Post #2 in category. We suggest reading posts in numerical order.
In 1972, I was a young psychology graduate student. From time to time, my supervising professor asked me to give lectures to his classes. In my lectures, I would present data and statistics and graphs to students who were often years older than I was. I was proud to be a graduate teaching assistant and was becoming more confident in my subject, in my teaching and in myself.
One evening, I received a telephone call from an old high school friend living in another State. I had been the best man at his wedding. “Hi Shlomo, last night Lisa had a baby. That’s great, congratulations. The baby has Down Syndrome and has a bad heart.” “Oh, no. I’m sorry.” “The reason I’m calling is that the doctors and nurses are telling us we should not be with the baby because we will get attached and it will be too difficult to give her up. They said there are special institutions with experts who know how to take care of children like her with disabilities. You are in psychology, what should we do?”
My mind raced. I tried to remember data points and theories that I had studied and even taught, but I went blank. I couldn’t speak. I felt I had been punched in the face by real life. He asked again, “We have to decide tomorrow.”
I wish I could help, but I don’t know.
“I don’t know what to tell you. It is between you and Lisa and your doctors. I wish I could help, but I don’t know. I am in another field of psychology. I’m sorry, but I don’t know. It’s not for me to say. I know it can’t be easy for you. I hope to God that whatever decision you guys make, it works out for the baby and for you.” I wanted to say, “Let me know how I can help,” but he had already asked for help, and I had nothing. So, I said, “Sorry,” again, “let me know how things are going.” I was so ashamed.
I often thought about my friend and that call, but I did not hear from him. I called him some years later. He told me, “Lisa could not bring herself to give up the baby. We took the baby home, and from that day on, Lisa and I have loved Amy. We taught her how to walk, how to feed herself, and how to talk. She had a heart operation and is doing fine. Amy is the sweetest, cutest, friendliest little girl in the world. She is the best thing in our lives.”
I have spent the rest of my life learning from young children with developmental delays, from their parents, from dedicated and insightful teachers and therapists, and from the neurodivergent community so that I might have something worthwhile to offer when I am asked.
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