If the truth is told, most families have elements of sadness and/or sorrow. Mine is no exception. One hush-hush story pertained to my father. He was driving to work on a dark and foggy morning in 1955 when his car hit a newspaper boy. He died as a result of the accident. My father’s anguish was compounded by the behavior of the young man’s family members. Their tragedy, our tragedy. They said and did a few things in an effort to increase his sense of guilt. With a lot of counseling from Ed Bayless, pastor at Oak Cliff Presbyterian Church, Dad was able to get over it.
Seven years after that, another terrible event took place. My aunt, Dorothy Gary, gave birth to a baby girl named Patricia. It was immediately apparent to the attending doctor that Pat had severe mental retardation. This man did a major disservice to Dot, her husband, Cal, and their two children, Dennis and Shannon—my cousins. He gave them some advice that was straight out of the Middle Ages, urging them to fabricate a story. Pat, they were to say, had died in childbirth. This would presumably allow them to avoid the “shame” of having a mentally retarded kid. The doctor, whose name has been long forgotten, hoped Pat could be silently put into a state institution where she would probably die soon. Children with her diagnosis tended to have very short life spans.
Dot and Cal tried to tell the lie, but it blew up in their faces and in that of the doctor. (Needless to say, if this had happened in the second decade of the 21st century, he would have opened himself up to a medical malpractice suit.) At any rate, the truth about Pat was quickly manifested. The Garys had no intention of raising her in their home, and she was made a ward of the state of Texas, living in this or that institution. My aunt Dot had a nervous breakdown and had to be put into an institution of a different kind, at least for a few months. My uncle Cal, who had been a drinker before this, turned into a raging alcoholic although he was able to start a profitable used-car lot in south Dallas. Dennis (then age 12) and Shannon (9) grew up in a home that was dysfunctional at the least.
And what about Pat? She surprised the doctor and all of us by surviving. Yes, the girl stayed alive! In those first few years, Dot, Cal, Dennis and Shannon visited her sporadically. Of course, it was painful for them to see her. Nobody, and that includes me, should criticize them for being unable to form meaningful bonds with Pat. Dot, in particular, remained a bit shaky for the rest of her life. But the fact remains that neither her mother, her father, her brother nor her sister truly embraced her. Once in a great while someone would ask, “How’s Pat?” The answer was inevitably, “She’s fine,” and the subject was changed.
In 2004, I was living in Austin and she was a resident at Abilene State School. I do not recall what prompted me to plan a visit to see my cousin. After a couple of letters and phone calls there, the people in charge of her dormitory knew she would be having a visitor. I and two of my brothers pooled $300 to be placed in her account, and I drove 220 miles northwest on an icy winter day. I did not have to rent a hotel room in Abilene because the former administrator’s home—a sprawling ranch-style edifice—was made available.
I went to the dorm and talked to the lady in charge. I have forgotten her name, so I will call her Ms. Johnson. She told me how Pat lived among about 20 other such women. I was not shocked by anything I saw, in part because in 1975, during my college days, I had been a food service worker at Austin State Hospital. The residents there, however, were mentally ill rather than retarded. Before being introduced to my cousin, I talked with Ms. Johnson and reviewed some of Pat’s records. I was disheartened to learn that I was her first visitor in more than 10 years.
Pat was brought to me, and what an interesting meeting that was. She had no idea who I was and could not have cared. She was small, had stringy hair, poor vision and stubby fingers, and was almost completely nonverbal. If she was not the most beautiful creature, she was still my cousin and I had come a long way to see her. Ms. Johnson smiled as I took Pat by the hand and spoke loving words to her. We walked up and down the hallways, drank some juice and talked. OK, I did the talking while she made a few grunting noises. My visit was bisected by lunch, which I ate with one of Ms. Johnson’s colleagues. I was pleased to see that Pat got such good care at Abilene State School, and I said so.
After lunch, Pat and I spent another hour together and then it was time to go. I am no saint for having driven to visit her and put a little money into her account—let there be no mistake about that. What can be said of her life? Pat will turn 50 soon, and nobody back in 1962 thought she would live so long. She knows nothing of the drama resulting from her birth, and she perceives only what is immediately before her. Even that perception is quite narrow. Nonetheless, I refuse to say her life has been without value. Such thoughts and emotions were rolling around my head all the time I was in Abilene. I am sorry she has not had the chance to live a “normal” life, but this is what God has ordained and I must accept it.
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