Downright Joy

Discovering joy in unexpected places – a journey into Down's syndrome, Dyspraxia & Autism

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Brush with joy!

A trip to the dentist can be stressful for most people.

A trip to the dentist for a child is something that takes careful planning – until they get used to it at least. With my eldest child this meant watching a YouTube episode of Tots TV – the one where they go to the dentist – as well as observing mummy’s teeth being scrutinised by our lovely dentist before her turn to sit in the chair.

” It’s very dirty inside mummy’s mouth” being the only observation my 5 year old made – and I was in no position to argue, mouth wide open, mid-scale and polish.

And, a trip to the dentist for a child with additional needs can be a different experience altogether.  Powers of reasoning are nil or virtually non-existent. The best that can be hoped for, on the first few visits, is that the child gets used to the clinic. Actually, this is the easy part, Hazel loves visiting clinics and hospitals. She hasn’t had much choice in the matter and often comes away with more than she went in – usually a teddy or a toy if it’s been particularly traumatic, a sticker if less so.

Then there’s the chair, the shiny bright light and the dentist. Oh and the dental nurse. However friendly they may be, it’s still an enormous ask for Hazel to let them anywhere near her mouth. As a child who is 100% tube fed, Hazel has more reasons than most not to open her mouth. Oral feeding is a huge challenge for her and us, and, although we believe she will learn to eat eventually, it’s one step at a time. Hazel knows all too well that if something is supposed to go in her mouth (i.e. food, drink or a toothbrush) then it is to be avoided at all costs! Paint, glue or sand, however, can be consumed in vast quantities. At least, that’s what Hazel thinks. When it comes to feeding, or in this case a dental examination, you may smile all you like at her, play peekaboo or whatever. She ain’t going to open wide for anyone!

Until today.

All credit to the dental team we saw. Not our family dentist, but an NHS clinic that specialises in treating patients with additional needs. And boy, did their training pay off!

It started well. Smiles and “hellos” all round from Hazel to everyone and anyone in the waiting room – as well as to the staff standing in doorways as she trundled along in her wheelchair to the examination room.

The dentist and her nurse got the joy treatment too. The dentist and Hazel soon made friends….the inflated surgical glove trick was hilarious.

Then came the stand-off.

No amount of “tickle-tickle” or “look at the pretty light” would cut it. Hazel shut up shop. Jaws clamped together. Prising them open? A foolish notion that was never going to be an option. I valued my fingers as did the dentist.

We changed position. Taking Hazel out of her wheelchair and sitting her on my lap as I lay back in the dreaded chair. Hazel relaxed a little, presumably thinking her ordeal was over and we were merely getting comfortable. She began to “chatter” in her own way. Not many recognisable words to the untrained ear but I knew it was a song she loved. Her most favourite song in the world. Ever.

Happy Birthday.

The dentist and her nurse took their cue.  And, as if on repeat, they sang Happy Birthday to Hazel. Over and over again. And Hazel lay on top of me virtually still (though the arm lock I had her in, not to mention the leg restraint from the smiley nurse may have had something to do with it!)

Mesmerised by their harmonious singing.

The dentist saw all she needed to. Though I confess I felt a little stab of guilt that it wasn’t actually Hazel’s birthday and that I might just be adding to her confusion by using the song out of context. However, the end justified the means.

Advice and Disney sticker dispensed and we were on our way. The dentist recording in her notes that Happy Birthday might well do the trick again next time.

And, as we left, the dentist and her nurse told us they’d had a challenging day in the land of special needs dentistry, but that Hazel had been a delight to finish it with. Smiles all round.

Just another day in the life of our family and not without its challenges as she has been unwell but Hazel still manages to throw a little joy bomb* into the lives of the people she meets.

 

*Joy bomb – a term I have unashamedly stolen from another mum of a child with DS. If ever there was an expression to sum Hazel up it’s this one!


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Duck Life

Swimming pools are my worst nightmare. Public ones anyway. A cacophony of shrieks, shouts and screams. An echoing sensory overload nightmare for one of my children and a place of mainly slips, trips and falls for the other. Never a relaxing experience, usually one that ends in tears.

So our recent mini break was made all the more relaxing by the addition of, no, not a private pool, but the next best thing. A hot tub.

The girls loved it. Hazel learnt to hold on to the sides and step round it – this is a major achievement for someone who can barely stand, let alone go anywhere on her feet. M loved it too. Playing imaginary games with her mermaid dolls and plastic, grubby looking yellow ducks or inventing silly games. Admittedly, neither did much swimming, though M tried, achieving her width certificate in record time. Great fun. Until…

Two little ducks went out one day, over the hills and far away…..

You know the rest.

Quack Quack Quack.

Only one came back. Literally. When our backs were turned, the more adventurous of the two little plastic ducks went…

Over the edge.

 And into an abyss. Well, into the gap between the hot tub and the log cabin. But it may as well have been an abyss. Dark. Deep. Impenetrable. No way back.

Gone.

Tears. Of course. I empathised. I may have even cried some too – for good measure. To show I felt her pain. Ducky had gone and so we grieved.

Mummy you have to get it back.

Sorry, sweetheart. That’s impossible. She’s gone.

Daddy. You have to.

We’ll get another one. I promise her. It will be better. It won’t be grubby looking. New. Shiny. Perfect. She’ll soon forget about it. Move on. Life’s losses and all that.

It’s only a toy duck for duck’s sake. It’s not important. We can sort this.

Even now, I still underestimate my daughter’s powers of persuasion.

24 hours of intense protest and ducky has come swimming back. Nothing short of a miracle I might add. My husband going beyond the pale to reach down/under/bent double/contortionist style all for the sake of a sorry looking yellow duck.

Sometimes we forget what matters.

We dismiss. We minimise. We play down the value of others.

We think about ourselves a little too much. Or perhaps, too little. We underestimate what we are capable of doing, when push comes to shove. We don’t feel up to the task. We avoid difficulty and pain, sometimes selfishly, other times because we too, feel unworthy, unloved. Afraid.

We tell ourselves our comfort is paramount. Our lives are too short to spend on something that is too difficult or not important. Less than. Worth less. Worthless.

M didn’t. To her, that little duck meant the world. The thought of leaving it behind, saying goodbye, replacing it (as if!) not valuing it, well, that was beyond her reasoning.

Caring is what she knows. It’s inherent in her. And I love that she is wired to care.

Caring for people that the world tells us are worthless.  We can deal with that, they say. At both ends of life, start and finish. Get rid. Move one. Get another one. It will be better than this one. Burdensome. Forget about it. It’s kinder that way. Best for everyone.

Except the duck. Whoever that ‘duck’ may be. An unwanted foetus, an elderly person with dementia or suffering with some other incurable disease, a disabled person, a lonely person. And, for the record, I’m not calling anyone a duck as such.  Though I happen to think ducks are very wonderful creatures! That’s simply the toy she was playing with….M would have felt the same way had it been the mermaid that had disappeared. She does not discriminate between mermaids and ducks, they are equally loved.

I am thankful that my 6 year old is not as quick as I am to give up.

I live in hope that she and many others of her generation will want to explore – really explore – what caring for others should look like. They won’t simply accept the idea that because technology allows us to do something, we should. That just because we have a right we should use it.  Rights are fought for – hard won battles to supposedly allow freedom of choice and dignity. Yet I often wonder what society would look like if we focused less on our rights and more on our responsibilities to each other. Maybe those same ‘rights’ wouldn’t even be needed, if we truly cared about each other’s welfare.

And M, at just 6 years old, gives me hope that she will always be willing to go the extra mile for whoever needs it and not just look for the ‘undo’ button. Perhaps she will look for ways to rescue, help and care for those in trouble. She will look for solutions. She will want to care. Want to rescue. Want to love. Want to speak life over others. She’s already doing it, and, according to her teachers, it’s not just with ducks.

Her persistence sometimes drives me to distraction.

I thank God that it does.


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Possibly maybe…

Awareness days, it appears, seem to come around literally on a daily basis (‘scuse the pun).

I discovered, to my amusement, that there is even a dedicated website to them where you can find out what’s coming next. This month alone has seen the International Day of Happiness, World Oral Health Day, National Butchers Week, and my particular favourite, National Bed Month. Though celebrating this may have to wait as Hazel’s nocturnal adventures have put paid to any hope of even a single night’s sleep, let alone a month!

So tomorrow, 21 March, is World Down Syndrome Day. Just another one, you may say.

Yes. And no.

Raising awareness of a condition or syndrome in order to help the people who live with it can only be positive.  And I am honoured to be able to add my voice to the thousands of others who will shout, cheer, and sport their stripy, spotty, psychedelic socks – literally letting their feet do the talking. Shouting as loud as we can that an extra chromosome is not to be feared. It is to be accepted, included, loved and cherished. It is life changing, of course. We wouldn’t deny that. We won’t pretend there aren’t challenges. Heartaches and difficulties. Why else would we need an awareness day if not? But that is life whether we like it or not. We want the world to know that having Down’s syndrome is life changing, but almost always for the better! We want to celebrate the truth about our children, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, friends who happen to have an extra chromosome. We want to celebrate our humanity. 

Yet as we celebrate, we know that there are those who actively want to raise awareness of the condition in another way. Their awareness campaign is also positive. It’s more softly spoken than ours, more gentle and maybe more appealing. It promises to bring comfort, reduce anxiety, and relieve stress. Good, good, good!  It says it can offer affordable and reliable help. Oh this is good too. This is what women/couples need. Choice. Yes, absolutely. Choice is good. This awareness campaign has a number of different names. Some rather clinical like NIPT (Non Invasive Prenatal Testing) or the more pleasant sounding ‘Harmony’ test. Suggesting something melodious, easy on the ear and an overwhelmingly positive experience for the participant. 

I’m convinced.

So why am I also concerned about this other awareness campaign?

Well, it’s back to that word ‘choice’. The advocates for this campaign, this test, tell us that it’s all about choice. Choice for the woman/and her husband or partner as to whether or not they continue with their pregnancy. Choice is a good thing, they say. They are right.

However, choice is also a word that is often then forced down the throat of anyone who dares to suggest this test is not helpful – in it’s current form. And yet, never has the word choice meant so little to these people. It’s a choice that has been boxed in, pinned down and tied to the railings of fear and outdated information. It’s no choice. It’s bordering on a lie.

And, in the vast majority of UK hospitals and clinics, this is the choice that is offered. An uninformed and misguided one. Instead, information about Down’s syndrome is largely handed out in a very negative and fearful way. Even the test itself plays on the fears of the pregnant woman by telling her it can accurately identify this most feared of conditions. It tells her that Down’s is something to be afraid of, very afraid.  That’s not choice, that’s scaremongering. That’s fear. That’s not fair – to anyone, especially not the parents.

So allow me to change the word, if you will. But let’s do this quietly, without anyone really noticing. Ssshhhh. Don’t tell.

A synonym to ‘choice’ is ‘possibility’. Such positive word isn’t it? And that’s why we celebrate World Down Syndrome Day, each and every year.

The possibility.

The possibility that a person who has Down’s syndrome can bring so much to our lives. The possibility that we will find more joy than we ever thought imaginable by bringing them into our lives and watching them thrive. The possibility that having an extra chromosome may not be the end of the world, as we have been led to believe. The possibility that our lives can even change for the better because of Down’s syndrome. The possibility that people with Down’s syndrome can and do thrive, enjoy life, contribute to society and have as much right to a life as you or I.

The possibility that our common humanity is crying out for us to welcome people with disabilities, not try and eradicate them. Wouldn’t it be so much better if women were offered possibilities rather than choice? Choice limits. Possibilities widen. 

Possibly, maybe, we can make a change.  

One word at a time. Ssshhh.

Celebrating World Down Syndrome Day 2016

Earlier post “A Test” now with pictures…..

A Test


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Keep Britain tidy

I’m rubbish.

Rubbish at recycling that is.

I really should try harder, do better.

After all, we have a wealth of recycling facilities to hand. Colourful plastic boxes stacked up by my side gate. Cardboard, glass, plastic bottles, food waste, garden waste can all be dealt with. And, as if that wasn’t enough, a short drive takes me to a clothing bank which sits next to a shoe bank, which sits next to a paper bank.

I really need never throw anything away. Everything has its value, even rubbish.

Recycle, recycle, recycle.

Our planet depends on it. Good for the environment. Good for mankind.

Necessary to our survival.

Do it do it do it. 

That’s the message that is rightly drummed into us. Into our children. A world apart from my upbringing when the only thing that was recycled were milk bottles. Oh and Corona bottles, if you could afford them. 10p back in return wasn’t it?

I have a very large bin. Because of Hazel’s medical equipment it is larger than the average family wheelie bin. I don’t always have time to sort the rubbish. I know I should but I don’t. My bin swallows it all up. Gone. In an instant. I forget about it.

Shame on me.

But I guess there will be a consequence – if not directly for me then for the planet. Further down the line. Of course there will. I try not to think about it.

In our recycling obsessed culture, I am rightly looked down on for throwing away my ‘rubbish’. That’s not rubbish, they say. That is of value. It is worthy to be kept. Not trashed. They are correct.

And yet this same society has also deemed what is rubbish and what is not when it comes to people. Life.

90% of babies (found prenatally to have Down’s syndrome), foetuses, cells, call them what you like are deemed rubbish.

Not fit for purpose.

I’m sorry, they say. Just a bunch of cells they say. A foetus; and a faulty one at that. Not important. It won’t amount to much. Too costly. Bin it. Forget about it. Save yourself the trouble. It’s your right. Even if it’s just about to be born, they say, we can deal with it. (Yes really). Try again.

There is nothing more precious than life itself.

So why are so many people wanting to trash it? Chuck in the bin, forget about it, move on.

Keep Britain tidy.

It is beyond painful to acknowledge that there are many many people who would rather Hazel, and others like her, didn’t exist. They would rather she had gone in the bin. Incinerated. They say her life is of no value. Who made them judge of this?

And, with a new non-invasive pre-natal test (NIPT) now available on the NHS, bin day can come around even sooner.

But I guess there will be a consequence – if not directly for them, then for humanity. Further down the line. Of course there will. But they will not think about it.

Simple Definition of humanity

  • :the quality or state of being human
  • :the quality or state of being kind to other people or to animals
  • :all people
    Merriam Webster dictionary. 


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Gently Weeping….

Last week a Twitter campaign was launched in America by three women who encouraged other women to ‘Shout Your Abortion’.

The aim of the campaign is to help end the shame and stigma surrounding abortion. Many women have been sharing their stories under the hashtag #shoutyourabortion and, yet again, opinion is fiercely divided.

Well forgive me for not shouting.

Instead, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll weep.

I’ll weep for so many reasons, but I won’t shout. I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work. Shouting alienates, hurts and often offends. Shouting in celebration is fine if everyone is at the same party. But there are many on BOTH sides of the debate who find the subject of abortion extremely hard to shout about. They also weep.

Like the young woman I heard about recently who wept for her aborted baby. She made a choice. She regretted it. She now struggles with guilt and loss. She weeps and I weep for her. She needs understanding and acceptance, not judgement or finger-pointing from those of us who think there is a better way. She does not want to shout out her abortion. She is hurting. Deeply.

Or my friend who longs for a child, but can’t have one and is now considering adoption. It breaks her heart like it used to break mine when she hears of another unwanted pregnancy ending so abruptly. She weeps. She respects their choice, but she weeps all the same. She does not shout.

Or like the trainee midwife who told me she wept over the aborted twins, left in a bucket ready for disposal in the sluice. Whilst, in another hospital NICU, another set of twins were fighting for survival, aided by latest the medical technology. One set was wanted, the other was not. Choice.

And I will weep for the 92% of babies found prenatally to have an extra chromosome who don’t ever get the chance to bring the kind of joy into the lives of their families that my daughter has brought us. I will weep for their parents and grandparents. They will never know what they have lost or chosen not to have. But I will still respect their choice.  I will never shout at them or judge them for making it as I know how tough and scary it is when they are told their unborn child has Down’s. I understand their fears because I felt them myself. But I will still weep.

I will weep for myself and my daughter as I recall being offered an abortion right up until the moment of birth if I so chose. I weep for the lack of value placed on her life by our society.

I will weep for the women who think that this campaign is somehow a celebration of women’s rights. They are not helping the women that I know who have been deeply affected by this issue. Shouting is not doing anything to alleviate their shame, their suffering.

And I will also weep for the damage that has been done by those who lack compassion for women faced with this decision. I am deeply ashamed of the way they have been treated.

I will weep for those women who feel they have no choice. It’s rarely a black and white issue. Complex situations, heartbreaking decisions. No winners. No victory parades. Mostly just pain.

So shout about it if you must, but allow me and others the dignity of holding this issue a little more tenderly. Allow us to gently weep, not shout. Allow us to talk these things through and find a way to help not hurt. Allow us to find compassion – both for the babies that are seen as so utterly disposable and for the women who find themselves facing this choice in the first place.

#shoutyourcompassion instead.


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Turtles

Shopping lists and signing for deliveries has been the extent of my writing achievements lately.

Weeks of Hazel’s poor health and the sudden serious illness and subsequent loss of one of my dearest friends has stopped me in my tracks. And, though the words have not come so easily, I have at least had some time away to stop and reflect.

Last week we found ourselves on an almost empty beach, having arrived late in the day. The sun was casting long shadows across the beach and the sand was still warm underfoot.

Hazel loves the sand. Did I say she loves the sand? She LOVES it!

The moment we placed her down on the picnic blanket she was off. At speed.

For a child that cannot walk or even stand unaided this was a sight to behold as she bottom shuffled away across the beach. Arms raised as she went; chasing after the long shadow her tiny frame was making in the evening sun.

Have you ever seen the tracks that are made in the sand by baby turtles as they head for the sea? With all their might they propel themselves forward, their little bodies longing to be in the water where they swim freely. A trail of wavy lines in the sand; evidence of their struggle and determination to reach their destination.

Hazel left similar tracks as she crossed the sand.

Before we arrived at the beach we had been in a children’s play area.

I generally hate play areas.

Mostly because they are a reminder to me of what both my children can’t do. My eldest has her own physical struggles with hypermobility. Play equipment has been a huge challenge for her, not least because most of her friends can use it with ease.  In Hazel’s case it is often simply inaccessible. Though some playgrounds are more disabled friendly than others, largely their equipment is off limits to her.

Yet here, in the sand, Hazel had freedom. She was not hindered in any way. It didn’t matter that she could not run or walk or even stand up on that beach. Hazel took enormous pleasure from what she could do, from all she could enjoy in her own unique way. She didn’t need toys. A bucket and spade was of no interest to her. The feeling of the sand in her fingers and toes was enough to keep her attention – for hours! She did not tell us how much she was enjoying herself. She can’t do that – at least not verbally. But the joy on her face and the fact she did not turn back for reassurance told us all we needed to know. Hazel was happy. She had all she needed.

Hazel does not eat food. She is tube fed. Food holds no interest for her – yet. But sand….sand would go into her mouth quite happily. And, by the time we left the beach later that evening, she was literally covered from head to foot. Almost camouflaged.

The turtles eventually reach their destination, though it is a perilous journey, full of struggle. They don’t give up. And, once there, they swim freely.

Hazel will eventually reach her destination. She will eventually walk, she will eventually eat. She will eventually talk – even this week she had made advances with this. I, on the other hand, have felt like giving up recently. Too many sadnesses and difficulties to face. I haven’t wanted to keep going. Yet Hazel, as ever, is my little joy giver. It’s hard to stay sad when she is around. And she teaches me so much about perseverance and courage. Hazel doesn’t give up. She chooses joy and is content with simple pleasures.

My dear, precious friend, Vicky, for whom I, and so many others, now grieve, made it across the sand. She reached her destination – far sooner than any of us would have wanted or expected. She knew where she was going and lived her life in the light of it; constantly urging others to make their lives count. Her faith in God permeated every part of her life. Heaven was so real to her, and, when the time came, I don’t think she was afraid to go there. The tracks she has left are permanent ones. Life changing even. I thank God for her, but I miss her so very much.

Hazel is a little further across the sand this week. And so am I.

20150731_174029

In memory of Vicky Taylor, who made every second of her one precious life count.

Miss you so very much, but I know you’re having a ball x

Vicky Taylor photo


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Catching My Breath

I have just said goodbye to a cot.
The charity collector took it away. As I closed the front door, I had one of those ‘catch your breath‘ moments. The kind that appear from nowhere, sending you reeling, momentarily.

This was not any cot. If, indeed, there is such a thing. For six years it’s been part of our lives.

Our cot.

It’s not that I want my children to remain as infants. Not at all. I celebrate every part of their growing up. I embrace each stage and marvel at how amazing this gift of life can be.

No. That’s not why I catch my breath and am standing still for a moment.

It’s because it was ever even here at all.

Ten years of waiting for a cot.

Ten years of longing for the need to buy one.

Ten years of a spare room. Guest room. Store room. A whatever we want to dump inside it room.

Ten years of an empty room.

So many empty rooms in so many homes.
Ours was not unique.

Rooms that lie empty, hearts that are waiting.

Or breaking.

Empty for so many reasons.
Heart-rending reasons far greater than our own sadness.
Rooms that had welcomed a cot. For a time. Then, without warning, the cot had gone.
Unexplained, perhaps. Or ‘simply’ the fragility of human life was to blame. Devastating either way.

Rooms that were ready and waiting with a cot; but ultimately it was not needed. Even though the script had said it was.

The heartbeat could no longer be found.

Often small and insignificant, these rooms contain so much more than any other room in a house. Even the empty ones. Especially the empty ones. These rooms are containers of dreams. Dreams that are alive as well as dreams that have ended. Crushed. Hopes for the future, memories of the past; both cherished and painful.

But then it came.

Assembled, ready and waiting.

The room was no longer empty.

And so the first occupant moved in. A delayed start. She almost didn’t make it. The cot was very nearly not needed. For a few days we wondered if the room would remain empty. Perhaps it was not meant to be.

She had other ideas. The room was hers. So was the cot. As she lay in the cot for the first time, some eight months after she was born, I could not have wished for a more perfect moment. The cot. The delicate mobile turning gently overhead. Mesmerising us both with its sleepy lullaby. The room. Her room. Her cot.

And, if rooms had dreams, then this was surely one of the best.

The first occupant moved out. The cot redundant.
For a time.
Then the second occupant took her place in the cot.
A coveted place. A fought for place.
A place that others suggested I should deny her.
A place that I would be better off not giving to her. According to some.
A place for the elite.The healthy.Those who can contribute more to society. Apparently.
A place that for whom 92% of those found with a chromosomal addition will never be granted.

There were no instructions on the cot as to what kind of occupant it should have.

Healthy or otherwise. It made no distinction.

All welcome.

Her cot.

And now it’s gone. Too small for a good night’s sleep.
The cot has a new empty room to fill. Somewhere.

COT (noun) Carrier of all things precious.


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A Test

Is there a test for you?

Is there a test to tell me how much joy you will bring?

Is there a test to tell me how much you will make me laugh?

Is there a test to tell me how proud I will be when you hit each milestone?

Is there a test that tells me how much you will look and sound like your sister?

Is there a test to tell me how much you will make complete strangers smile?

Is there a test to tell me how privileged it feels to be part of this new community?

Is there a test to tell me how much you will change my life for the better?

Is there a test to tell me how cute you look with your hair in bows?

Is there a test to tell me how you will show empathy to those around you who are sad?

Is there a test to tell me how much you will overwhelm me with your love?

Is there a test to tell me how much I miss you when I am away from you?

Is there a test to tell me how much fun you will derive from watching the washing machine on its spin cycle?

Is there a test to tell me how many incredible new friends I am going to make because of you?

Is there a test to tell me how much you will adore your sister and how much she adores you?

Is there a test to tell me how much pleasure you will have from swinging on your shiny blue swing?

Is there a test to tell me how fiercely proud I will be of you each time we attend yet another hospital appointment?

Is there a test to tell me how many songs you will learn to love and sing along to?

Is there a test to tell me how good it feels to take our busy, hectic lives at a slower, less frenetic pace?

Is there a test to tell me how we will lead happy and fulfilling lives, you and me?

Is there a test to tell me how much we will learn to appreciate simplicity?

Is there a test to tell me how you will want to follow your own agenda in life?

Is there a test to tell me how you will have your own feelings, emotions, desires, longings, hopes and dreams?

Is there a test for you?

 

Yes, there is a test* but it’s for you.

A test more advanced than ever before.

A test that poses no risk – for you.

A test that will tell you I have Down’s syndrome.

A test that will tell you all you need to know.

Apparently.

Yes there’s a test.

You can take it if you like.

No one is suggesting you can’t.

But it’s not a test for me.

*A new blood test  (NIPT) is about to be offered on the NHS to women to screen for Down’s syndrome and other genetic conditions. It is being hailed as a major advance. Many people in the Down’s syndrome community and beyond are deeply worried & saddened by this news – coming so soon after we celebrated World Down Syndrome Day and all the achievements of people living with the condition. A test that is meant to give women a ‘choice’ – yet it badly lets them down as it tells them so so little. This is not an informed choice.

This is not choice.

 

Hazel in sensory room black and white