THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, March 5, 1995 TAG: 9503030012
SECTION: COMMENTARY PAGE: J4 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Opinion
SOURCE: By SUSAN LOCKAMY NORMAN
LENGTH: Medium: 77 lines
I'll never forget the first time I met Michael. He was 7. He had long, bushy hair, a shirt that wouldn't stay tucked in his pants, and drool spilling over his bottom lip.
It was Easter Sunday 1979, and Michael, who lived at Holiday House in Portsmouth, was my boyfriend's severely retarded, autistic son. On this Easter afternoon, he entertained himself by plugging and unplugging the headphones in a stereo, making the music start and stop suddenly. It drove me crazy. I was glad he wasn't mine.
A few months later, Michael's father asked me to marry him. After I happily accepted his proposal, he popped a second question. ``What about Michael? I always thought that if I married again, I would like to give Michael a home.''
My response to Jack's second question was a chuckle, peppered with arrogance. ``I'm sorry, Jack but I don't think I was put on Earth to raise a retarded kid.''
At the time, I was a reporter for The Virginian-Pilot. I had bigger and more important things to do with my life, I was certain. Anyway, I had never liked being around handicapped people. What really got to me was when their families brought them out to restaurants where I was eating. They turned my stomach.
I didn't see Michael again until July, a week or so after Jack and I were married. That's when the boy, who had an IQ in the low 30s, began splitting his weekend visits between his mother and us.
On his home visits, Michael needed help dressing, going to the bathroom and cleaning himself afterward. He used a bib at meals instead of a napkin and picked up most of his food with his hands, much like a 1-year-old. He said very little, usually one word over and over and over again. Like ``washing machine'' or ``dryer.''
I didn't know a thing about handicapped children. What did surprise me, though, was that as I got to know the little guy, I stopped seeing him as a retarded person. I began to get to know, and to love, the fellow inside.
That Christmas, as the newspaper's medical reporter, I was invited to attend a holiday dinner hosted by a local medical society. I approached a well-known ophthalmologist who had treated Michael since birth. I couldn't wait to tell the physician how much progress Michael was making.
Almost in midsentence, this doctor stopped me. ``Susan, don't get your hopes up about that little boy. He's not going to do much.''
The doctor's words paralyzed me. Did he see something I didn't see? Was I engaged in wishful thinking about my husband's poor little retarded son?
The doubts abruptly severed the bond that had been developing for the past five months. It wasn't until months later, when Michael's mother took him to that same doctor for an eye exam, that I knew I should have trusted my instincts. At the bottom of the examination form, he had written: ``This child has progressed significantly further than I ever would have imagined.''
Two years later, when I left the newspaper to become a full-time parent of my first baby, Michael came to live with his father and me. Those were some of the most difficult years of my life. There were many times when I didn't think my marriage or my sanity would survive the challenge. There were times when I wondered if the physicians attending Michael's premature birth had done any of us a favor in fighting for his life.
But I did survive Michael Norman. We all did. He left us after four years at home and has received additional training at two residential schools. As a wise doctor once told Michael's heartbroken mother, it would take the love and hard work of many people to help her son reach his potential. He was correct.
Today, this 23-year-old young man has an almost normal IQ. He lives in a beautiful group home in Waynesboro that is operated by the Presbyterian Home & Family Services, and he works full-time on a contract with Reynolds Aluminum.
This imperfect human being, whom I and one of the best doctors in Hampton Roads once thought was not worthy of my time, is now the greatest source of continuous joy in my life. MEMO: Ms. Norman is a resident of Chesapeake.
by CNB