We have a little boy named Ethan Tyson. He is four years old, the apple of our eye.

Ethan was born to us, but it wasn't long after his arrival when doctors suspected that something was wrong with him. He didn't cry out when born, his color was blue, he was not moving, and when he did finally begin to breathe on his own, he seemed "floppy" somehow. He didn't turn his  head away when doctors shone lights into his eyes or flinch when they tested his hearing.

After a battery of extensive testing, our son was found to be handicapped. Severely handicapped. He was found to have vision problems (congenital cataracts), he was found to be profoundly deaf, and he was found to have brain damage. The cause of his problems was unknown; but the diagnosis of Ethan being "multiply handicapped" changed our lives as we knew it forever.

Ethan is now four years old, but caring for him is nothing short of exhausting at best. He cannot walk (when up, he sits in a wheelchair), he is tube-fed every two hours, five times a day, he is not toilet-trained, and of course because of his hearing impairment, he can't communicate.

He has the mindset of a very young baby.

Ethan cannot chew or swallow (one of the main reasons why he is tube-fed); he often gets sick with pneumonia or some other upper respiratory infection because he cannot clear the mucus from his throat or cough. He often ends up in the hospital due to choking episodes. He is hospitalized up to five to seven times a year on average.

To give us a needed break, we have our church family offer respite care, where other people can take care of him while we (his parents) go out to eat or to a movie. We also take the older kids with us, and they enjoy getting away from their brother.

(We have two other children: a second boy, Yancey Clayton--6--, and a daughter, 11-year-old Torrie Hosannah. Ethan is the baby of the family.)

Having a child who is disabled affects the entire family, not just the child who happens to be disabled.

People often ask us if we would feel better if we placed our youngest child in an institution. We say no because chances are he'd get much better care at home than in a place where he'd more than likely be forgotten--or worse, abused. So we have Ethan home with us; we feel this is best for him; we feel that he belongs with his family, not in some cold, strange place where he doesn't know anybody.

Sure, it's hard, but wea are willing to bend over backwards for Ethan. We may have our problems, but we are willing to love him, give him the chance he deserves, to make it in life.