Laura’s Story

My name is Christine Scott. I’m a forty-six-year-old mother of five children and I grew up with a mentally disabled sister. I know Barbara was inspired when she asked me to contribute to the Uniting Caregivers blog. Processing the memories and spending time reminiscing with my mother about my sister’s life is exactly what I needed—and my mom too. Thank you, Barbara, for listening to the Spirit’s promptings.

It’s time to share my story.
When babies makes their entrance into the world, fingers and toes are counted and soft cheeks are kissed. That newborn scent is inhaled and it feels like those in attendance have been transported to heaven—at least for a moment.  Expectations are high. Parents look into their beautiful child’s face and eagerly watch for a glimpse into what the future holds for their precious little one. They picture milestones: that first smile, that first word, and that first step. They can’t wait to see how their beautiful child is going to grow and progress.

But what happens when those long awaited milestones don’t happen, when friends and loved ones question your child’s progress, and maybe suggest something is not quite right? When illness and hospital stays become commonplace, how do these parents cope?

My sister, Laura, was born on July 3, 1967, the first child of Klaus and Elaine Hill. Laura didn’t come into the world in the anticipated way. My parents lived in Hoystville, Utah, an hour’s drive from the nearest hospital. Since it was my mom’s first baby, she didn’t know what to expect. She didn’t realize the back pain she was experiencing meant she was in labor, and when she finally figured it out—there wasn’t enough time to drive to the hospital. As a result, my sister was born in a parking lot at Parley’s Summit, in Parley’s canyon. And that’s what it says on her birth certificate. “Place of Birth: Parley’s Summit.” No joke.

No one thinks they’re ever going to have to deliver a baby on their own in the car, right? My young and inexperienced dad rose to the occasion like my mom’s very own knight in shining armor and the delivery went pretty well. I don’t know if he drew on his experiences of living through World War II in East Prussia, but he safely delivered his daughter and drove his wife and baby to the hospital.

My dad passed away when I was ten and I wish I could go back in time and ask him about his fears and worries at this moment in his life. I’d like to know about the strength he drew on to provide for his daughter in wife in the face of such scary and uncertain circumstances.

There was one problem my dad didn’t realize, but he couldn’t have done anything about it anyway. My sister was born three to four weeks early—and as a result—was not getting enough oxygen. As a result, the cells in her brain were damaged during the remaining thirty-minute drive to the hospital.

Mom and baby were released from the hospital in the typical way and everything seemed to be fine despite Laura’s rocky entrance into the world. My mom quickly settled into the life of a new mom, enjoying her beautiful daughter and running her tiny home. As time passed, Laura didn’t crawl, she scooted on her bottom, and at twenty months she wasn’t walking or talking and didn’t show any interest in being potty-trained.

Well-meaning family and friends commented on Laura’s lack of progress, but my mom refused to believe them. Her response: “She isn’t that delayed for an eighteen-month-old. She’s just a late bloomer.”Laura was beautiful. Laura was perfect. She was everything my mom dreamed her to be, so she didn’t listen. Even the family doctor supported my mom’s theory about my sister being a late bloomer.

Looking back, my mom admitted she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to face the hard, cold reality that something was seriously wrong with her baby.

Two years later I was born, which helped my sister developmentally more than anything else. She now had a living, breathing model of how a normal child progressed constantly at her side. Besides, she couldn’t let her little sister show her up. She walked within weeks after I took my first steps, but she still never crawled. Up until the time I walked, scooting on her bottom got her where she wanted to go. She began to put together simple sentences. Things were looking up for my sister. My mom’s worries were finally being laid to rest. She could now breathe a little easier and look those family members and friends in the face and say, “Look, she’s fine, just like I told you.”

Until Laura experienced her first seizure.
As I reflect back on that time in my mom’s life, on her fears and how alone she must have felt, I wish I could put my arms around her and my dad and pull them into the embrace of a loving God and having that supreme guidance and comfort the Holy Ghost provides. It would have made all the difference. But they were both strong and they did the best they could, and I love them for it.

This ends the first part of my story of growing up with a mentally disabled sister, which I will continue over the next few weeks. I hope I will provide some insights which may help you with some struggles you face as a caregiver.

Thank you Christine for sharing part 1 of Laura’s Story. We look forward to your future segments. 

My Home Delivery

Mom and Dad

My parents were married in 1950 and had their first child, Michael (Mickey) sixteen months later. The following year my sister Rosanne was born. Living with two little children in a one bedroom apartment was hard so Mom and Dad thought it was time to build a home. They paid $1,500 dollars for a 1/3 acre lot in Murray, Utah in 1953. They paid off the lot in two years and started building their home in the fall of 1955, just three months after their third child, Donald (Donny) was born.

Since Dad was an excavator and owned a construction company with his brother, he did most of the work including the foundation, septic tank, concrete and framing. He did hire a plumber, electrician and brick mason for their all red brick home. By today’s standard, it was a modest, three bedroom, one bath home which Dad did all the finish work on. They were able to move into their new home about nine months later, just before Donny’s first birthday in 1956.

A few years later Mom was expecting their fourth child. Since the new baby would need the bedroom my brothers shared across the hallway from our parent’s bedroom, they decided to finish two bedrooms for Mickey and Donny in the basement. The new bedrooms were the only finished area in the basement, but on the opposite end of the basement was a beautiful rock fireplace. They bought a black and white television and put a throw rug by the fireplace with a second-hand couch and also used folding chairs to sit on to watch T.V. This room would later be finished as the family/entertainment room.

Mom, Dad, Mickey, Rosanne, Donny, Barbara sitting around rock flower box in front of our Murray home.

On Saturday, June 6, 1959, my mom’s parents came for a visit and to take Rosanne home with them for an overnight stay. They did this often, taking turns with each grandchild. After they left, Mom started having strong contractions so Dad called the doctor and told him they were on their way to the hospital. Because of the pain, Mom struggled to walk to the back door towards the garage. Dad rushed ahead to drive the car out of the unattached garage closer to the back door in hopes to make it easier for Mom. When he got back to the kitchen to help her to the car he realized her water broke and the determined baby was already on its way. He ran to the phone to call the doctor again and heard the television downstairs. Panicked, with only a stairway between my parents and the two boys, Dad hollered down the stairs, “No matter what, you boys do not come up these stairs!”

Mickey, age seven and a half and Donny’s fourth birthday in just three days, paid little attention to the hustle and bustle at the top of the stairs. They were more interested in the television than the arrival of a new baby, so it was easy to obey their father’s order.

By the time the doctor got to our home I had already arrived. What an entrance for a nine pound baby! I wish I could remember it… What I do remember is being referred to as the “kitchen baby”. Sometimes I was amused at the thought of coming into the world in this unusual way, but other times I was completely embarrassed.

Dad had always teased Mom during their four pregnancies that he had delivered lots of calves on the farm, so there was no need for a doctor. I guess I was listening. I’ve always had lots of faith in Dad’s abilities. However, he stopped saying that after my birth.

I later learned the home delivery resulted in a three day stay at the hospital and I came home on Donny’s 4^th birthday. I don’t believe I was his only present that year, but he always made me feel like I was his best present.

Dad holding me with handsome brother, Don in the left bottom corner.

Dad holding me with Rosanne and Mick on the front porch.

I’ve always considered myself a daddy’s girl and Mom often said I had Dad wrapped around my little finger because he was there for my birth. I was the only child out of their five that he witnessed because at the time fathers were not allowed in the delivery rooms at the hospital.

Twenty-two months later Mom delivered one more baby, my youngest brother, Steven. Because we were the closest in age we shared the upstairs bedroom for several years and had lots of fun playing together. See Siblings by Chance, Friends by Choice.

Me at two years old loving my stuff animal.

In my elementary years while we were on vacation at Disneyland, I vividly remember begging my dad to buy me a big stuffed animal. “Dad, think of the money I saved you by being born at home,” I pleaded.

“You were the most expensive child!” He replied. “At the hospital I had to admit not one, but TWO patients. You were considered contaminated by being born at home so you were not allowed in the nursery. They kept you in isolation for a few days, which was an added expense.”

Not only sadden by the fact I wasn’t getting the large stuffed animal, I was shocked by his reply. I previously thought I had saved my parents from the whole hospital scene and therefore was some kind of super hero. After all I had been called the kitchen baby by family and friends. Wow, what a blow this information was to me and an indication that I didn’t really have my dad wrapped around my little finger after all—at least not this time.

Now that I’m older and have gone through child bearing myself, I appreciate what my folks went through to get me here and feel some guilt for being so impatient and determined. However, I am so grateful for the bond it created and know I’m blessed to have such marvelous parents. It’s been a wonderful life, thanks to them!