Special Olympics and the R-word

I know I really shouldn't be sensitive. Back in the day when I was much younger and inexperienced/unwise/unfeeling/uncaring/shallow/infantile I made Special Olympics jokes or called someone or something "retarded." I would make fun of "retarded people." Folks do it all the time. Just like when someone takes the name of God in vain, I cringe inside each time. When someone says "Jesus Christ!" to exclaim disbelief or irritation about something, I always say to myself "Bless His Holy Name." But when someone says "that's so retarded!" I usually keep silent, although I always feel like I'm about to bust. I'm not alone. Ask any mother or father of a child with DS- a child who may have had a heart surgery (or two) before his first birthday, or was born with such low muscle tone she is just limp, and the mere act of nursing is next to impossible. Ask those parents if that child is any less of a person than the well child next to him. Ask those parents if they love that child any less because he's "not perfect." Every time I look at Angela, I don't see a retarded/imperfect/broken child. I see OUR child, whom we love just like the others, her own perfect little self and all her assets and flaws there to see like every other child on earth. Now, whenever I see someone else's "handicapped" child, I know that is THEIR Angela, and well, we just "know." It's a silent sorority of mothers who love their children, period.

I can't make it stop. Even the president will do it, and he's supposedly the nonjudgemental messiah here to make all men equal. He can be the ultimate representative of the downtrodden poor, all the while counting his $51 million, laughing while the working (and not working) people wallow at his feet as he promotes his sham. And makes retarded jokes. Isn't he funny and witty? Give me a break.

Faith and Reason

"If the work of God could be comprehended by reason, it would be no longer wonderful, and faith would have no merit if reason provided proof." -Pope Gregory I

I came across this today while reading a DS article and it struck me just how much faith plays a role in my life. I have a friend whose blog is often wrought with drama and annoyances and "issues," and how hard it is to overcome these issues and how every little problem is SUCH an inconvenience. And I know my faith is what keeps me from that vortex of wishing things were different, or better, or somehow smoother. I guess we all wish for things to be better, and usually it's financially better, of which I claim no exception, and we may even pray to God that He somehow lifts us out of worry and stress-heck, a nice lottery check would be nice. But that is where a good Christian continues... God, I wish you could help me with xxxx problem. But if it's Your will that it not happen the way I would wish, so be it. I will carry each cross to the best of my ability, for You. That is the comportment we should have. And it ain't easy. But like all habits, good and bad, once you are in the habit of acceptance, working like it's all up to you and praying like it's all up to God, it's easier to do.

I remember when Jeff had his serious accident, a friend, blubbery and distraught said to me, "Shelley, he might lose his eye!" My first and only response was "But the other eye is okay, right?" To which someone might say to me, "But what if the other eye weren't alright?" Well, then, I say we go to the next "good" thing. Can he talk? Feel? Hear? Is he dead? If he's dead, was he wearing his scapular? Can we find the priest now? There is bound to be something good, somewhere. And we just need to focus on that.

And all of these inner conversations and thoughts and wishes are due to my faith. Not what I can see and touch and count with reason. I always find it interesting how the erudite like to belittle the faithful, as if their reason and science are oh so much superior in intelligence to the sheep who follow an unseen God. I certainly don't feel any dumb-er since I became a Christian. In fact, I have grown in wisdom and love that I never would have had. I would be a cold sob right now. Really.

I love Thee, O Christ, and I bless Thee,
Because by Thy Holy Cross Thou hast redeemed the world. Miserere nobis.

Our chattering Angela...

Angela is quite a character these days. Since most of you don't have the pleasure of having a child or sibling with Down Syndrome, I must say we parents tend to micromanage everything. For example, most of us don't worry whether our child will be able to distinguish his colors, match and sort objects by color or shape or whatever, or say his words clearly and meaningfully before he goes to kindergarten. Because most the time we just know they will do those things whether we teach them or no. But when you have a child with DS, and all the research tells you that early intervention and practice sets up the neural pathways that may not connect otherwise, you tend to watch and worry and, if you're like me, wonder if you're ever doing enough.
At 2 1/2, Angie talks A LOT. Unfortunately, most the time we have NO IDEA what she is talking about. She points and uses appropriate facial expressions and inflections and gestures, and most the time I know what she's trying to get across because some of the words are quite good. But every so often I have to just throw up my hands and say, "Ang, I have NO idea what you're talking about." She gets a little frustrated by this, because usually she is begging for some food item I am denying to get for her. Sometimes it's like she is telling a story, recounting something. But it's a lot of gibberish. Thankfully, she has the best speech therapist in town. Angela's therapists (speech, physical, and developmental) are known as the "dream team" around here. And her speech therapist assures me that Angela's incoherent chatter, scattered with s's and o's and ah's and t's, is merely her practicing for when she gets everything together, and she foresees Angela having excellent speech.
I've always said Ang's speech is most important to me. I want people to know her, and if she can't carry on conversation well, no one will listen to her. I don't want her to be invisible like that. I friend of mine is deaf, and she is so funny and witty. She reads lips very well, but she doesn't speak very clearly; she is hard to understand. And I realize now that she is easy to "ignore." I don't mean ignore on purpose, but it takes actual work to converse with her because you have to concentrate so hard. And most folks are in too much of a hurry to chat with someone when it requires work... So, yet another lesson comes from being Angela's mom. I never would have thought of that if it weren't for little Angie. She teaches us something every day.

A Little Bit 'O Spring...and a Walk to Beautiful...

So it's going to be 78 degrees today, then down in the 40's by tomorrow, to last a few days. I am trying really hard to keep things in perspective, remembering that any weather God gives to us is His will, and I should "rejoice and be glad in it" because it is His day. Especially during Lent.
I was up in the middle of the night a few days ago (Angela was having a hard time sleeping or had a bad dream or something, so I got up to sit with her for awhile until she fell asleep.) Anywho, I flip channels around to the PBS station (thanks to our fancy new DTVConverter!) and find a NOVA program called "A Walk to Beautiful." It was a tragic yet hopeful documentary about the plight of women in impoverished countries, Ethiopia in this case, who have no access to medical care, and suffer "fistulas" when they are in labor for days upon days. The result is chronic incontinence, no control of bowels or urine whatsoever in many of the women. They are shunned and secluded because of this injury, and many are young girls who have been raped or married very young. The "Walk" part is that there are hospitals and doctors who are addressing the problem, largely made possible from a charitable foundation called the Fistula Foundation, but the afflicted women often must walk hundreds of miles to get to them. Once there, they are given surgeries to correct the problem (it is curable!), a clean dress, and a bus ticket home. It reminded me how good we have it, despite all the complaining I may do. It reminded me that those people are no less people than I. I could just as easily be there as here.
Just as I never understood what it meant to have a handicapped child until I had one of my own, or deal with serious injuries such as Jeff's until he had them, I am sure I could have no true understanding of life as an Ethiopian woman living in Godless squalor. Despite modern communication and travel, the world is still very very big. I am feeling very small and insignificant indeed.