Читать книгу Living Beyond My Circumstances - Deborah L Willows - Страница 10

3. A Slight Setback

Before my days as a Paralympic athlete and boccia referee, we faced some challenging times. My parents have often shared with me their first memories of our little family.

“Why can’t we hold our little girl? Is she all right? Everyone else gets to hold their babies.”

My dad stood beside her, holding Mom’s hand and doing his best to comfort her as they watched me through the window. “She’s in intensive care. They’re doing all they can for her.”

Because of oxygen deprivation at birth, I spent the first seven days of my life in the neonatal intensive care unit at Victoria Hospital in London, Ontario. Although they could visit me, neither of my parents could hold me. At the end of the week, the nurse placed me in my mother’s arms for the first time. Mom smiled down at me, then hugged me close. For the next four days, the nurses brought me to my mom daily.

“Mrs. Willows.”

“Yes.”

“We’re releasing you and the baby tomorrow.”

Her smile lit up the room.

My dad came to get us the next day. “We’re going home, Debbie.” His eyes sparkled.

Like all new parents, they showed me off to family and friends. Everything seemed to be fine. It wasn’t until I was six months old that they realized something was wrong.

“Aren’t babies supposed to be sitting on their own by this time?” my dad asked.

Mom nodded.

This was just the beginning. They took me to doctors all over the city, seeking answers. Finally a diagnosis was made.

“Your daughter has CP,” the doctor said. After a brief pause, he added, “You should put her in an institution where they are equipped to care for children with her condition. It would just be too hard for you.” Another pause. “Then you can get on with your lives.”

My mom’s eyes filled with tears.

“Absolutely not,” my father said.

In the days following, my mom and dad had many serious conversations.

“Why do you think God gave us a daughter with a disability?” Mom asked.

“I really don’t know.”

My mom hung her head. “How can we cope? And how will we explain it to everyone?”

Dad shrugged. “We’ve been Christians for a long time. We go to church and try to do what’s right...”

After a lot of discussion and soul-searching, my dad came to a conclusion. “This is the child God gave us, and we have to accept her as she is.” And that was the end of it.

My parents got down to the task of raising me the way they would any child—with, of course, some special considerations.

When I was four I was fitted with metal leg braces to help me walk. I used them every day until I was 13. No fancy shoes. Just ugly brown boots. And a two-hour car ride to Hamilton whenever I outgrew the braces and needed new ones.

“Mom, they’re cold.” I shivered.

“I know, Deb, but you’ve got to wear them—even in the winter.”

“Dad, they’re so hot.”

“Debbie...”

I sighed. There was no use arguing. My parents did their best to understand the challenges I faced, but they did not allow me to get away with feeling sorry for myself.