Precerpt from Raising God's Rainbow Makers: Doah's Prognosis
I recently told a pulmonologist that Doah—now nearly forty‑seven—entered this world with a zero percent chance of survival stamped on his chart. That was the official medical verdict. The unofficial one was harsher: the doctors called me immature for refusing to accept that he would die. They insisted that hope was denial, that advocacy was naïveté, and that my unwillingness to surrender him to their predictions made me the problem. Their solution was to remove him from me entirely. They tried to take custody so they could perform experimental procedures his own pediatrician warned were dangerous and unlikely to help in any meaningful way. The message was unmistakable: If you won’t give up on him, then we will take him from you so we can. I did what any mother who knows her child better than a prognosis would do. I removed him from the hospital, gathered what little we had, and took him out of state. The doctors we found there were not optimistic either—but they were willing ...