off the phone. When the shock wore off, the tears came. However, in less than an hour, I came to the realization that God hadn’t let me down in the past and He wasn’t about to start. He would see me through.
My parents came home from holidays on the Saturday, and by Sunday we had tracked down my surgeon’s home number. She graciously accepted the call, and we discussed what would happen next.
“We’ll do exploratory surgery to see the extent of the endometriosis,” the doctor said, “and then a follow-up procedure will likely be scheduled.” She paused briefly. “Debbie, you’ll probably need a hysterectomy.”
My parents and I talked at length with her, and she agreed that it would be best to perform the hysterectomy at the first surgery. It didn’t make sense to subject me to two procedures.
When I was 16, I had been scheduled for a hysterectomy. At that point, nothing was wrong—except that I had CP. Routine sterilization was common for people with disabilities. I didn’t want to go through with it, because I hoped to, one day, have children. When the whole controversy hit the news, the hospital dropped me from the surgical schedule for fear of the backlash. At 35, with a diagnosis of endometriosis, things were different.
On April 1 I underwent the procedure. I was in the hospital for nine days and was abundantly thankful for family and friends who could meet my needs. The nursing staff did their best, but they weren’t trained to assist patients with disabilities. I was especially touched by my brother Terry.
“Hey, Sis,” he said before the surgery, “if you need a transfusion, I’m your guy. I don’t want you getting some stranger’s blood. You never know what can happen with this whole contamination thing.”
Although I missed celebrating Easter with my church family, I didn’t miss my brother Dan’s wedding. The last week of May, I flew to Belgium with my friend and assistant Cathy. Terry, his wife and their six-week-old baby came with us. Mom and Dad had flown over the month before to help with the preparations.
“What a great camp,” Cathy said.
“Yeah, Grace arranged for us to stay here,” I said. “This is where they’ll hold one of the ceremonies.”
“One of them?”
“They have to have a civil ceremony at city hall. Then they’ll come back here for the Christian service.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
The ceremony at city hall was performed in French, and the city employees who attended were dressed in traditional clothes from the 1800s. After the half-hour ceremony, we did pictures, ate lunch, then headed back for the second ceremony, which Grace’s father, Jonathan McRostie, officiated.
My brother Terry, who was a pastor in Belleville, gave the message at Dan and Grace’s wedding.
Two days later, Cathy and I, Terry and his family, and my parents flew home. Dan and Grace joined us the following Saturday. We held a second reception for them at our church in London.
“Isn’t her dress beautiful?” one of the ladies said.
“Lovely.”
It was a great evening, but Grace and I woke up the next morning very sick. It seems a week and a half of wedding celebrations proved to be a little too much.
Carrying the torch in London, ON, 1996
3. A Slight Setback
Before my days as a Paralympic athlete and boccia referee, we faced some challenging times. My parents have often shared with me their first memories of our little family.
“Why can’t we hold our little girl? Is she all right? Everyone else gets to hold their babies.”
My dad stood beside her, holding Mom’s hand and doing his best to comfort her as they watched me through the window. “She’s in intensive care. They’re doing all they can for her.”
Because of oxygen deprivation at birth, I spent the first seven days of my life in the neonatal intensive care unit at Victoria Hospital in London, Ontario. Although they could visit me, neither of my parents could hold me. At the end of the week, the nurse placed me in my mother’s arms for the first time. Mom smiled down at me, then hugged me close. For the next four days, the nurses brought me to my mom daily.
“Mrs. Willows.”
“Yes.”
“We’re releasing you and the baby tomorrow.”
Her smile lit up the room.
My dad came to get us the next day. “We’re going home, Debbie.” His eyes sparkled.
Like all new parents, they showed me off to family and friends. Everything seemed to be fine. It wasn’t until I was six months old that they realized something was wrong.
“Aren’t babies supposed to be sitting on their own by this time?” my dad asked.
Mom nodded.
This was just the beginning. They took me to doctors all over the city, seeking answers. Finally a diagnosis was made.
“Your daughter has CP,” the doctor said. After a brief pause, he added, “You should put her in an institution where they are equipped to care for children with her condition. It would just be too hard for you.” Another pause. “Then you can get on with your lives.”
My mom’s eyes filled with tears.
“Absolutely not,” my father said.
In the days following, my mom and dad had many serious conversations.
“Why do you think God gave us a daughter with a disability?” Mom asked.
“I really don’t know.”
My mom hung her head. “How can we cope? And how will we explain it to everyone?”
Dad shrugged. “We’ve been Christians for a long time. We go to church and try to do what’s right...”
After a lot of discussion and soul-searching, my dad came to a conclusion. “This is the child God gave us, and we have to accept her as she is.” And that was the end of it.
My parents got down to the task of raising me the way they would any child—with, of course, some special considerations.
When I was four I was fitted with metal leg braces to help me walk. I used them every day until I was 13. No fancy shoes. Just ugly brown boots. And a two-hour car ride to Hamilton whenever I outgrew the braces and needed new ones.
“Mom, they’re cold.” I shivered.
“I know, Deb, but you’ve got to wear them—even in the winter.”
“Dad, they’re so hot.”
“Debbie...”
