I knew I would write a book about my kid. Just not this book. Rebecca Danielle Adam Prashaw was born April 22, 1993, inSudbury, Ontario. Suzanne, her mom, spent only seventeen minutesin labour, and then, swoosh , Rebecca slid into life's fast lane, never toput her foot on the brake. As a record of her life and our relationship, I wrote my child aletter each year around her birthday. It took time to realize the lettersmight someday inspire a book. There was a story I wanted her to appreciatesomeday -- hers, mine, ours. I was a Catholic priest: a Roman Catholic priest who marriedwhen he was forty, becoming an instant stepdad to his wife's threechildren, and a year later, a first-time dad to one child, that kid withthe interesting name. I worked as a journalist, too. I like to tell and write stories, and Irecognized a story here. The letters, I thought, would bind my story toRebecca's story, so when the time was right, she would better understandthe first chapters of her own journey. Or so I thought. That therewas a book, too, was, well ... more a dad's hunch, a crazy intuition. The working title for this book idea was Dear Rebecca: Love Lettersfrom a Married Priest to His Daughter . I knew that it wouldn't be on theVatican's blessed books list. That might work in my favour , I thought! Those annual birthday letters chronicled the year's events: celebrations,family trips to California and North Bay, camping, cottage visits, outdooradventures, the pet dogs and rabbit, and a few mundane moments, too,that still somehow captured life's wisdom. They also recount some madcapmisadventures -- I confess to a few missteps as a later-in-life dad on trainingwheels. Memo to Dad: venturing out in winter with your five-year-oldonto the Castor River in Russell, Ontario, without first checking the ice isnot a good idea; the unexpected polar bear dip to my waist qualifies as "topshelf" in the family legends. The fifth-year birthday letter reports the epileptic seizures thatfirst appeared out of nowhere at the breakfast table -- dark, ominousclouds on an otherwise sunny horizon. The eighth-year birthday letter tells of my own heartbreak overmy separation from Suzanne, the breakup of a marriage that I did notwant to end. Damn . Now there would be stories I'd prefer to omitfrom my book. More dad letters follow in the next few years, charting Rebecca'ssignificant challenges in learning and at school, some clearly the consequencesof the epilepsy. This would be the place where I would revisita wickedly fun period of seven years when Rebecca played goaliefor various girls' hockey teams in Kanata, in the west end of Ottawa.Unknown to anyone at the time, what she learned in the goalie creasewould tutor my kid for life's adversities. Tales are emerging, too, of firstjobs, hints of first loves, and more. All in all, I recognized a story worth telling, a tale of a mischievouskid who was impossible to subdue or defeat, a kid wrapped in her parents'and her family's love; in hope, worry, and wonder. But life, and my child, had other plans. Sickness, heartache, andunimaginable, enduring courage elbowed their way into the story.The book that I imagined writing is not the book I am writing. Adamemerged as the co-author. Adam? Our Rebecca. Remember the girl born in 1993 with the boy's name, RebeccaDanielle ADAM Prashaw? From very early on, Rebecca delighted in herboy's name. She never tired of hearing the story her parents told of howAdam became part of her legal name. Adam, of course, wanted this story,this book, to be something that he would help to write. Rebecca was the quintessential tomboy. There were early signs ofAdam everywhere -- the short hair, cut pageboy-style some years; the"dressed down" rough-and-tumble look. We saw it but didn't see it.Rebecca was often thought to be a boy, as early on as age two. Rebecca'smom recalls the tough negotiation she had with Rebecca to get her towear a First Communion dress. She made a deal that Rebecca couldtake the dress off right after the pictures -- like a flash, Rebecca wasgone, and the dress disappeared for a day or two before her motherfound it under her bed. Before she pulled the dress off, we snappedthe First Communion photo, a nick on her face from the latest mishapand, of course, the short crop of hair. As friends came into our lives and we were asked the inevitable"number of children" question, Suzanne would say, "I have two girls, aboy, and a wannabe." In response to their inquisitive looks, she wouldadd, "A girl who wants to be a boy." I recall an early, fun conversation with my daughter when I askedher if Dad could at least see his daughter in a dress three times in herlife. Could we agree on that? That semi-serious negotiation resulted inRebecca committing to wearing a dress on three occasions -- her FirstCommunion (which she did!), her wedding day, and, hell, I can't evenremember the third day she promised. It doesn't matter. She reneged.And in the story this crazy kid would live, there actually was a weddingday. Well, sort of, but it was one minus the dress. That story will be toldhere, in this new book that Adam and I are writing. Things are clearer in hindsight. Unquestionably, from that day at Sudbury General Hospital in1993, it was love at first sight. I was forty-one years old, a new dad,"over the moon" happy. I never saw or had a need to see "Daddy's littlegirl" in Rebecca. Well, maybe a little, a nod to that "wearing a dress"negotiation! Indeed, I was punch-drunk ecstatic about being a dad ofany child at all. I guess the gender thing was there from the start. But it would takea lot of years, well into adolescence, for Adam to show up. *** Adam made his official appearance in 2014, at twenty. His "coming out"was sandwiched between two major epilepsy surgeries in 2011 and 2015.We had called our kid Rebecca, or Becca, for short (and Bekkaa on Facebook),for almost twenty years, from birth through to 2014. I've sortedout my Adam/Rebecca story this way: the first happy, healthy childhoodyears, from birth to five (1993-1998); then the years during which thefirst series of smaller seizures occurred, from five to ten (1998-2003);then the more-or-less typical preteen and teen years, from ten to seventeen(2003-2011). The final part of the story takes place after the secondseries of bigger, more threatening seizures start in 2011. It is in the second,scarier epilepsy phase that Adam shows up, writing his own impressivenew birth announcement. My co-author can't wait to tell that story. There are other stories to tell, too -- visits to the MontrealNeurological Institute and Hospital (many call it the Neuro), gettingher driver's licence at sixteen, and a remarkable, life-changing conversationwith her mother. Adam wants that in HIS book, too. "Her, she"is history. Adam will become my teacher on pronouns. Somehow, bound and determined as he was to live a full, normallife, epilepsy and all, Adam, I sense, wanted to stay in the driver'sseat, even after he lost his licence because of his seizures. This ishis life, his story. It was him behind the wheel, driving his parentscrazy at times in a madcap, fast-lane race to adulthood and the independencehe keenly craved. As he endured the epilepsy surgeries,as he chose to come out and come in to Adam, I marvelled at a newmeaning of courage. And through it all, in what was undoubtedly a hard life capped byone cruel catastrophe, he wove in a heap-load of fun. He did it withamazing friends, the steadfast support of family, and most of all abidingsteadfastness, as Adam saw it all through to the end. This is the story of Adam (Rebecca). Dozens of Adam's Facebook posts will help tell the story. I havenot dared to change a single word. If it seems like Adam appears outof nowhere sometimes to jump into the conversation or start anotherconversation, well, that's my son. If you wince at some of his posts,know that I winced first. Soar, Adam, soar. Excerpted from Soar, Adam, Soar by Rick Prashaw All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.