On a few rare occasions in the last five years, while playing with my son, Wade, I've been startled to think, "He looks as if he has Down syndrome." And then in the same split second, I remember, "Ah, yes—he does." It is always with utmost astonishment that I realize I've had such an exchange in my brain.
When Wade was born, I thought I would never be able to forget that extra chromosome. It would, I assumed, be a rain cloud that would hover nearby forever—my own personal weather system with a gloomy extended outlook. So now, when I experience those flashes of forgetfulness, it makes me laugh with joy!
Who knew it would be this way? Who knew life with Down syndrome would become so routine, so part of the ordinary—to be noticed in the same way I notice the distinctions in my other boys: that fleeting expression of Randall's that's so much like his cousin Kari, or the way Christopher tells stories with sound effects in the same manner as Uncle Kent.
Some time ago, I read a fascinating true account of a group of people living on Martha's Vineyard who had been affected by a form of hereditary deafness. By the mid-1800s, as many as one out of four people exhibited deafness in some of the villages. Because of this widespread occurrence, everyone in the community learned sign language. Years later, during interviews conducted by an anthropologist, old acquaintances lovingly described their memories about their families and friends without ever mentioning the fact that they were deaf. It was only when the interviewer asked if these people were not, indeed, deaf that people would stop to think and then say, "Now that you mention it, yes, Ebenezer was deaf." I found that extraordinarily touching. How lovely to read of a world where people were not identified by their limitations, but were first humans, neighbors, friends, fishermen—whatever anyone was. They just happened to have that little quirk of being deaf. The sharing of a common language (sign), resulted in a person's deafness becoming irrelevant—and an observer wouldn't be able to distinguish who was deaf and who wasn't.
And so, it is with gratitude that I go on learning—about myself, about others, and about the bond that connects us all. This journey of transformation makes the words of poet John Magee all the more relevant: "I have slipped the surly bonds of earth...put out my hand, and touched the face of God."
Karen Strite, parent, Augusta, GA |
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