Whitehorse by Katherine Sutcliffe Page A

influence, and the fact that his own grandson had been afflicted with cerebral palsy, would bring statewide if not nationwide interest to their plight. He could certainly spearhead the drive to get the government to cough up more money for future research.
    She would speak to him, of course. But they must understand politicians … so much to do and so little time to do it…
    The meeting came to order. Shelley welcomed the newcomers, then invited them to stand and introduce themselves.
    Tom and Betty Thackery were in their early thirties. He was an insurance salesman. She was, or had been, a CPA for a local accounting firm. They had waited ten years to have a child, making certain there was money in savings to handle the costs. They'd bought a nice house with a big backyard because they believed children needed a lot of space to run and play in…
    Their daughter had been born two months premature. First the baby seemed fine. It wasn't until she was nearly eight months old before they realized there was a problem. It began with seizures…
    The doctors could not tell them for sure how the damage had been caused. Could have been due to the early birth, as was most cases of CP.
    Betty blamed herself. Obviously she had not done something right during her pregnancy…
    They didn't know if they could cope with the aspect of caring for a handicapped child for the rest of their lives. They were struggling with guilt over the fact that they did not want to—why were they being punished? What had they done in their lives to warrant God's burdening them with such a catastrophe?
    Why, dear God, could the child not have died in delivery and saved them all from this nightmare? Betty wept into her hands, fingers hiding her shamed face, shoulders shaking as her husband hugged her, consoled her, and cried himself.
    Shelley went to Betty and took her in her arms. "We've all thought the same thing. Why us? What could we have done differently? And there are times still, when we look out on a normal world full of normal children and ache to see our own chase kites, and play ball, and tap dance in tutus on a stage before proud giddy parents. We would love to go out in public with our children and not be stared at with pity and morbid curiosity. We would love to go into a restaurant or a movie without fearing the reaction of others. We would love to grow deaf to the taunts and jeers of healthy children whose cruelty stems from ignorance and not meanness. We would love to know the feel of our own sons' and daughters' arms around our necks, of their warm, wet kisses on our cheeks, of their squeals of pleasure on Christmas morning.
    "But those pleasures are so minor compared to the moment your little girl finally manages to say 'mama,' to reach for your hand, to read her first word. Or the sparkle in her eyes when she knows she's pleased you. She may never walk, or run, or gather daisies in a meadow and present them to you on your birthday, but she will love you—never doubt that for a moment. Her brain may be damaged, but not her soul. It is as vibrant and strong as a thousand healthy bodies. Let it carry you, and you both will learn to soar with eagles."
    Dana Carpenter sat forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, hands clasped loosely together. "I remember when my son was born prematurely. I told my best friend, 'I don't think I can cope if something goes wrong with my baby.' And she said, 'Yes you will. You will because you have to. God never gives us more to bear than we can handle.' Now I like to think that God gifted me with my son because He thought I was special."
    Shelley took her chair and crossed her legs. "My husband left me when Michael was still a baby. Hell, I hadn't worked in several years. The only job I could expect to get was answering phones. That salary wouldn't even cover paying for private day care for my son, much less his therapy and medications, which were running nearly three thousand dollars a month. Fortunately my