COLUMN: Special needs weren't always recognized as such

People with special needs strike a sympathetic chord with me.

It brings to mind a family from a small Southern town who became concerned because their daughter didn’t appear to be maturing like other children her age. This was in the dark ages of the 1940s — light-years before the medical advances that have been made today.

The daughter was taken to some of the best doctors on the East Coast, including a renowned specialist in Boston. She was given a battery of tests. Many were excruciatingly frustrating to her because of her limited abilities.

It was also painful to her parents to see her so utterly baffled.

The diagnosis was finally made in the late 1940s. It was unanimous and really didn’t come as a surprise.

Nevertheless, it was devastating.

The doctors, to use a politically incorrect term by today’s exacting standards, said she was mentally retarded.

They gave her condition some gobbledygook name and hinted with scant sympathy the family might want to move on with their lives because nothing could be done to correct the problem.

The experts threw out one other tidbit as food for thought. Noting the family also had a younger child, the parents might want to consider how growing up with a mentally retarded sister might affect the youngster.

Why, they reasoned rather nonchalantly, it might not be good for the family. The younger sibling might possibly be adversely affected.

Maybe, they intimated, the family would want to ponder some alternatives.

But the choices were limited because there were few, if any, state-run facilities in those days for the mentally disabled, except for the insane asylum.

The family had to do some serious soul-searching. While the decision paled in comparison to the one made in William Styron’s epic novel, “Sophie’s Choice,” it was traumatic.

The daughter was sent to a private school in Illinois for those with similar disabilities. The drive by car took three days.

The daughter had no idea where she was going except “for a ride,” which she loved to do.

It was emotionally wrenching for the parents to uproot their 6-year-old daughter and leave her in an unfamiliar place 800 miles away. Their eyes teared up when they thought of leaving her with strangers.
Although retarded, she knew something was amiss and clung to her mother and father. She was bewildered and scared.

All she had as they drove slowly away was her favorite dolly. She was clutching it tightly to her chest. Tears were streaming down her face.

It was equally as agonizing in the car. The younger sibling stared out the back window at her, mystified beyond belief why she was being left behind. Everybody was crying in what some might have thought was an emotionally bereft family.

Nobody spoke for hours.

The daughter was moved to a school in Virginia in 1950, where she remained until 1976. Her father had died by then.

She now lives in a nearby state-run facility.

People still stare at her because she is different. Her family vividly recalls people pointing and laughing at her. She has never been able to talk, but can laugh with the best of them — particularly at those making fun of her.

Her mother loved her unconditionally throughout her life and remained totally devoted to her until her death at 92 in 2003.

Perhaps it’s best that she went on to her reward because her daughter fell in 2006. She broke her ankle severely and will never walk again.

She was born on Friday the 13th and celebrated her 67th birthday on Friday the 13th, 2009. Her father often wondered if being born on Friday the 13th was an omen.

But despite her disabilities, she is blessed with the ability to love. She has a smile that can melt hearts.

Just ask anybody who knows her, especially her brother, the writer of this column.