"I can't stand the staring," said the woman on the phone, angrily.

New to the world of parenting a child with cerebral palsy, she was desperate to talk to someone who understood how brutal it can be to have someone constantly judging your child.

She'd been given my name by a friend aware of my commitment to families with special needs. She was searching for inspiration that nine years ago I found only from within.

I've been blessed with a clear inner voice regarding my son's future, even as those around me preached what he would never be. My voice drowned out the negative chants like, "She's not dealing with reality," uttered by clinical professionals refusing to acknowledge their own human limitations, refusing to admit that they might be wrong.

These are people who haven't gazed deeply into Eric's wise eyes or into his sacred soul.

It's this powerful voice that on my toughest days, has kicked me out of bed to forge Eric's dynamic future.

It's a voice that has served our family well.

Knowing just how grueling this parenting role can be, I've committed myself to making it less daunting for others. There is no road map for this journey called special needs. Ultimately, everyone must find his or her own way out of the dense forest. Alone.

So I serve as a compass. 

Helping Parents

Parenting a special child is the most challenging facet of my life. With a solid faith, a spirit of adventure and priceless friends, I've successfully answered its call. So has my 9-year-old son.

Sensing this new mom's vulnerability, I paused respectfully before giving her my simple response.

"You never know why someone is staring," I said, in exchange for the loud silence at the other end. People expect me to say that staring is cruel and that I hate it.

Sometimes, that's true. But sometimes it isn't.

I've felt like this caller, hurt and angry over the insensitivity of those from whom I had expected more. I recognized the inner turmoil, and sensed her deep love for her child.

I recognized myself.

I told her of the times when people had stared at Eric and I had glared right back, because I couldn't handle their questions. I didn't yet have the answers.

I told her about people who had stared because they, too, had a child with special needs and we shared a kinship.

I told her of the woman in Florida who approached our family on vacation and emptied her grieving heart as the grandmother of twins recently diagnosed with cerebral palsy. And of the people who stopped us on the street to say what a beautiful child we had.

Cerebral palsy wasn't the reason they had stared.

I recalled curious children, who put their faces squarely in front of Eric's as their parents watched, asking, "What's wrong with him?"

As I answered honestly, "Nothing," and then explained Eric's needs, they ran off to educate others.

I told her of a tearful mother who approached me in Hudson's and announced that after nine years, she still lacked a diagnosis for her daughter. I could have intensified this stranger's pain had I protectively shut her out.

Instead, we embraced.

There's a risk in appearing publicly with a child who's challenged.

In such raw moments as these, the way life should have been becomes painfully clear.

I told my new friend that we must first resolve our own grief, and reach acceptance by recognizing the beauty of our child's existence.

Only then does staring ease.

As our conversation ended, we felt like old friends. Comrades.

We haven't spoken since. But I told her that I felt she had the heart to one day hold her own arms outstretched to a parent in need. And to hold on tightly.

She had gained empowering knowledge because someone had stared. 



Judy Winter is a mother and freelance writer. This article first appeared in the Lansing State Journal's Today section on September 28, 1997. It is reprinted by permission.