It was the kind of street where everyone helped each other. There were lots of busy parents and lively children.
One weekend in late spring, our neighbours were expecting the arrival of a mobile home. They had a steep downward sloping driveway that curved awkwardly round the corner of their house. Everybody got involved in helping them to get the job done, a shout here, a push there, some cursing and a fair bit of anxiety all round. If the van had been damaged, Tim and Gloria’s plan to use it as a holiday let would have been a non-starter.
Davy was there too, in his navy blue Helley-Hansen waterproofs and his red wellies. The only difference was that, at the age of six, he could not yet walk but determinedly crawled around after his brothers and their friends, who were used to his different abilities and would unceremoniously haul him out of the way of anything that they perceived to be dangerous.
When the mobile home was finally resting in its destination behind the garage, I carted Davy back to our house to strip off the protective waterproofs. I balanced him on his feet to slide down the dungarees and when I moved my arm away, he did not fall down. I was amazed. Very shortly after, he did wobble and plop on to the bean bag positioned behind him.
I could not wait to tell the neighbours. After six years of hospitals, operations, physiotherapy, standing frames, walkers, buggies, wheelchairs, we had reached a milestone. I was confident that we would reach others.
There had been no escaping the starkness of Davy’s diagnosis, pronounced when he was a year old, having been delivered by an emergency Caesarean section, in need of serious stomach surgery and missing all his developmental markers.
'Multiple congenital abnormalities.'
'What does that mean?' We asked the man in the white coat.
'He is severely mentally handicapped.'
'What will he be able to do?'
'Take him home, love him. Don’t expect anything. Then whatever he does will be a bonus.'
We left the hospital trailing our own heavy black cloud behind us.
Davy did eventually learn to walk but with a gait that put alarm into anyone who did not know him, especially when he broke into a run.
Davy did learn to communicate in his own way, helped by signing, symbols and patience from all his caregivers.
Davy is now a middle aged man who loves music, football and going out. He is looked after round the clock by a team of carers who understand his needs.
My hope is that anyone who has a child like Davy will be given encouragement and support for the whole of their lives, without having to fight for it.