By Omar Ramos
I can remember it like it was yesterday. My wife and I were sitting in a hospital room during an ultrasound when we heard the physician tell us that our soon-to-be-born son had bilateral club foot. I remember feeling shaken and being rattled by the news. It was almost as though the words didn't register in my mind. I didn't know what it meant or even what the condition was. All I knew was that it was something that could impact the way my son would live his entire life.
I remember feeling a darkness creeping into my soul as I began wondering what his future would look like. Would he be able to run, play sports and enjoy what most people would consider a normal life? What would this mean for him? What would it mean for us as a family? There were so many questions and so much uncertainty about what lay ahead.
After he was born, we began what would become years of treatments to help correct his feet, including surgeries, serial casting and physical therapy. Through it all, I struggled with a mixture of emotions. I was genuinely happy and grateful for the birth of my son, but at the same time, I was overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty about his future. I wanted to fully embrace the joy of his arrival, but I couldn't seem to separate that joy from the worry I carried about the challenges he might face.
I remember one afternoon when my son was probably 4 or 5 years old. He was wearing casts on both legs that extended up to the middle of his thighs. They were bright red, a color he had chosen himself. He always loved picking out different colors whenever it was time for a new set of casts.
We were home, sitting in the living room and listening to music, when one of my favorite songs, Break My Stride by Matthew Wilder, came on. My son loved that song and as soon as he heard it, he started dancing all around the living room, up on his tiptoes, casts and all. I remember recording him because I couldn't believe what I was watching. There he was, moving around the room with so much joy on his face, completely caught up in the music and enjoying every moment.
As I watched him dance, I couldn't help but think back to that day in the hospital when I first heard the words "bilateral clubfoot." I remembered all the fear and uncertainty I had felt, wondering what his life would be like and whether he would ever be able to do the things other children could do. And yet, here he was, dancing right in front of me, without a care in the world.
I remember laughing, feeling an overwhelming sense of pride and relief, and thinking to myself, "this kid's going to be all right." It was one of those moments of pure joy that has stayed with me ever since. His challenges were still there, but so was his joy. Looking back, I realize that afternoon was one of many moments that gradually helped me see beyond the limitations I had imagined for him.
I've always considered myself a positive person, but I've also learned how easily difficult circumstances can sidetrack that positivity. There have been many times in my life when I've found myself hoping against hope that things would somehow get better, focusing so much on what was going wrong that I struggled to recognize what was still good.
I've often heard the saying that gratitude helps determine your attitude. For a long time, I struggled with that idea because it seemed to suggest that I needed to find something positive about every difficult experience. But through my son's journey and other challenges I've faced over the years, I've gradually come to understand gratitude differently. I've learned that I don't have to choose between acknowledging what's difficult and appreciating what's good. I can learn to be at home with both and become more comfortable with the uncertainty of not knowing how everything will turn out.
Today, when I find myself navigating difficult circumstances, I try to look for small moments of joy. Sometimes it's a meaningful conversation, a memory or something as simple as an unexpected moment that makes me smile. Those moments become anchors, reminding me of other experiences and memories I'm grateful for. They don't necessarily change what I'm going through, but they help me remember that even when life feels difficult, there's still something good to be found.
As Thanksgiving approaches, we're often reminded to pause and reflect on the many things we have to be thankful for. And while I appreciate this tradition, I've come to realize that gratitude isn't always as simple as counting our blessings, especially when life feels overwhelming or uncertain.
For those navigating cancer or any of life's difficult and unexpected circumstances, I hope my story serves as a reminder that it's OK to experience gratitude and hardship at the same time. We don't have to pretend that everything is OK or feel guilty when gratitude doesn't come easily. We can acknowledge the pain, the fear, and the uncertainty while still making room for moments of joy, love and thankfulness.
I still think about my son dancing around our living room in those bright red casts, enjoying his favorite song without worrying about what tomorrow might bring. That memory continues to remind me that even when life is difficult, there can still be something good worth holding on to. And sometimes, that's enough. Not to make the hardship disappear, but to remind us that it doesn't have to define everything about our lives.
Omar Ramos is program development and operations manager for Waterford Place Cancer Resource Center in Aurora. Waterford Place provides services, programs and support to anyone affected by cancer — at no cost to participants.
