Margaret

by Neil Pauls

There were some indications of trouble immediately after my birth. By the time I was nine months old, my parents noticed that my development was delayed. I lacked the normal strength and gained weight slowly. Yet no one was prepared for the harsh reality that I was retarded.

Early diagnosis and information from experts were not available. Neighbours and friends from church provided little support to my family. On the contrary, some withdrew totally.

The sorrow my parents endured was a deep one, sometimes overwhelming, sometimes just beneath the surface of our daily lives. Our sole strength during those weeks and months was drawn from our Christian faith.

My quiet and gentle father spent every spare moment helping me learn to walk--at which I succeeded, albeit on my toes. My communication did not develop, however. Each year, I grew taller and stronger and more at peace with myself. Each year, as I learned to know my parents and sisters better, I found new ways of communicating with them, discovering how to tell them what I wanted and how I was feeling--in my own way, without a spoken word.

I spent hours and hours on the tricycle that my parents and sisters had patiently taught me to ride. It consumed most of my time. It was the first experience that made me feel independent and self-confident.

It was in these years that I made my deepest friendship. Together with my family, this friend was always at my side; he protected me and played with me, but most of all he trusted and liked me. The total acceptance of this friend has always been one reason why I feel like someone that is whole and worthy. This friend was Laddy, a young stray dog that our father had brought home one day.

Although I was growing older, I could not understand many things--like why I could never go to the school that my sisters attended, why children would laugh and run away from me or why my father seemed so alone and sad when I cried in my frustration.

Then came the day that changed my whole life. I have never been able to understand it. The doctor told my parents that it would be better to place me into an institution. Was this rejection, or was it just a loss? The choice was not mine. Father, Mother, Patricia, Beverley and my best friend Laddy were gone. I was wounded by something far deeper than my handicap.

Amid broken spirits and torn emotions for my family and myself, I spent the next 24 years at a "hospital school" and was then transferred to a "regional centre" for two years. These years spent behind locked doors in endless hours of idleness and barrenness, in overcrowded, noisy cell-like dungeons, cannot be described. The broken bones and scars are visible signs of the grossly inhumane conditions that existed; however, the deep wounds inflicted on my heart, mind and inner person cannot fully be comprehended and expressed. Like others around me, I despaired.

My aging parents faithfully drove the many miles to visit me regularly throughout all these years. They surprised me with gifts, supplied me with personal belongings (which almost always disappeared) and loved me more deeply each year.

In 1975 my family was delighted and relieved when they were informed that I would be moving to Bethesda Home in Vineland, Ont. Here, I have once again regained a sense of peace and contentment. I have learned numerous skills. I have had opportunities to experience and enjoy the many beautiful sights and events that others take for granted. I have developed relationships.

My parents and Laddy are only memories now. My sister, Bev, is maintaining our close family bond.

Recently, I celebrated my 50th birthday. I still don't understand corruption, bigotry, hatred and war. I try not to make demands on anyone, but to be good, gentle and peaceful. I am meant to be this way.

I also serve.

This article is based on the life story of Margaret Armstrong, a resident at Bethesda Home. It is written by Neil Pauls, social worker at Bethesda Services, a ministry of the Ontario MB Conference.

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