THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, February 14, 1996 TAG: 9602130105
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 08 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Cover Story
SERIES: SPECIAL REPORT: MENTAL RETARDATION
SOURCE: BY NANCY LEWIS, CORRESPONDENT
LENGTH: Long : 139 lines
When you are told that your child has not long to live, parenting becomes a different matter altogether.
``We concentrated on fulfillment, not discipline,'' says Carolyn Strickland, whose son Hank surprised doctors by living past 6 months.
Now 40 years old, Hank Strickland is afflicted with Down syndrome, a genetic condition that results in varying degrees of mental retardation and handicapping physical abnormalities. Hank Strickland is profoundly retarded, non-verbal and has severe heart problems. By age 8, he had been hospitalized several times each year suffering from heart failure and pneumonia.
Despite the obstacles, the Strickland family persevered and, thanks in large part to city and state services, Hank leads a full and happy life.
``He has dignity, pride, confidence and competence in so many things with services,'' Carolyn Strickland says.
Hank Strickland is the youngest of Carolyn and Henry Strickland's three children. The Kings Grant couple are retired, but she formerly owned and operated a gift shop on Atlantic Avenue and he was an aircraft mechanic.
Carolyn Strickland has no trouble communicating with son Hank despite his inability to articulate. She recalls an example of their unspoken rapport.
She had come home from work and wanted to relax in a hot tub, so Carolyn Strickland told Hank, the only other person home at the time, not to answer the door while she was bathing. When a knock came, he apparently forgot her admonition because he opened the door to find two men he did not know. But after remembering what his mother had said, he quickly stepped outside, closing and locking the door behind him. Then young Hank began banging on the door himself.
``It was him saying, `I don't know you. Mama has to let you in,' '' remembers his mother with a chuckle. ``I was proud of him.''
The Stricklands now spend time with Hank in his group home, Blackwatch, where he lives with four severely handicapped people who require 24-hour supervision. And the Stricklands stop by to see their son at Skillquest, the city activity program near Mount Trashmore that he attends each weekday. They also have plans to take him on some family vacations in the near future.
``He has a heart of love,'' Carolyn Strickland says, recounting another memory of her son's childhood. ``When I had surgery, I couldn't go up and down stairs. He would take my arm and help me. He is very loving.''
Raising a handicapped child was more difficult three and four decades ago than it is today.
Back then, few services were available to help the mentally retarded and their families. Schools did not provide special classes, and no respite care was offered so that parents could take a break from the round-the-clock demands. Neither was there early intervention such as the Infant Stimulation program now available. Workshops and group homes were as yet unheard of. And there was no provision for assuring continued care after a parent's death such as the Community Trust fund now used for that purpose.
During the 1950s and '60s, caring for profoundly and severely retarded children in the home was a new idea, and, for those who opted to do so, the challenge of building a meaningful life for their child fell mainly on parents. As more mentally handicapped children were kept at home, schools and clinics accumulated waiting lists for psychological testing. The city and state were hard pressed to cope with the demand.
With her indomitable spirit, Carolyn Strickland determined to improve life not only for her son but for others with mental retardation.
While Hank was a toddler, she became active in the Tidewater Association for Retarded Citizens, serving as its executive director for 20 years. She worked to raise consciousness about the needs of mentally retarded persons. One of her first challenges was to enlist the support of the public school system.
``TARC pledged support for the schools, equipment, if schools would have classes,'' she recalls. ``There was so little in the budgets'' for those with mental retardation.
Once the idea took hold, several educational programs were developed. Even so, no provisions were made for severely and profoundly retarded children, so Hank Strickland went from the preschool program operated by the association into Chesapeake's Southeastern Virginia Training Center where he learned skills that would serve him well when he moved away from his parents and into a group home. In the summer, Hank would spend two weeks at Triple C Lodge, a summer camp for mentally retarded children formerly known as Civitan, operated by Family Services, a private organization later joined by TARC.
TARC pointed out needs and enlisted volunteers to help in the realization of goals, Strickland said.
Demonstration programs the association instituted encouraged other cities to act even before the state mandated services for mentally retarded citizens. For example, TARC was instrumental in starting the Infant Stimulation program in the 1960s. Today, the early intervention helps impaired children from birth to age 2, when the public school system must begin providing help.
While volunteers back then were not always certified, they provided something unavailable otherwise. ``Maybe they didn't have degrees, but they had the skills,'' Carolyn Strickland remembers.
The volunteerism begun decades ago continues today in the form of a board of citizens who give their time and energy to oversee services and care for the mentally ill, the mentally retarded and substance abusers.
``The Community Services Board has refined, expanded'' the initiatives begun by early volunteers, Carolyn Strickland explains. ``They (the board members) are committed to the people they serve irregardless of money. I'd hate to see them replaced. The system would lose some of its humanity.
``It's a wonderful partnership of volunteers and governmental agencies. The parents stay in close touch.
``But,'' she continues, ``. . . the surface has just been scratched.''
Carolyn Strickland wants to see clients on waiting lists served in a timely fashion, to expand work and recreational opportunities and to offer ``trips like families take.''
Despite the challenges, Carolyn Strickland is thankful for the opportunity to help her son. And were she given the option, as many women are today, of pre-natal testing for Down syndrome or other abnormalities, she would turn it down.
``I would trust God to give me a child, and wouldn't want to make a decision'' to terminate a pregnancy, she says. ``If I had it to do over, I wouldn't change a thing. He's been a teacher for us and others. It was like he was the example and the rest of us were following.'' MEMO: [For a related story, see page 8 of The Beacon for this date.
SPECIAL REPORT: SUNDAY: MENTAL ILLNESS, TODAY: MENTAL RETARDATION,
FRIDAY: SUBSTANCE ABUSE.
ILLUSTRATION: [Cover, Color photo]
A COMMUNITY SAFETY NET FOR THE MENTALLY RETARDED
ON THE COVER
Christina Day, a mental health assistant at the Skillquest Center in
Virginia Beach, comforts Hank Strickland in a staff photo by D.
KEVIN ELLIOTT.
Staff photos by D. KEVIN ELLIOTT
Hank Strickland is comforted by his mother, Carolyn, during a visit
to Skillquest, the city activity program near Mount Trashmore. Hank,
40, has Down syndrome and likes to hold newspaper.
Henry Strickland provides an encouraging pat for his son, Hank, who
with the help of behavior specialist Susan Howell at Skillquest, is
learning how to communicate such words as ``hungry'' and ``tired.''
KEYWORDS: MENTAL RETARDATION
by CNB