`You do things not in spite of your disability, but because of it. I'm not saying that suffering is divine. Suffering hurts, but we learn to take these things and use them as building blocks for moving on, and they can be very productive. When something devastating happens to you, it depends on how you perceive it; you see it either as the end of the world, or as an opportunity to create a new life for yourself. Every human being does this, it's just that for some of us, it just looks more dramatic. I'm no different to any other single person in loads of ways, except that I am blessed, because I could not have created anything as beautiful as Laura.
Laura is wonderful - the sunshine of my life. She is proud of being gypsy, and she should be, because it carries a cultural heritage. She knows she is beautiful, and especially that she is beautiful from the inside out. Her teachers have told me that she's very bright. They call her "smiler" and, when she plays, she sings away to herself. At two-and-a-half she asked me, "Why am I brown and you have spots?" I explained to her that she is a Romanian who has moved to Ireland and become Irish. We keep a picture of her first mother, Gica, on the shelf, because Laura knows that she is adopted and I want her to feel a connection to her first mother. We celebrate Laura's birthday (today, March 22nd) as the day her first mother gave her life and April 17th as the day of her adoption.
In January 1991, I saw a report on Sky News about the children suffering in Romanian orphanages. These children were going to die and no human being was going to touch them with love. I don't know if you want to call it fate, but it's my belief that somewhere in the pages of my life it was determined that I would still be single at the age of 37 and that I would be moved when I saw that report. Not just moved emotionally, but moved to move. A lot of people would have wanted to do what I did, but not many were free to do it.
When I went to Romania, I had reached a stage where I was asking, "If I've lived all my life and learned all these wonderful things, who am I going to pass it on to?" I wanted to share it with someone. At first I thought: "I'm 37, I'm single and I'm disabled - am I mad?" But I was thoroughly assessed by a social worker here in the Republic, who advised that I should be allowed to adopt. I bonded with Laura from the moment I laid eyes on her. Laura is the Romanian name given to her by her mother. She was 11 days old and very, very ill. Because of her gypsy heritage, they would not waste food on her. She was covered in streptococcal sores. She was tiny, with black hair everywhere that spiked up on top of her head like a fluffy bird. Laura's mother had given birth to her in hospital, then left her there, and who would have blamed her? She was 15 years old and Laura was her fourth child.
Under Ceausescu's law, a girl was required to be married by 12 and have five children by the age of 19. Laura's mother believed that leaving her in hospital was a good choice and she was right - it worked out. I met her mother in order to get her permission to adopt Laura. I speak no Romanian and she had no English so we spoke through an interpreter. I have since tried unsuccessfully to find Gica, to let her know that Laura is okay.
I took Laura from the hospital to an apartment, bought her penicillin on the black market and hired a nurse to administer it to her with clean needles that I had brought from Dublin. I got a paediatrician to come to the apartment, but he refused to enter the room because he didn't want to go near a brown baby. He got me to strip her and hold her up to the light for him to see. She was covered in boils, which I had to break and clean. The awful part was that Laura never cried.
When I got her home to Dublin at one month old, she was less than four pounds in weight. She had deteriorated until there was nothing left but skin and bone. I brought her to a paediatrician at the Rotunda, and I remember him saying he had read of cases of streptococcal infection like Laura's, but had never seen it before. They were very nice at the Rotunda, but I think that they were rather horrified because I hadn't understood that Laura was actually dying when I found her. I think I was in shock: I went into a kind of auto-pilot - she was my child and I was going to save her.
I have cerebral palsy, which affects my left arm and leg. When I was born in the 1950s, I was called a spastic, which had very negative undertones and determined how people perceived you - as a result you suffered from everything from bad jokes to the idea that you were mentally disabled. When I was four years old, my mum brought me to the local national school. The head nun said they couldn't have me in the class because I'd frighten the other children. I'll never forget it. I had no concept of being disabled, so I thought she meant that my face looked frightening. That stayed with me for a long time.
My mother persevered and sat at the desk with me until the nuns agreed to let me stay, but it was always made clear to me that I was unwelcome. I remember, in secondary school, everyone was sent home to sew a puppet onto a glove. I could not do that, so my father sewed it for me, and wrote a note to the nun asking her to please excuse me, as I could not do it myself. The nun stood and humiliated me by reading the note to the whole class. Then she asked if anyone knew what an amadan was, that I was an amadan and idiots like me should not be with normal people. I was 13 years old. That was the compassion of the nuns. an, then I was one. She said I would only achieve sweeping the sun out of the corner. I believed her. I could not tell my parents what she said because it terrified me that they would tell me she was dead on.
I left school at 16, took a secretarial course, became a bookkeeper and worked in administration for the next 25 years. When I was 20, I took my first stroke, but neither I nor my doctor noticed it, because it affected the same side of my body as the cerebral palsy. What would have been a traumatic paralysis to someone else, was not noticeable to me. At the time, I was determined to correct my body, after everything I had been through with the nuns. At the age of 22, I had my hip dropped surgically for realignment. I had the shin bone from my good leg put into the wrist of my left hand to correct the floppiness, and I had the Achilles tendon stretched as well. I wanted so badly to be perceived as "normal". I did not think of myself as trying to hide my disability, because in my mind I was not disabled. I functioned extremely well, I was independent, I had a good job and, as far as I was concerned, for the next 18 years I was healthy.
Then in 1992, a year after I adopted Laura, I had my second stroke and saw a neurologist for the first time. He told me he believed that a percentage of those with cerebral palsy who had achieved a high level of competence, like myself, were progressing to another level of the disease, whereby the symptoms gradually worsen. He told me bluntly: "You have a choice, either rear your child or stay in work but you can't do both". I ignored the information, but I did resign from work and moved to a quieter pace of life. The symptoms seemed to abate, but then, in November 1994, I had the third stroke. I got up and dusted myself off and went on with it. I always look for the learning curve in every new situation, and in hospital, I realised how very, very lucky I was.
I remember in physiotherapy, meeting one woman who had cancer and was in terrible pain. I recognised that while I was in pain, at least it was a healing pain. Laura had not started school, so I decided to move to a new life in Northern Ireland. One of the wonderful things they have there is a mobility allowance of about £150 per month, which you can surrender for the car of your choice. It's insured, taxed and everything. The car gave me legs and freedom. On the wet days, I could bring Laura to school, I could take her swimming, we could visit people without a bother. Laura could experience things with me because Mummy wasn't tied down. For the two years that I had the car, I was walking on air.
After two years, I returned from Northern Ireland. I had no choice. While I worked in an integrated school there, where I had wonderful work colleagues, the situation wasn't necessarily the same on the estates. Back in Dublin, I linked up with the Eastern Health Board and Clare McDonnell, an occupational therapist, who became a part of my life. She gently suggested that I would benefit from using a motorised wheelchair, but at the beginning I didn't want to hear it. She was constantly on the other end of the phone, helping me to come to terms with the reality of the physical changes that were happening. Then I had my fourth stroke. Another neurologist explained to me that my strokes were probably stress-related. I took a six-week stress management course, which helped me learn what stress was and how to switch it off when I felt under pressure.
I HAVE a wheelchair now, but it is too big for the bus, so to get anywhere I have to walk on sticks to the bus stop. It's a five-minute walk for anyone else, but it takes me 30 minutes. It could take me an hour to get to Swords from my house in Donabate. By the time I get to the school to collect Laura, I'm totally exhausted. So another parent kindly collects her, but this saddens me because Laura's still my only little petal and I hate to miss the feeling of her face lighting up when she sees me. Other parents take her swimming and to McDonalds with their children, which is fantastic, but what I wouldn't give to be able to do these things with Laura. There should be a scheme in the Republic, like the one in Northern Ireland, where the disabled can lease a car at a low cost.
Rather than getting depressed about my lack of mobility, I try to see the bright side of everything, because I want Laura to experience a more positive mother. One of the most joyful things that happened recently was when Laura and I went to the park, with me in my motorised wheelchair and Laura on her bike, and she said: "My class are going to be jealous because my Mammy has a deadly wheelchair".
Because of my disability, Laura has had to develop into a very independent young lady. I cannot use my left side, so when she was small, she would hang onto me like a monkey so that I could make her bottles with my good arm. She is very considerate and will naturally open doors for people. But she does not look after me and I wouldn't want her to. Laura's main interest is Barbie and will she eventually marry Ken.
The way I think of Laura is that her mother gave her life the first time, and I was privileged to give her life the second time. Laura and I met at a perfect point; I needed her the same way she needed me and we healed each other. The most beautiful thing in the world is having someone who loves you unconditionally and that surely is a gift from the gods. The last eight years have been wonderful and I would like to believe that I will grow to see Laura grow into a healthy and mature woman. But if that is not to be, I have provided for her to be loved, cared for and protected until she is ready to venture out.
In conversation with Kathryn Holmquist
Email at kathryn.holmquist@isite.ie