for those with intellectual disabilities.

I just try to swallow the lump stuck in my throat as I see all the faces that look so much like my little Ray Ray’s.

I sense the power of these people — the babies to the middle-aged — as they move forward on the asphalt path.

All of them, whether they know it or not, likely have overcome some health issues and lingering stigma to be there, in the main stream of life.

And by golly so have we — the typical ones who once nodded at conventional wisdom to institutionalize them shortly after birth.

In 2010 and again last Sunday our group got a gorgeous Indian summer day to step out and Step Up for Down Syndrome — the name our association calls the event referred to nationally as the Buddy Walk.

The 87-degree weather reminded me of the exuberant song, “Let the Sunshine In.”

The 5th Dimension originally recorded it for the musical Hair, which debuted in 1967, the year I was born.

As I finish this post with that groovy tune in my ears, I wish that I could re-conceptualize and repackage the birth announcement form letter as a card with a tiny battery that plays that song when opened.

Having a baby with a Down syndrome diagnosis versus a baby without it promises to bring more days of uncertainty to a family.

For me, these days hit when health issues or what I call “cruel world syndrome” — my episodic belief that the jerks outnumber the kindhearted — settle on my soul like pea soup fog.

But seeing so many faces of our new peeps again in the sunshine at the walk makes a memory to pull out of my pocket then.

These people, Ray included, now can walk on at the park and beyond.

And others, me included, finally can see them up close in good light.