Downright Joy

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

Tag Archives: #Trisomy21


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Voices

So many voices just now.

Voices of reason.

Voices of hate.

Voices of sound arguments.

Voices of the implausible.

Voices that are angry.

Voices that are incredulous.

Voices that are disappointed.

Voices that are elated.

Voices that are fearful.

Voices telling lies.

Voices telling truth.

Voices twisting truth.

Voices that are scared.

Voices that are triumphant.

Voices that are evil, hate filled, stirring up violence.

Voices that are compassionate.

Voices that give hope.

Voices that speak against injustice.

Voices of the classes. The rich, affluent, well off, comfortable voices.

Voicing.

Voices of the poor; the poorest in society.

Needing to find a way to even use their voice at all. Their views are so rarely sought; they fail to meet the requirements for an educated debate. Their opinion does not count. It is uninformed. It is uneducated. It is unworthy.  It must not be allowed to have influence unless it first becomes those things. It’s too risky. Too flawed.

I think I may have heard this sentiment elsewhere and it makes me uncomfortable.

I recognise my past failure to listen to this kind of voice. I have ignored their cries. Ignored their anger. Silenced their voices. I am not a champion for the poor. I do not claim to know what their lives are really like. But I have judged them and, at times, hoped they would not impact my life too much. I don’t like mess.

And some voices are never heard.

They are silent.

Unable to speak.

Deemed unworthy of a voice at all. They don’t reach the standard of the informed or educated.

They are seen as a “risk“. A problem. Too costly. Too flawed.

In the UK around 90% of babies prenatally diagnosed with Down’s syndrome are never given a voice. Their voices are silenced. Even those that are given a voice may then go onto face ignorance and discrimination. Their voices are ignored. Deemed irrelevant.  “Backward” or worse, “retarded”. Never amounting to much.

I cannot ignore their cries. I cannot stand by as their voices are silenced.

My own little “risk” is nearly five years old. She has not yet truly found her voice. And yet she speaks more loudly, more beautifully, more lovingly and more joyfully than any other voice I have heard. She speaks into my life and the lives of those she meets. Costly? Hugely so, but a price worth paying a thousand times and more. She gives back far more than she ever takes.

Prejudice and intolerance come in many forms and I am not immune from their guises.

Voices need to be given to those who have none. However costly. However risky.

And the risk may be overwhelmingly worth it for all.

Listen for the voices we cannot hear. Voices of those who are actually more alike than different.

So I say this firstly to myself for I am guilty of so much that has not helped others: Shout louder than the voices filled with hate. Listen to the voices who are disappointed, fearful and hurting. Whatever their background, wherever they are coming from. Offer hope not judgement.

“Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.”


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Handbags and gladrags

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Once upon a time a woman decided she wanted a handbag. Her friends all had handbags and she decided the time was right for her to get one too.

So she went to the handbag shop and asked for a new handbag.

The shopkeeper told the woman there were two types of handbag to choose from. Blue or pink. The woman said she really didn’t mind what colour handbag she had, so long as it was a sturdy one, without any flaws in the leather.

The shopkeeper smiled, handed her a blue handbag and congratulated her on her new acquisition. The woman took her lovely new blue bag outside into the big wide world to meet her friends and compare it with their handbags. The woman was very happy with her choice.

A while later another woman entered the handbag shop and excitedly asked for a new handbag too. This time the shopkeeper handed the woman a pink one. She was very pleased as she had secretly hoped that it would be pink but hadn’t dared to ask, although, of course, she would have been just as happy with a blue one.

The shopkeeper continued to do a roaring trade in handbags and most people were very happy with their purchases.

One day, a young woman came into the store looking for her first handbag. Nervously she looked around at the choice. Blue or pink (neutral was also being introduced as there was now a growing demand for this to be an option.)

The shopkeeper handed her a bag. It was a beautiful bag. Vibrant pink. It stood out from all the others. However, the woman looked at it and shook her head.

 “I don’t want that one,” she said, fearfully.

“Why not?” Asked the shopkeeper.

“It’s different. It won’t work properly.”

The shopkeeper nodded in agreement.

“Well, it’s entirely your choice.” He said, failing to tell her of the beautiful bag’s potential. Of all it could be to her. Failing to help her see its enormous possibilities whilst not denying its limitations.

Failing her.

“No. It’s flawed. It’s not fit for purpose”. Her mind was made up. “I don’t want one that stands out. I want one that looks the same as everyone else’s. Take it away. I’ll come back when you have a better one in stock.”

“Of course,” said the shopkeeper, “no problem.”

The woman left, sad, hurting, empty handed. She had made her choice. It wasn’t easy but she felt it had to be done.

Sometime later, another woman entered the handbag shop, accompanied by her husband. He did all the talking.

“We want a handbag.” He said abruptly. “It must be a blue one.”

 The shopkeeper looked behind the counter.

“Sir, we only have pink ones today. I cannot guarantee you a blue one. Here, this is your handbag.”

The shopkeeper showed the man a beautiful pink shiny handbag and then handed it to the woman. The woman’s eyes lit up for a second. Then she lowered them. She knew it would not do.

“It is not blue,” said the man. “It will not do.”

He took the bag from his wife and handed it back to the shopkeeper.

 “Take it away immediately. We will return when you have a blue one in stock.”

And with that, the man marched out of the shop followed by his wife. She had not uttered a word.

The woman had no choice.

Finally, another woman entered the handbag shop. It was getting late and she was in a hurry. She didn’t have time to really look at the handbag she had been given until she got out of the shop. She immediately noticed it was different to all the other handbags she had seen. Very different – some would even call it flawed. And, although at first shocked by the handbag, quickly the woman began to love it and wanted to keep it. It was her handbag.

However, when she showed the handbag to her partner he did not share her love. So much so, he could not live with this particular handbag and demanded that the woman give it away.

For whatever reasons, the woman felt she had no choice but to give in to his demands. Thankfully, a couple who had been unable to even get into the handbag shop were immediately found to give the handbag a new home. They were delighted. They would look after the handbag from now on.*

But this was not the woman’s choice.

The End

Someone said recently that having a baby is becoming more and more like choosing a handbag. Only the healthiest, fittest and definitely NOT disabled will do. Even gender is now a deciding factor and not just in other cultures or countries but here in the UK.

The right to choose is upheld as the greatest victory for women’s rights. And yet so many women do not even have that choice open to them. We are kidding ourselves if we think they do.

*The last example in the story above I have drawn on from meeting a beautiful baby very recently who had been put up for adoption. The baby had a non life-threatening condition. The mother wanted to keep the baby, the father didn’t. The father won. Whose choice was that?

Choice MUST be informed…..that is something those of us in the Down’s syndrome community are fighting for with the introduction of the new prenatal test that is set to be rolled out across the UK. Yet what is it that we are actually choosing? A handbag? Or a baby. Disposable goods or a human life?

Choice (informed or otherwise) is not all it’s cracked up to be. Just ask the women who don’t have it – though they probably would be too afraid to admit it. Choice has its limitations but possibilities are endless.

Women deserve better than a trip to a retail park. And so do their offspring.


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Just do it

Just do it.

Or so we were told by a famous sports company back in the day. Whatever ‘it’ was.

If there’s one lesson I’ve learnt since having child with additional needs it’s that we don’t just do anything.

There’s the big stuff. Learning to sit, crawl, stand, walk, talk, and in Hazel’s case especially, learning to feed. We follow a different time-scale to most.

I have an early, painful memory of being handed Hazel’s little red book by a well -meaning nurse, only for her to return shortly afterwards and abruptly pull out the growth charts, replacing them with a special set – exclusively for children with Down’s syndrome.

“You won’t be needing those, you need these.”

My already fragile and hurt feelings were then compounded by a visit from the audiologist who was doing the rounds in the tiny NICU room we were in. I overheard her speech as she went from cot to cot, parent to parent, explaining the routine hearing test their babies would soon be having and how they would probably have nothing to worry about.

Then she came to me.

The tilt of her head did nothing to prepare me for her words. Delivered with a gentle brutality as to send me reeling.

“Of course, your baby might not pass this test”.

I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t ready to be different.

Deep deep breaths.

Then there’s the smaller stuff that having a child with complex needs means…so that we don’t “just do it”…

Going to the park. Getting a babysitter and going out for an evening. We need a nurse for that.

Dropping in on friends or taking a day trip. The cinema, theatre or pantomime, zoos, farm parks, play areas. Even a simple picnic in the sunshine. Concerns about sensory issues and how Hazel will react.  Changing facilities (or lack of them); all these factors add up and quite honestly often put us off setting foot outside out home.

Hazel’s feeding equipment, routines and reactions make these things harder. Not impossible, but harder.

Even the things we do “do” take far more planning than we would like.

Going to Church, a trip round the supermarket, a children’s party, lunch with friends or family.

Sometimes it’s easier not to even attempt these things.

And, if I could change this, I would. In a flash. Of course I would. Who wouldn’t?

The truth is we can do many of these things, but the word “just” has to be firmly kicked into the long grass.

And that is absolutely ok.

When you “just do” something you may miss the complexities of how it is done. You may miss the joys of achieving the seemingly impossible. You may take it for granted.

But, when you finally “do it”, do the very thing that is so hard for you to do, however easy it might be for others, then the sense of achievement is often beyond measure. The appreciation for what might be a simple pleasure is second to none.

It’s in those moments that my heart sings.

Today held one such moment.

Hazel doesn’t eat. She is 100% tube fed.

We try. We try hard to help her to learn. To help her to want to eat. We play, we have fun with food. We get messy.

In school it’s called “Food is fun”.

But it is hard. So so hard.

 Hard when the walls, ceiling and anyone else sitting at the table is covered in whatever food Hazel has been “playing but not eating” with. Today it was orange. The colour, that is.

Pureed carrot and sweet potato. The clean-up took three times as long as the ‘meal’. It even reached the television which was quite a feat considering that’s in another room entirely.

Ah but surely this is quite usual for a child learning to eat, you may think. It’s a phase.

Yes.  It just doesn’t usually last four years and counting.

We clean up, with a heavy heart and an unspoken envy of families where children just pick up a spoon and eat; or who can go off out into the sun with a picnic whenever the mood takes them.

But not today.

Today my heart sang.

It sang at the smiles, laughter and joy Hazel exuded in her state of orangeyness. It sang as she giggled throughout lunchtime, happy to be with us at the table, enjoying the moment and being part of our family. And it sang because, in all the laughter, Hazel actually took two spoonfuls of the vegetable medley in her mouth!

Food really is fun!

So we will continue to embrace the mess. Savouring, relishing in and enjoying the milestones, or even just the stepping stones along the way.

Golden moments in time that are hard fought for.

One day we will picnic together, all four of us.

But I don’t really ever want to “just do” anything.

Downright Joy 2


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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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Turn Back The Clock

 

May is nearly upon us and, for me, this means one of my favourite things. Chelsea. Not the football club but the Flower show. Not that I’ve ever been. I’d love to, of course, but the demands of caring for a young family with additional needs prevents trips like that at the moment. One day I will go. One day.

For now, I’ll settle for a week or so of high definition images via the BBC and Mr Titchmarsh & Co.  Pure indulgence. A week of dreaming that my humble little back garden will somehow also be transformed into a panoply of perennials, a cornucopia of chrysanthemums and cordylines.

It never is.

I have dandelions growing in my conservatory roof.

I’ve yet to hear or see the humble dandelion get a mention at Chelsea. I’m not sure they’ve ever even heard of one.  After all, it’s a weed. Not wanted. No place for it. It would spoil the garden. Ruin it, even.

The dandelion is hated. People wage war against it, so much so we spend millions of pounds on products aimed at destroying it.

The dandelion will grow anywhere. Except where it has been eradicated.

Yet the dandelion is also loved. Childhood games spent telling the time with a dandelion clock. So perfectly formed, so intricate, so gentle and so beautiful to look at. Then, as the seeds are blown, delightfully, by a childish puffing of cheeks, they are carried effortlessly away on the breeze. Landing somehow, somewhere and there, they begin to make their own mark in the world. A world that doesn’t really want them. Wishes they weren’t there. Will do all in its power to eradicate them.

When do these same children learn to hate something they once cherished? When does fear replace this childlike acceptance?

I don’t know the answer but somewhere along the road it happens.

Fear.

And so it is with having a child who has an extra chromosome.

Fearful.

At least it was for me, and, given the statistics on how many terminations take place in the UK following a diagnosis of Down’s,  I think it is fairly reasonable to make the assumption that fear has a huge part to play for many who find themselves in the same position as I did.

I was afraid of the dandelion.

I was afraid of how it would spoil my garden. Take over. Damage. Ruin its perfect appearance. Make gardening harder.

Of course, my garden was never perfect, but I strived to make it so. I could not let the dandelion spoil this dream.

I was affronted by this ‘intruder’. I believed the lie. That the dandelion was harmful. That the dandelion was ugly. That the dandelion had no place in my garden.

But I could not eradicate it even though I was told it was possible. Easily arranged. For the best.

And, I am forever thankful, that my fears although real, were never strong enough to take hold of the situation. They were never allowed to go to the garden centre and buy the weed killer. Though, for a while, I am ashamed to admit, I envied those who could.

I began to love the dandelion. I began to cherish its beauty.

And, over time, the shame I had wrongly felt at having a garden with dandelions was replaced by a sense of awe and wonder at this beautiful plant. I discovered its beauty, its benefits and its immense joy. I love how it pops up anywhere, it’s deep vibrant yellow flower forcing its way through the most hardened of soils and singing in the sunlight. Enjoying life. Enjoying being there. Dandelion experts even tell of the health benefits it can bring. Who knew?!

The dandelion is not supposed to be here. Or so you would think.

I wish I could turn back the clock and re frame the dandelion.

It deserves it.

The dandelion makes me smile.

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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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Priceless

Four and a half years ago my doctor came to visit me after Hazel was born. We had not long come home from hospital, after nearly two months in NICU.

I was struggling to cope outside the safe, comforting environment that such places offer – particularly if you are there for any length of time as we were.

I loved her beyond words and yet I struggled to accept her condition. I had taken to my bed, exhausted; emotionally and physically. I was unable to cope with all that had happened. Unable to accept my baby girl had Down’s syndrome.

I did not want to join the club.

The Down’s family. That family with a kid with Down’s. The Down’s girl. Disabled. Special Needs. I imagined the conversations people would have about us.

Labelled. Given a badge. Lifetime membership. I didn’t ask to join. I certainly didn’t want to join.

“But,” he said.

“You will meet some amazing people and it will be an incredible journey”, he said.

How did he know? How could he possibly know that?

He knew.

And now I know it too. I am ashamed to think that I thought my life would be better off outside of this club.

This club is simply full of amazing people. People whose lives have also been turned upside down because of an extra chromosome or some other disability or condition. Like us, these people have had to face heartbreak and pain as they watch their child go through yet another operation or procedure. Many have had to do battle with an education system that puts no end of obstacles in their child’s way. They have fought tooth and nail to ensure their child be allowed to ‘thrive’ at school and not simply just ‘cope’.

These amazing people also include NICU Nurses, Respite Nurses, Community Nurses, Portage workers, Music therapists, Speech therapists, Physiotherapists, Occupational therapists, SENDCOs, Teachers, Teaching Assistants, Head Teachers, Surgeons, Doctors, Paediatricians and Practice Nurses…the list goes on. These are people who fight our corner and will go the extra mile every time for our children. They get it. They understand. They don’t say ‘computer says no.’ They have helped both my children, myself and my husband in immeasurable ways and I am eternally grateful to them. Then there are the amazing people in our circle of friends, neighbours, church, family. Truly amazing.

But most humbling of all, included in these amazing people (most of whom I would probably never have met if it weren’t for Trisomy 21) are mums and dads who have paid the highest price for their love and sadly, tragically, lost their little ones. Yet still they reach out to me and offer me their support. They have also shown me how to live, love and laugh through the toughest of challenges.

More recently, this club has included a family who have already shown, in just a few months, more determination, more resilience, more strength than I have had in five years. Week after week, month after month, they face uncertainty, separation and great anxiety as their baby girl battles on in NICU and now PICU. Countless operations already under her belt and her fight goes on.

They could have opted out so easily. And, at some point in the pregnancy, fairly early on, it was assumed they would. At least by some in the medical profession. After all, according to statistics, it’s a club no one wants to join – isn’t it?

Instead, they chose life.

They also chose difficulty, pain, heartbreak, anguish.

Ultimately they chose love.

And that’s what will get them through. They have gone beyond the pain and the difficulty and grasped hold of a love that is stronger than all the rubbish. A love that says their child has as much right to life as anyone else. A love that says they will never stop fighting for her, believing in her, delighting in her.

They are without question amongst the amazing people my GP told me I would meet.

I didn’t believe him, but he was so right.

And I am glad I joined this club and got to meet them all.

So thank you – to each and every one of you for being part of this incredible journey. You are all amazing. The world is by far a better place for all who are born with an extra chromosome and for people like you.

I love this quote from Archbishop Chaput:

“These children…..are not a burden; they’re a priceless gift to all of us. They’re a doorway to the real meaning of our humanity. Whatever suffering we endure to welcome, protect and ennoble these special children is worth it because they’re a pathway to real hope and real joy”

For Darla, 

keep fighting

keep wriggling

keep joy giving

Priceless x


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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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Limping

Afraid. What does the future hold? Will my children be safe?

These are questions I’ve noticed many parents are asking on social media lately. So much to be afraid of.  Acts of terror creep ever closer to home. Paris. Long awaited trips to Disneyland being viewed rather more anxiously. Life just got a whole lot more scary.

Fears.

And yet for the parent of a child with additional needs these fears are already known only too well. They have loomed large since the day they were given a diagnosis.

Afraid. What does the future hold? Will my child be safe?

Like me, they stare over their sleeping child and ponder these things. Watching them breathing deeply and securely in their cot or bed. Smiling at the way they are lying or the way they are clutching onto a favourite blanket or teddy. Thoughts so quickly turn to the future.

Who will take care of her when I am gone?

Will anyone love her – really love her as I do, when I’m gone?

Will she be bullied because she is different? Because she has Down’s syndrome?

Will she be exploited? Taken advantage of?

Who will speak kindly to her when she is anxious or sad?

Who will hold her hand or give her a hug?

It’s not uncommon for many parents of children with disabilities to even wish that they outlive their child. They cannot see a future for their child without them being there to care for them.

It’s these fears that threaten to overwhelm me. Blink fast, swallow hard fears.

But they only ever threaten me.

I’m a Christian. Completely not cool.

According to the media and especially social media, I am someone to be mocked. Often laughed at, ridiculed, criticised and increasingly silenced.

I can live with that.

I can live with that because my faith is the only thing that can calm these overwhelming fears. The media can’t. Facebook can’t, neither can Twitter. Other people can’t, though of course I take huge comfort and encouragement in the words and experiences of others on a similar journey, whether or not they share my faith. I am thankful for them and value them enormously.

But, if having faith is a crutch to lean on then I am happy to keep limping. However uncool it may be.

The Bible has two particular things to say about Hazel ‘s life. They are my crutches. Whenever those fears threaten to overwhelm me once more I bring them to mind and lean heavily on them.

Firstly that God uses the weak things of this world to shame the strong.

Hazel is weak, undoubtedly.

Down’s syndrome is often seen as weakness. A flaw. Something undesirable. Something to be got rid of. Unwanted.

Not to God. And not to me. I have already seen how Hazel’s ‘weak’ life compares to the selfish, self centred lives of many ‘stronger’ or ‘wiser’ people. She has already brought more joy into our lives in four short years than some people will bring in a lifetime. She shames many. Each and every day.

Secondly, that God has plans for her life. Plans to prosper her and not to harm her.

Hazel’s life is no accident. She was planned. She has purpose. She has a future.

This doesn’t mean there won’t be problems, or challenges. This doesn’t mean she won’t face discrimination or even hate. But it does mean that her life will matter. Her life will make a difference. Her life will be cherished and she will be loved. I believe what God says. I have to. The alternative is too overwhelming for me.

I will keep limping.

Holding tightly onto my faith.

Stamping out those fears as I go.