Special Education Resources

Early years of my handicap are a blur as my memory only goes back to when I was about four. My mom provided me with the details of the years before then. When I was nine months old I attempted to walk and couldn't. An orthopedic specialist determined I had no right hip socket. My legs were put in a split brace for a year. It was hoped that a socket would form around my right hip if it were kept in a stationary position. My mother told me she was amazed by how I would push myself along the floor in my brace with my arms. My arms and shoulders became very strong as a result of this (something that benefited my tennis game in later years). The brace did not correct the problem so when I was three years old I had surgery. Part of my hipbone was made into a socket. Though I do not remember the surgery, the experience may explain why I have always hated hospitals.

The surgery left me with a limp. My family protected me from outside discriminations, and never teased me about my limp. It angered me that I had a limp, but it didn't stop me from doing what I wanted to do - making outfits for my Barbie dolls, drawing, riding horses, dreaming of riding horses, and playing with my cats, birds, and friends. My nature was shy, but I was very ornery and stubborn with my family, especially my mom. When I was four, my mom decided to go back to work. Having to go to an all day kindergarten was not fun, but I made friends easily and adjusted. And though all the other kids in my class were "normal", they never made fun of my limp.

When I was seven years old, our family returned from a yearlong trip around the world. I had skipped second grade while on the trip. Upon entering the third grade, I experienced my first discrimination due to my limp. A boy in my class made fun of the way I walked. It devastated me. I couldn't understand why anyone would do such a thing. He was an unpopular boy, very pompous and mean to everyone. I was easy prey. Luckily, I had a few good friends who never made fun of the way I walked. It was easy for me to notice that I was different, however. I couldn't sit with my legs crossed like all the other kids. I couldn't run very well, wasn't good at the sports they had at school and I was always picked last or second to last for teams in school sports.

There was something I was good at that gave me confidence - horsebackriding. Horses were my life as a child. Once a week for six years I took riding lessons - learned how to jump good-sized fences. It was exciting and a sport that "equalized" me. On a horse, no one knew that I had a limp. It was harder to keep my right heel down in the stirrup, an essential in English riding. But I was determined to do it and did. My legs became very strong. Though my right leg was always weaker due to my right hip being the one that was deformed, my left leg compensated. With my right leg as my enemy, my left leg became my friend, always doing overtime for what the right leg couldn't do. Like the Rock of Gibraltar, it never gave out.

As a child, aside from my limp, something I also detested was my hip scar. Whenever I would go to the beach or go swimming I would hide it strategically with a towel. Occasionally, someone would see the scar on these outings, and could be counted on to gasp or make a comment about it. I wondered, "Why do they need to know what happened to give me the scar? Will it somehow make their day to know?" I was taught to never ask about things such as this, that it was rude to make comments about anyone who is "different".

A constant wish in my childhood was to be able to walk normal, to be normal. As I got older, the stares people gave me because of my limp began to hurt more. I felt their disapproval. But I was determined to never let my handicap be something that would beat me. It was a challenge I would always meet and never let anyone see it get me down.

My handicap was something that my family rarely talked about. Perhaps they sensed how sensitive I was about it or that by not talking about it; it wouldn't seem an issue. As my mother was a perfectionist, I also felt my handicap was an imperfection that she did not feel comfortable addressing. And like my mom, I was also a perfectionist in a way. My pride prevented me from talking about it. I never wanted to let on that it was hard for me to deal with it. When I did express my frustrations to my mom about my hip she would never give sympathy. She would always point out how lucky I was since she dealt with children with multiple handicaps all day in her work. She would say, "You have a brain and you can see and hear."

All in all I survived, perhaps due to the fact that my family never dwelled on my handicap and by high school, I flourished. I was confident and happy. I continued to have good friends, excelled academically, and finally found a school sport that I could do well - tennis. I was good at it and made up for what my right leg couldn't do with strength and strategy. In four years of high school, I only remember being teased by one girl. She commented about the way my right foot would turn out when I stood. It bothered me that she commented on it, but I don't remember getting upset with her - only telling her that I couldn't help it. I think my limping lessened then, because fewer people commented on it.

In college my hip did not seem to matter in the scheme of things at all, though I acquired new emotional handicaps. I suffered from a bad case of immaturity and experienced severe depressions and bulimia as my academic performance dwindled. I couldn't hack it - couldn't compete. It was a very lonely time - similar to how I felt as a child about my limp, but much worse. And my pride wouldn't let me admit those shortcomings either.

In my twenties, my hip started to act up on me once in a while, but didn't bother me that much. I think I started limping again more as people started asking me about it again. They would ask if I had hurt my leg or had polio. I would explain to some and not to others. Sometimes I would just say, "Yes, I hurt my leg". It bothered me when they asked about my leg, but I started to see their questions more as curiosity, not meanness.

When I was twenty-five, I met my first serious boyfriend, who later became my husband. With Pat, my hip was never an issue - one of the reasons I fell in love with him. He loved me for who I was, not how I walked.

When I became pregnant with my daughter, Lauren, I was twenty-nine years old. My hip started to bother me more. Anticipating the birth of my child, I was excited but afraid I might give her my deformed hip. At least I knew, with early detection of hip dysphasia, surgery and/or a limp could be avoided. Luckily my daughter was fine. And though I don't like to admit it, I wanted my child to be physically perfect, even more so, because I wasn't. I didn't want to witness her being stared at, for her sake as well as for my own ego. Luckily, my second child, Brian, also had fine hips.

When Brian was born I was thirty-two-years old. I started limping more and had more pain. People started commenting on my limp even more frequently. A friend made a thoughtless statement, referring to my husband, Pat. "Pat must be very special not to mind about your hip," she said. Without batting an eye, she added, "Have you ever looked into corrective surgery?" The thing that hurt me most about her comments was that they inferred to me that I was not a very good catch - that I was not okay the way I was.

At the age of thirty-five, the pain in my hip became excruciating. My hip went out completely one day, forcing me to see an orthopedic surgeon. He confirmed that my hip had finally worn out. But unlike the surgeon who had told me when I was twelve that nothing could be done to improve my hip, he could help me. Now there was a wonderful prosthesis in existence, which could replace my worn out hip and rid me of pain.

The following summer I had a total hip replacement. I decided to have the surgery at the hospital where I had been born, St. Luke's, in Pasadena. The surgery was a healing process for me in many ways. Having the operation where it had all started, began the healing process. It brought me sweet justice - a chance to have a new lease on life, free of pain, at least for ten to fifteen years or so. The surgery was fascinating. Relishing every moment, I stayed awake from beginning to end. A bit skeptical, I also wanted to be awake so I could make sure the doctor operated on the right hip!

With my new hip came a new scar, and also a new attitude toward both of my scars. The old scar from my childhood surgery became like a war wound. Pride replaced my childhood shame. I now viewed my old scar as proof that I had survived the many years of pain it reflected. My new scar marked the start of new beginnings. When a friend asked me how big my new scar was, I boasted, "It's about 9" long!" And instead of hiding the scar, I shared it eagerly with whoever had the stomach to ask to see it.

The recovery process, though grueling, was very exciting. It gave me time to myself, something I had not had for many years, having lost myself in my children. It was also a time of transition. I started finding new hobbies and interests that didn't require a lot of mobility. I began writing poetry, which led to writing stories. I took up playing piano, and began composing music. It was also a very close time for my family. My husband and children were wonderful and encouraging, as were outside family supports and friends.

The past four years have been years of growing physically stronger. Emotionally, I have become more honest about my feelings and accepting of myself as someone with a handicap. It has been an exciting time and a difficult time. Reflecting on the forty- year relationship I have had with my handicap, I realize now that it has given me many gifts that may never have been developed if I had not had an imperfection. Many times I still wish that I weren't so sensitive. But if I weren't sensitive, I wouldn't have empathy for others. If I had been born normal, perhaps I wouldn't feel so unique. If I didn't have scars, I wouldn't be such a survivor. And scar tissue is a lot stronger than the "normal" stuff!

I finally let go of my childhood wish. I can never be "normal". But I can try to be my best. And that's "good enough".

Born with congenital hip dysplasia, Helen grew up with a limp. Though her handicap gave her some limitations it did not prevent her from being very active physically as a child and young adult. She spent much of her youth outdoors, with her pet cats, homing pigeons, and doves. Her other childhood love was horses. She enjoyed English riding lessons for six years. Helen discovered a love for writing in college, but did not continue that pursuit for many years. After college, she worked in advertising for several years, before leaving the workforce to start a family. When she was thirty-five, her defective hip began to cause her severe pain. It was the pain from her handicap that made her begin to start writing again. At night the pain would become so severe that she couldn't sleep. So to kill time and find a new release she began to write poetry. She decided to submit some of her poetry to her town's local flier, and after seeing her name published, caught a writing bug that hasn't left her since. The following June, Helen had a total hip replacement that rid her of pain. Focusing more time on writing, she wrote her first short story. It was published in her local paper, The Sierra Madre News, in February of 1997. In November of 1997, Helen became a designated contributing writer for the Sierra Madre News. Helen has also done publicity work, with submissions published in all three Sierra Madre newspapers. Her publicity work has included covering events for her church's Ladies' Guild and children's school. Helen has also written articles for her church's parish council, with a regular column called "Connecting with the Catholic Church". With this column she explores how and why Catholics connect with their faith by interviewing fellow parishioners as well as sharing experiences from her own faith journey. In addition, Helen covers local events that interest her.

Helen grew up in Sierra Madre, a small town situated in the San Gabriel Mountains of Southern California. Though she moved to the beach area for nine years after high school, she returned to Sierra Madre when she was twenty-six, and hasn't left since. She loves her hometown, and has found it to be an ideal place to raise her kids. Aside from writing, Helen enjoys spending time with her family, which includes her husband, Pat, 10-year-old daughter, Lauren, and 8-year-old son, Brian. She has a strong passion for classical music, enjoys studying piano and composing music. Other favorite pastimes include baking gourmet desserts, gardening, making crafts, and walking. Helen also enjoys her family pets; two black cats, and two gold fish.