“‘Ten fingers, ten toes?’ a coworker quipped when my husband returned to work after our 20-week ultrasound. It’s a question well-meaning people often ask expecting parents—one I probably asked myself countless times without a second thought… until, for us, the answer was, ‘No.’
Lyndon and I were expecting our first child—a baby boy! After six months of trying and enduring one early loss, we were overjoyed and ready to start our family. I couldn’t wait for the anatomy scan, imagining bringing home photos of our little boy’s perfect profile, hearing that everything was developing beautifully. But for us, those happy expectations didn’t come true.
During the scan, the technician was friendly, but her quiet demeanor felt… off. I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling settling in my chest. Sitting in the car afterward, envelope of sonogram pictures in hand, I confessed my worry to Lyndon. He reassured me, as only he could, that everything was likely fine. I pulled the pictures out to distract myself—and nearly fell over.
‘Our baby looks like a Halloween mask!’ I shrieked. Three startlingly skeletal images stared back at me. Even calm, collected Lyndon seemed momentarily shaken. ‘Why would they give us these ones?’ I asked repeatedly, unable to believe what I was seeing. My husband tried to calm me, insisting our baby was fine, but my anxiety persisted. Over the next few days, I repeated the story, joked nervously, yet could not escape the gnawing fear in my chest.
I just needed to wait for our doctor’s appointment, confident that reassurance was coming. But when we sat in the office two days later, reality hit differently. Our doctor, cheerful at first, slowly became serious as she read the ultrasound report. Finally, she looked at us and said, ‘Okay… there is an apparent abnormality on the left hand with only two digits convincingly identified.’
I stared, numb, unable to process the words. Thoughts I’d never imagined—my baby might not have all his fingers—raced through my mind. ‘Could this be a mistake?’ I asked. ‘It’s possible,’ she replied gently, ‘but I don’t want to give you false hope.’ I felt paralyzed, staring at random objects in the room while Lyndon held me, his calm presence grounding me amidst the storm of fear.
We were referred to a maternal-fetal medicine specialist for a more detailed scan. On the car ride home, tears streamed down my face. I cried on and off all day. When not crying, I Googled—which only fueled panic. I tried finding humor in it, but the uncertainty weighed heavily. I held my young nieces’ hands, marveling at their tiny, perfect fingers, and couldn’t help but wonder how different our son’s life might be.
Six days later, the specialist confirmed our fears: our son would be born with a left-hand limb difference. We didn’t yet know if it would be his only difference. The OBGYN explained that various syndromes can lead to limb malformations during fetal development, but the fact his hand appeared isolated was encouraging. We were presented with multiple next steps: amniocentesis, genetic testing, orthopedic and plastic surgery consultations, and NICU support at birth. I felt completely overwhelmed.
I allowed myself a day to grieve, cry, and process the emotions. But then, I began researching, seeking stories of other families. That’s when I found The Lucky Fin Project, an organization celebrating children with limb differences. I cried tears of joy scrolling through smiling, thriving children, realizing that our son’s future didn’t have to feel dark.
I reached out to parents of limb-difference children, and a pattern emerged: the initial shock, fear, and grief were universal, but every parent said the same thing—the moment their child was born, they knew he or she was perfect, just as they were. This gave me strength. I decided to face the second half of my pregnancy with optimism, and I began documenting our journey on a blog and Instagram, aptly named The Hand We’re Dealt. I shared our appointments, ultrasounds, and, most importantly, my raw emotions through each step.
At 37 weeks, the anticipation peaked. On the last night, I told Lyndon, ‘I don’t think we’ll make our due date.’ Just a few hours later, at 1:00 a.m., labor began. Six hours later, my water broke dramatically in the kitchen. We rushed to the hospital, where the labor and delivery team welcomed us warmly. I was offered an epidural, which brought sweet relief during the grueling hours of labor.
After three hours of pushing, our son’s heart rate fluctuated, and the cord was wrapped around his neck. Exhausted, I agreed to an episiotomy. Lyndon later told me how the doctor skillfully unwrapped the cord as our baby’s head emerged. Moments later, I heard, ‘He’s out!’
I felt an overwhelming wave of emotion when they placed our tiny boy, Cade Brooks Ellis, on my chest. But the moment of anticipated joy quickly shifted—he was whisked to the NICU for assessment. My heart sank as I watched him cry from across the room. Lyndon went with the team while I lay waiting, anxious for any update.
When he returned, he gently told me about something different with our baby’s foot. My heart ached. But then, we held him again, together. Cade’s left hand was exactly as we had expected: two perfectly formed digits, not fused as we feared. His little foot, softly flexed, had four webbed toes—a tiny flipper. And the rest of him? Absolutely perfect. His tiny face, soft hair, and smooth skin were intoxicating. I forgot the complications, the fears. I simply loved him.
Fast forward fifteen months, and our little Cade is thriving. Motherhood has brought challenges we never anticipated—pandemic, breastfeeding struggles, severe allergies—but his limb differences have never defined our joy. Each milestone, each smile, melts my heart. We’ve learned to wait and see with medical advice, but watching him take his first unassisted steps recently brought tears of pride and joy I’ll never forget.
We are now part of the Lucky Fin family, a community of inspiring, supportive, and caring people. To any parent newly navigating a child’s limb difference: it may not feel like it now, but your unique little one is truly perfect. One day, you’ll realize that their ‘lucky fin’ is a gift, and you—the parent—are the truly lucky one.”
