On August 26, 2019, my world stopped. I was 24 weeks pregnant and utterly exhausted. My OBGYN appointments, which had once felt routine, were now beginning to feel like a burden. This was the third week in a row we had to come back for yet another ultrasound. I was thrilled to see our little Henry Wyatt again, but a heavy sense of dread sat in my chest. This was our first child, completely unplanned, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
We waited in the exam room, the minutes stretching on like hours, until finally my doctor walked in. I had never seen such sorrow in his eyes. He is usually so direct, so matter-of-fact, and yet now his face betrayed him. “We can’t see any arms,” he said. I stared at him as if he had just spoken another language entirely. “What do you mean?” I asked over and over, my mind spinning. He explained that he couldn’t be 100% certain, but he believed our baby would be born without his upper extremities. The drive home is a blur. I remember sitting up through most of the night with my husband, silent, holding each other tightly as the reality settled in.
The very next day, we were referred to a high-risk doctor at the best children’s hospital in our area. I brought every single ultrasound from my pregnancy, insisting the doctor point out what I thought were arms. I was clinging desperately to hope, chasing shadows, desperate for a mistake. Every time the images on the high-resolution screen confirmed our fears, I had to step away, unable to process the reality before me. My husband and I exchanged glances that mirrored the same confusion, the same helplessness.
I remember holding my breath during the ultrasound, hoping it would somehow make a difference. But every image confirmed what we feared: Henry would not have arms, only hands emerging directly from his shoulders. Walking to the truck afterward, I felt numb in a way I never had before. My body felt foreign to me, my steps unsteady as I clutched my husband’s arm. Panic overtook me—I threw up in the parking lot, not from nausea, but from sheer terror.
We drove aimlessly, tears streaming, trying to clear our minds. We ended up at a local beach, parked by the water, silently wrestling with the unknown. I found myself obsessively searching online, desperately typing, “What causes no arms?” But nothing fit our situation, leaving me frustrated and heartbroken.
The doctors couldn’t confirm a diagnosis yet, pending the results of our amniocentesis, but they suspected a rare genetic disorder called Thrombocytopenia Absent Radius Syndrome—TAR syndrome. It can cause low blood platelets, missing arm bones, other limb deformities, a weakened immune system, and often a milk protein allergy. There are two types: “long arm” TAR, where the radial bone is missing, and “short arm” TAR, where all three arm bones are absent. Henry was the rare 1 in 200,000 born with short arm TAR.
We shared the news with our close family, who had endless questions I couldn’t answer. The thought that haunted me most was simple and terrifying: how would we raise a child without arms? In those first few days after the diagnosis, guilt consumed me. I kept thinking, “How am I going to be a mom to a little boy who needs more than I feel capable of giving?” But over time, I realized I wasn’t worried about Henry’s arms at all—I was worried about my own ability to rise to the challenge of caring for him.
Next came the practical challenges. Clothing, for one, became a source of anxiety. Why does everything have sleeves? Most sleeveless options were for summer, and Henry was due in December. The feelings of inadequacy hit me like a freight train. I couldn’t sleep, I barely ate, and I cried and screamed like my soul was breaking in two. Any parent of a special needs child will understand that gut-wrenching feeling. But eventually, I knew I couldn’t stay in that darkness. I had to fight, to find ways to give Henry the best life possible.
Hours of research led me to a community I desperately needed—a Facebook group for families navigating TAR syndrome. It was a lifeline, a place of hope in the overwhelming storm. One mama, Christina, became a guiding light. She taught me how to find strength even in the smallest parts of myself, how to advocate fiercely for my little boy, and how to see potential instead of limitations.
When the cold December day finally arrived, I felt ready—nervous, excited, scared, but ready. Henry Wyatt was born at 12:54 p.m. via C-section, weighing 6.2 pounds. I had never wanted a C-section, but with his uncertain platelet levels, it was the safest choice. My heart ached for the birth experience I had imagined, but I am eternally grateful for this decision. His platelets hovered around 13,000—far below the normal range of 150,000 to 450,000. Levels below 10,000 risk brain bleeds. Henry spent his first month in the NICU, finally coming home on Christmas Day.
Just two days later, we were back in the hospital for a spike in his white blood cell count, beginning another week-long stay filled with transfusions, IVs, tests, and x-rays. Yet, through it all, we were met with an incredible support system. The NICU nurses became our lifeline, especially Rachel, who helped me navigate breastfeeding despite Henry’s severe lip and tongue tie. Though we eventually switched to exclusive pumping, I proudly fed him this way for a year.
For reasons beyond our understanding, we were chosen for this journey. It may never fully make sense, but embracing it became our only choice. Today, Henry is 18 months old, the most perfect boy in our world. Watching him for the first time, realizing he was ours forever, left me in awe.
He is full of light and personality. He scoots, bounces, and rolls across the house with boundless energy. His trucks are his favorite, pushed across the floor with his feet. He feeds himself, holds his sippy cup, and has faced five surgeries, countless doctor visits, and more hospital stays than I can count. Yes, some days are hard—but they are matched with incredible joys. Our mantra has remained: “No arms? No problem!”
Henry has changed everything for the better. He’s taught us resilience, the beauty of adaptability, and the true depth of love. Every time I watch him sleep, I feel a surge of hope and excitement for the person he is becoming. He is our little firecracker, and the world is brighter because of him.
