Downright Joy

Discovering joy in unexpected places – a journey into parenthood and Down's Syndrome


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The Ripple Effect

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The Ripple Effect

A letter to my daughter.

I’m sitting by the side of a lake; our home for a few, blissful July days. A pair of herons make their graceful ascent from the water, up, over the trees and out of sight. Willows stoop to meet their reflections. An abundance of Water Boatmen paddle effortlessly across the surface, making walking on water look like the most natural thing in the world.

Carp (at least I think that’s what they are…I’m no fisherman) occasionally leap out of the water making me jump (are they meant to do that?!). Disturbing the peace yet also bringing it.

The water ripples. Concentric circles reaching far and wide. Their effect is mesmerising. Tranquility resonating across the lake to each bank. Practical too; the ripples help ensure that this particular man-made lake does not become stagnant.

It’s almost 7 years since you disturbed my peaceful life. I had it all in order.
Capability Brown had expertly landscaped my dreams. My home, my family, my life.
Everything was coming up roses and all my ducks were happily in a row.

Then you arrived, with your extra chromosome.

In a flash. Like that carp leaping out of the water.

I was not prepared. My peace was disturbed. My calm, tranquil, ordered life disappeared. Or so I thought.

I saw you there, suddenly in the centre of everything. Thrashing around, fighting for breath, fighting for your very life in those first few, terrifying weeks.

A shocking moment. One that lasted much longer than it should have, I am ashamed to say. I questioned whether you should be here at all. Was this in the design?

Didn’t you take the test?” I was asked on more than one occasion. A mixture of pity and disbelief on the faces of those who asked this most insensitive of questions.

Yet nothing could have prepared me for what was to come. There is no test for that.

The ripples.

The far reaching, calming and breathtakingly beautiful ripples of your very existence.

Nothing prepared me for the joy you would bring to our lives and the lives of countless others whom you meet. The laughter you bring. The smiles you so freely give.

Nothing prepared me for the restorative air you would help me learn to breathe. Deep, satisfying, life giving oxygen. I could go to the finest health resort in Switzerland and still not breathe air of such quality.

Nothing would prepare me for the tranquility that surrounds you.
A tranquility that has nothing whatsoever to do with noise or indeed the lack of it.
How could it? You are so noisy and your life is filled with chaos! Even as I write, the natural tranquility of just being by a beautiful lake has been brutally broken. Broken by the need to perform an emergency feeding tube change on you. Yours has broken. It keeps you alive as you cannot yet eat.

My heart is racing, my hands shaking. Life is fragile and yours particularly so.

No. The tranquility that surrounds you, that you carry, is to be found by seeing the world through your eyes.

You already knew about ripples. You were born to understand their power, their beauty.
Your intelligence is unintelligible to some people. Dawkins and his like couldn’t begin to understand. They are still merely gasping for air.

I notice there are bulrushes on this lake. I’m reminded of another baby. One that in biblical times, was hidden by its heartbroken mother in a basket and placed among some bulrushes. Someone wanted that baby, along with many others, dead.

There are those who think you should not be alive. They’ve even developed a way to help detect your extra chromosome long before you are born. A test, they say, that will tell a mother all she needs to know so that you or people like you need not be born at all.

They see the disturbance, but they do not see the ripples. They have no test for them. No test for joy. No test for all that makes up a person’s life. The test they have is deficient.

And I am forever in your debt for disturbing my world and bringing me great tranquility.

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Just one of three beautiful lakes at South View Lodges, South Devon

 

 

 

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Windmills and Bicycles

I love the Chelsea Flower Show. Glorious, decadent, sometimes ridiculous, but always sumptuous. A televisual feast that I dine out on each May. A week long explosion of colour in my living room (I’ve yet to actually go there). Designers clamouring for hard won awards from the judges. A label to be proudly displayed for all to see, opening doors to further fame and success.

Inspired by this sublime, horticultural festival I annually turn my attention to my own patch of ground or ‘garden’ as it’s rather hopefully known. I imagine how I will transform it into my own haven of tranquility; one with an edgy, urban, free flowing design, softened by wispy aromatic planting and ethereal water features. Award winning. Gold Standard or at least a Silver Gilt.

But not today.

Today the paddling pool is out. A large blue inflatable bath sits slap bang in the middle of the lawn. Well, perhaps lawn is a little optimistic. But there’s definitely grass, of varying lengths. Quite a few patches of the stuff in fact.

There is a border…of sorts. Hardly wispy though. More weighty. Overgrown even. A tree or two. A couple of swings, a small trampoline and a shed.

Oh. And a windmill.

A bright, colourful and very large plastic windmill.

You see, the garden of my dreams is not the garden of my reality.  The garden I envisaged is not a bit like the one I actually have. A different reality.  Not how I imagined.  A bit rough around the edges in places. Needs maintenance.

The garden I have is magical.

Yesterday, she made the windmill spin. My daughter has never done that before. The windmill I purchased on a whim from a cheap and cheerful retail outlet just the other day.

She’ll enjoy looking at that.

But she did more than look at it. She made it spin. She actually made the windmill turn. Over and over again. An action that most children would learn to do in a heartbeat has taken her years to accomplish. It does not matter. She did it. And she loved it.

Our garden is a safe place for a child with Down’s syndrome.  A place for her to be. To feel, to smell, to touch, to taste, to explore. Our garden is her space. A safe space. A nurturing space. A joyful space.

It’s also a place where her older sister can be herself. It’s where she can, if she chooses, practice riding a bike – away from the quizzical looks of others. She has yet to be able to ride a bike properly. Dyspraxia – a life-long developmental condition – has recently been added to the list of our own awards. Another formal label now appears at the top of the endless stream of hospital letters that we receive; I’m not complaining – labels can help open doors to a different kind of success. Dyspraxia makes the things that most children take for granted so much harder for her. Climbing, swimming, running, jumping, riding a bike or a scooter – they are all typically huge challenges for a person with Dyspraxia. It also brings with it a host of daily sensory challenges and stresses.

Our garden is her safe place too.

We are soon to have some long overdue landscaping done. Some order is most definitely needed, I have to admit.  A patio would be nice.

Chelsea is glorious. Perfection. But in many ways it’s an illusion. Temporary. Taken down once the cameras have been switched off.  For most people, their gardens are not like that. And, as much as I love Chelsea, I am sad at how it leaves me feeling when it’s over. As though my garden isn’t good enough. Defective. Less than.

Our garden is not a Chelsea garden. Yet, despite perceived flaws in its design it brings great beauty and depth to our lives. Sometimes chaotic, sometimes peaceful. It is an ever changing landscape that challenges me and captivates me at the same time. It is a tough but beautiful place to be. I want no other garden.

I think Chelsea is perhaps selling fake flowers. Artificial.

Someone told me once that I could aim for perfection with my unborn child. By not having her. By ending her life before she was born and trying again for a better one. A gold standard, award winning one.  I like gold, I really do.

But I prefer windmills.

Hazel and windmill

 

 


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Snowflake

My daughter is, as I write, shouting at snowflakes. Loudly. as they whirl around outside, on a bitterly cold and windy March day.

Hands raised, fingers tracing the snowflakes path as they tumble to the ground. Transforming her world. Well, the garden. And, for a little girl with Down’s syndrome who, as yet, has only a few words in her vocabulary, snowflakes make her shout!

She’s not the only one who shouts at snowflakes.

Disruption, hard work, cost.

Beautiful, intricate detail. Delightful. So exciting!

Can’t get to work. Social plans cancelled. Schools shut. Wish it would go away.

Mesmerising. Wide eyed and wondering “what is this magical show taking place outside every window?” Joyfully in the moment. This moment. Now. It’s snowing. And it’s beautiful….to her.  A Narnian landscape.

Snowflakes

Each one unique. Individual. Intricate designs. No two the same. Small, tiny even, yet, collectively, they transform the landscape.

Snowflake

A word now used to insult and/or define an entire group of people. A generation. We seem to be a society that is often intent on name calling, labeling, closing down the voices of those we disagree with or fear. Silencing them without ever trying to understand them. Holding fast to prejudiced views and opinions. Discriminating.

Beautiful words made ugly.

A society that says it is diverse, yet one that seeks to silence that which it fears or does not understand.

My daughter, who has Down’s syndrome, shouts at snowflakes. Not because she is angry with them but because she is captivated by them. Transfixed.  They are of great value to her.  She cannot take her eyes off them.

There was no snow when she was born, 6 or so years ago. Instead, the rich warmth of autumn leaves swirled around the ambulance door as nurses whisked her off into the Neo Natal Intensive care unit, her life in the balance.

Autumn colours are magnificent too. Vibrant. I wish now I had taken more time to notice them. Instead, I chose to look away and stared unblinkingly at grey skies.

Her life was fragile. Our life was disrupted. Plans cancelled. Couldn’t work. Costly. Painful.

For a while I was angry. I may have even shouted.  The words Down’s syndrome were, to me, and to my shame, ugly words. I hated them. Prejudice I didn’t know I had ran so very deep. I could barely even say them.

Until, that is, a nurse came in and said just four words to me. Four words that I so badly needed to hear but that no one (other than family) had said. Words that had been said about her older sister the moment she was born.

Hazel was nearly a week old before I heard them.

“Congratulations, she is beautiful”

Words are so powerful. Transformative. Life changing. Life enriching.

Today is World Down Syndrome Day. Today, all we really want is for the outdated and discriminatory language surrounding Down’s syndrome to change.  Language that breeds fear and uncertainty changed into language that brings hope and understanding.  Using different words. Let’s ditch the damaging discourse on Down’s syndrome. Babies, children, young people, adults with Down’s syndrome are worthy. They are of great worth, as are you and I.  They are people, not defects. They are not a ‘risk’ or a ‘problem’ or even ‘horrible’- as I recently heard of them being described by someone involved with pre-natal screening.

Change the narrative.  Down’s syndrome is not something to fear. To avoid, or get rid of.  A person with Down’s syndrome is so much more than a medical list of ‘problems’.

We miss out on the joy when we focus solely on the difference, the disruption to our plans, the cost. That one extra chromosome.

Cost, financial burden to the state….all words that have been tossed in the direction of people like me – parents of children with Down’s syndrome. As if these words have anything to do with a person’s worth?

I see a change in the landscape.

A group of mums, some of whom I am proud to know as friends, have caused a bit of a snow storm themselves this week. They have shown, in one short, beautiful (and now viral) video that “Down’s syndrome” are not ugly words. They are words of great and extraordinary worth. Words that speak of love and joy and a life worth living. These women and their unique and beautiful children are collectively transforming the landscape.

And it is a stunning landscape.

50 Mums |50 Kids | 1 Extra Chromosome

WDSD18 TS

www.youtube.com

 

 


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Wait for me

Wait for me…

I’ve never been very good at waiting. As a child, if you gave me a Christmas or birthday present before the big day, I’d be itching to know what was inside. Prodding and poking it until I’d eventually worked out exactly what was concealed. I couldn’t wait.

It was the same when pregnant with both my children. Boy or girl, I wanted to know. I didn’t need to know, I just wanted to. For no other reason than my curiosity got the better of me. I admire couples who choose not to know the gender of their unborn baby. They have a level of self-control that evades me totally.

But having had two children, both with additional needs, I have had to learn, really learn what it is to wait.

“Wait for me” is a phrase often heard in our family. My eldest child M, recently formally diagnosed with another condition – Dyspraxia (DCD), uses this phrase the most. With good reason.

You see, for her, a simple walk with family or friends means twice the effort.

What most of us able bodied do with relative ease is more challenging for her. It’s easy to overlook the work she has to put in to keep up the pace.

So she reminds us.

Wait for me.

Her friends and peers are supportive, but sometimes they, quite understandably and naturally forget; running on ahead in their excitement. Leaving her behind.

Wait for me.

Just the other weekend, we found ourselves staying in the beautiful Welsh/English border countryside with friends.

Outdoors obviously called for some exploration.  Not the easiest of terrain for anyone with mobility issues! So, to see her very close (and particularly agile) friend hold back and help her negotiate a steep grassy slope, hand in hand, made my heart sing.

The friend waited.

She didn’t have to of course. No one would have blamed her for running on ahead, doing exactly what children do.

The friend valued my daughter and was prepared to put her own agenda to one side.

Valuing each other is something increasingly missing in our society. Really valuing each other I mean.

Putting the other person ahead of ourselves. Seeing their worth and valuing them for who they are, however different they may appear. Going at their pace, looking for ways to help them move forward; however much that may slow us down. Not leaving them isolated or abandoned.

The friend made a choice to value. That choice made all the difference; to my daughter, and to me.

Nearly seven years ago, when doctors told me my unborn baby might have Down’s syndrome or another  condition, I chose to wait. I chose not to have invasive tests that would tell me for certain if that was the case. It wasn’t easy to wait. I won’t lie – part of the reason for not wanting to know was that I was in denial about even the possibility of having a child with Down’s syndrome. Part of me hoped that it was all a mistake and everything would be “fine” in the end.

Wait for me.

Hazel, my youngest, is now six and a half years old. She loves life and most of all she loves and values people. People like you and me.  People.

I waited for her.

She arrived and our lives were undoubtedly turned upside for a while.

She patiently waited for me to come to terms with her extra chromosome.

I am eternally glad I waited for her.

Waiting for her has taught me more than anything about the priceless value of human lives. … hers, mine, yours, theirs.

I hope that women really do get a choice when it comes to the new prenatal screening tests (NIPT) being introduced across the NHS. I hope that choice actively includes supporting women choosing NOT to screen if they really don’t want to. Supporting them instead to wait. Supporting their choice, instead of pressuring them to ‘choose’ termination. There are far too many real life examples of the latter happening to women.  I know, I was one of them. That’s not choice.  There is another. And it’s a choice well worth making, I am certain of that.

There is real value in choosing to wait.

Wait for me.

#equallyvalued

#dontscreenusout


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Light up, light up

The wise men have barely reached the infant Jesus to impart their gifts, yet up and down the UK, Christmas trees and decorations are being pulled down as fast as they went up. Only the few holding out for the tradition of 12th night, before they pack away the baubles.

We are the few this year. Prompted mainly by our youngest child’s response last year when we took the decorations down on New Years’ Day. Hazel does not yet understand the why’s and wherefore’s of Christmas; she just embraces the magic of all she sees. Christmas lights being top of her list. To see her, last January, sat forlornly staring at the empty space where our tree had been was too much. Think of a puppy looking for its owner to return from a long day away and you’ll get the idea. Only this went on for days afterwards. She sat and solemnly wondered where on earth it had gone. Why had the lights gone out?

I resolved to do better for her next time.

So this Christmas we went for it. Tree up by 1 December. Lights, lights and more lights. Despite being told by some it was too early. For Christmas lights mean more to Hazel than any present. So much so that a few days before Christmas we were treated to an absolute feast of lights by an amazing charity Give Them A Sporting Chance who so generously took us on an all expenses paid trip to see the Festival Lights at Longleat. Providing us with our very own nurse and extra pair of hands, we were able to literally overdose on a Christmas sensory wonderland of lights!

It was utterly magical. Hazel’s face, as she stared up at a 100ft Christmas tree that lit up in every colour on the spectrum, was a picture! Literally all her Christmases came at once.

 

Longleat tree

A day we will never forget.

Back at home, our humble little Christmas tree did not lose its appeal for Hazel even though she had seen much a bigger and better one on our special day out. It’s not looking its best I have to admit. Not because the needles have dropped – we have yet to brave a real tree; it’s fake all the way here. No. Many baubles and trinkets that started off carefully spaced around the branches are now on the floor – either pulled off or kicked off by Hazel in her fascination with the tree. Branches are bent and sticking out in strange directions. The angel is still sitting proudly on the top as Hazel’s reach isn’t quite that far yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

I refuse to bow to popular opinion that says I should take it down. Just as I refused to take any notice of those who said I was putting it up too early.

Popular opinion perhaps, but it’s my choice.

And so the lights remain.

Hazel sees in that tree something the rest of us don’t. She would happily stare at it 365 days of the year I’m sure.  She is mystified why it has to come down.  She’s got a point. All that excitement, all that expectation of just a few weeks ago. Preparations seem to get earlier and earlier. Some houses in our street were decorated in November! And yet, just a few short weeks later, it seems most people can’t get rid of their decorations fast enough. Put them away, forget about them. Move on. Tidy up.

Hazel sees something in Christmas that most of us don’t. She doesn’t fall for the same trappings as we do. She has no expectations of what should/shouldn’t happen. She cares little for the John Lewis Christmas TV ad and has no excitement about hanging up a stocking on Christmas eve.

She sees no reason to be sad after Boxing Day when all the presents have been opened. She feels no sense of disappointment, as many of us do – that Christmas promised so much but delivered so little.

She sees only lights. The colours. The sparkle. The joy.

I wish others could see things the way Hazel sees things.

I wish parents who are given the news that their unborn baby has Down’s syndrome could see things differently too. Some do, but most* don’t. The excitement of expecting a baby is quickly replaced with fear. I know. I was one of them.

I wish they could see things as we now see them. The few. Instead, they, perhaps understandably, give way to the popular opinion that bringing up a child with Down’s syndrome is a huge problem; to be avoided at all costs. They think it’s their only viable choice.

It isn’t. It really isn’t.

For them, the lights go out and the tree is taken down. Tidied away. As if it were never there.

I wish they could see what Hazel sees.

Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I’ll be right beside you dear

Snow Patrol

  • In the UK, 90% of babies found prenatally to have Down’s syndrome are aborted.


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Laugh Out Loud

What makes you laugh? I mean really laugh. Out loud. Guffaw. Face-achingly so.

Slapstick humour? A pie to the face? Or a slip up on a banana skin? The sort that only happens in cartoons….except when it happened to my husband a few years ago, and I’m still laughing.

Or perhaps it’s wit. Great British sarcasm or irony. An evening on Twitter can provide an endless source of amusement, especially in the field of politics, if that’s your thing. And as for US President, Donald Trump…his surname alone provides great joy and laughter for the eight year old in my house.

For my younger daughter, Hazel, with her extra chromosome, I really don’t know what makes her laugh. All I know is, she does. Often.

Laugh. Giggle. Snort. Belly laugh.

She somehow missed the memo about suffering (you know – the one given out with the advice to pregnant women about their risk of having a baby with Down’s syndrome.) But what is she laughing at or about? I genuinely don’t know ninety percent of the time. It’s a mystery. Lately, she’s been waking up giggling. Laughing, alone, in her cot bed. At what?

No idea. But it triggers more laughter. It’s contagious. One by one, we go down with the same condition. We just don’t know why.

Often, she’ll start laughing at other random moments of the day. Really laughing. Again, I have no idea why. There are no visual clues. Nothing funny has happened. No slapstick or custard pies to be seen. Nobody has fallen over or stubbed their toe. No one has made any rude noises or said the word poo. No one has told a joke – even if they did I doubt she would understand a word of it, and our jokes aren’t usually that funny!  And, as she has very little speech, it’s not as if she can tell me what’s so funny.

Share the joke Hazel.

There are, of course, many occasions when we can see the reason for the joy.

Her older sister can be guaranteed to extract laughter from her in that special way only siblings do. The bond is tangible and strong. Clearly, her sister missed that memo…you know, the one about how the siblings will suffer.

Then there was the time recently when a dear friend came to visit and joined in with the bathtime routine. Much hilarity and joy as our friend – who just so happens to make people laugh for a living – introduced a song and a dance to the proceedings. Laughter like we’d never heard coming from the tub.  You really know how to extract the laughter from her, say I. It’s kind of what we comics do says she.

Extracting the laughter. That need, sometimes, to go after the joy. To find it, work for it and revel in it. Life is hard, we may forget to laugh and not experience its benefits.

According to one study: Laughter is a powerful antidote to stress, pain, and conflict. Nothing works faster or more dependably to bring your mind and body back into balance than a good laugh. Humour lightens your burdens, inspires hopes, connects you to others, and keeps you grounded, focused, and alert. It also helps you to release anger and be more forgiving.

In Hazel, the laughter has just been there. I haven’t had to try too hard at all, though I sometimes wish I knew what or who was extracting it! I often pray that she will be surrounded by Angels, seen and unseen. Only now, I wonder if God has assigned her to the safe keeping of the heavenly host’s comedy division – after all, someone’s making her giggle when no one else is around!

Hazel laughs. She also cries. She experiences a whole range of emotions. She knows pain and she does know a degree of suffering, I won’t deny that. In a day of laughter and giggling, like today, there has also been pain and discomfort as she went through yet another feeding tube change. She cried. I cried. How I long for the day when she no longer needs a tube in her stomach to keep her alive. This week alone she has three hospital appointments, none of which will be a walk in the park, for her or me.

Still she laughs. And we laugh with her. Far more than we ever did before she became part of our lives. Far more than we ever cry.

The risk of laughter…side splitting, face aching, snort inducing laughter is never far away. It seems Hazel is way ahead of most people without an extra chromosome on so many levels. She does joy rather well. Joy inspite of pain. Joy alongside pain. Joy triumphing over pain.

For any expectant parents who may be reading this and are faced with this risk, let me be clear. The stakes are very high. Joyously so.

It’s a risk definitely worth taking.

#dontscreenusout


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Questions, questions…

We’re going to have a baby.

Six little, life changing words. And no…. this isn’t a personal announcement, sorry to disappoint.

It appears that just simply saying them is no longer enough. Social media has fuelled the creativity amongst expectant parents and they are finding more and more wonderful (and not so wonderful) ways of announcing their life changing news.

There are the more obvious ones, often involving feet. Hairy pairs of flip flopped feet lined up alongside pretty, pedicured toes and a cute pair of tiny flip flops.

Flip flop announcement

Then there’s the perfectly placed family of safety pins with a smaller pin inside the second in line.

safety pins

Or the loved up couple on a woodland walk, holding a vintage chalk board sign bearing the words and then there were 3 or something similar.

.dreamstime_s_56410253

I love them all.

There’s also the increasing trend of the Gender Reveal Party.

Guests are invited to place their guesses.

He or she, what will it be?

 Your vote…pink or blue? And leave a name suggestion too.

Then there are those that are, perhaps, a little questionable. A somewhat dubious cake posing the question…Will it be a cup cake or a stud muffin?

Sand couple                                             We're here cake

Or even the “We’re Here For The Sex” cake. Yes, really.

My particular favourite has to be the pink or blue champagne. Though, after a glass or two at that party, you risk forgetting what has actually been announced. Blue or pink.pink blue champagne

I love them all.

I love the hope – the joy and the excitement they generate. I love the fact that they celebrate a new life. A baby. Their baby. I love that they acknowledge it as a person. A precious baby, a precious new life. I share their joy.

Welcomed. Wanted.

What will it be?

But not every expectant parent wants to celebrate. Or even make an announcement. For whatever reason. I cannot judge them if they do not. Some start off by announcing and celebrating, until a routine scan brings the party to an abrupt end.

A problem. An anomaly. Or perhaps just unplanned leading to some very real difficulties for the mother/father.

Heart wrenching dilemmas.

So the language changes  as does the question. Often not from the parents, it has to be said.

The contradictions begin.

The word baby is replaced by the word foetus. It’s no longer a person to be looked forward to. To be celebrated. To be wanted. It’s a problem.

A fetal anomaly.

Unwelcomed. Unwanted.

A widely held view is that it’s not a baby at all. It’s a future person – according to Catherine Joynson’s recent blog reflecting on a report into Non Invasive Pre Natal Testing (NIPT) from Nuffield Council of Bioethics.

Not an actual person. A future person.

Yet, over 90% of the time, at the moment a prenatal diagnosis of Down’s syndrome is given, that future person becomes a no future person.

Women, couples, have a way out. It’s a very painful one. But it’s there, under the banner of choice. Autonomy – a word that has become sacrosanct. Termination is, invariably, the go to option.

The word foetus (fetus) in Latin means offspring. The bearing, bringing forth or hatching of young. It is a process.

And you will never convince me that it is in the mother’s best interests, (other than when her life is in danger) to help her to get rid of her offspring; to bring that process to an abrupt end. We owe it to women to find better ways to help and support them through birth and bringing up their offspring.   Instead, we – society – plays the choice card. The Ace of Spades. To end the game. Silence the opposition.  Kill the debate. The death card.

Choice has so little value when the menu has been limited. Is it really a choice at all…when there are so many external influences placed on women from all corners of society?

No, the question on these women’s lips is not “what will it be?”

They have been told that already. A Downs baby, disabled. A burden; a child with learning difficulties. A strain, emotionally and financially. Outdated and misinformed ideas fill their heads. And, like I did, they believe they couldn’t love a baby that isn’t perfect. They believe they wouldn’t have the strength or the resources to care for a child like that. They are almost certainly broken-hearted. Their dreams have been crushed. The party over, before it could even begin.

These women, these parents, are badly let down. My heart hurts as much for them as it does for the babies they had, perhaps, planned to celebrate.  They have no idea how much they would come to love their baby, their fetal anomoly, as I did mine.

We must surely help women to birth their offspring, not kill them.

To be or not to be.

That is the question.

dreamstime_s_86849970

To quote Lord Shinkwin, a disabled peer, speaking recently in a debate about Abortion on the grounds of Disability:

 “Well this fetal anomaly, this proud Member of your Lordships’ House, is having none of it. I utterly reject this medical mind-set that clings to the idea that a disabled baby is a medical failure to be eradicated through abortion. I beg no one for my equality. I know I have as much right as anyone to be alive”