For the love of Pocholo
Special: almost all consumer commodities have their version of it. Special halo-halo, siopao, hopia, ensaimada, tocino, tapa, soap, shampoo, vacation, package; or it goes under the label of new-energized formula, improved version, revised edition; special service at special rates, special discount, special terms, all promising us of a better, more special treat. And we bite. We pick, pay and take a taste of the special, because it is, it should be, better than regular, better than normal.
Now they call some children special, that is, a child with a handicap is called a special child. Should we parents prefer one then to a regular normal child? Not that one is given a choice; I do not dare try fathom what method of appointment there is in heaven as to whom should be given this special task of rearing a handicapped, challenged child. And if one has a special child, does one become a special parent? One could try but it will take effort, a great deal of, and not unction by appointment or circumstance.
For a start, one’s world is completely overhauled in an instant. Akin to: meteor hits earth and the dinosaurs are decimated; age of lizards (reptilian dominion) ends, ushering the new age of cowering preys. My new world begun when after my mind had cleared from an epidural given during a Caesarean delivery I was visited by my OB-Gyn, was cheerily assured I was doing great but the baby was due for further tests. Wheeling myself to the nursery later, I saw the handsomest little face in the room with uncharacteristically a little foot peeking from under the blanket, just right along the chest area, when normally it should be a hand. Wait a minute, babies are normally swaddled, mine wasn’t, but he lays there peaceful and secure.
The nun who handed me my boy kindly but tactlessly told me, “...you will have to serve him and care for him the rest of your life.” Don’t all parents? These people are over-reacting, I thought. Can’t they see how delicately handsome my baby is? Why pity when my son is better-looking than theirs? Before this child, I was the aunt that never took care of her nieces and nephews. Children, especially babies were not my interest. I never felt the tug of maternal instinct until I had my own, and boy, mine is no less than theirs.
Turned out my son had congenital bilateral hip dislocation, scoliosis, cerebral palsy and 60 percent hearing loss, and required a lot of medical attention and intervention. But even those grim prognoses do not stop a mother from dreaming. As my son and I grew together; he, as a boy; I, as a mother, I dreamt of him as a film director living a bohemian lifestyle, interestingly impaired but good looking and extremely talented that girls with their God given maternal instinct would go gaga about. His sense of rhythm is impeccable and could dance even before he walked (he did at age three). As the years passed I would have to learn to let go of wistful and wishful dreams like those as the full range of his handicap unfolded.
Our days were filled with visits to the physical therapists, occupational therapists and hanging around the lobbies of children’s hospitals. And waiting was, and is, a punishment for me. At nights, my floppy-haired, preppy husband would reluctantly but dutifully administer my son his supplemental therapy, filling our house with his cries and protestations; our room his torture chamber.
I cannot however claim I despaired or was ever desperate of my son’s limitations. That is the role of my mother-in-law, God bless her! Guiltily, I have to admit, I never lost sleep on account of it. I would hold back a tear, feel that quick deep stab in the heart whenever I’d see him battle rejection and struggle over activities we so take for granted but I took all these in stride, part of the script that was handed down to us. Most painful were those years he questioned and processed the reality that he was different from the others. Not special; but handicapped, less privileged. I never fed those special lies to him; I shouted to him, gesticulated, wrote to him you are worse off than they, baby, and the sooner you accept that the better it will be for you and the rest of us, your family.
My lack of sympathy can be staggering, my self survival instinct tenacious, it must have rubbed off on him. Gee, says he, I better shape up with a mom like she. At age 20, he could dance up a storm. He does not have the full range motion of professional dancers but what he could do, he does like a pro. I, who was his dance partner when he was younger, am now reduced to his object of ridicule. How I send him to stitches whenever I would dance. Of course I exaggerate and clown around if it’ll make him happier. He has adjusted quite impressively, mindful of his wants but mindful of others; demanding but reasonable.
Pocholo is his name. Every morning he comes down from his room (by the way, his is the biggest in the house) checks on me if I am wake, and lands a peck on my cheek whether I am wake or pretending to sleep. In the afternoon, or earlier in the day when we would cross paths in the house, we would hug and he would always chortle. I don’t know why he does that and what he means by that, but why care? It’s such a lovely habit. I have always cared less and many times I feel I should care more. But why fret when he is such a lovely boy? Will I then prescribe my mothering technique to other special parents? Oh, only if your child is special like mine. - Yna Valenzuela Torres
Sibling revelry
I could say that I wouldn’t be the same person I am now without my brother, Pocholo. My mom gave birth to my older brother while she was down with Rubella (German measles). My brother came out healthy but he was partly deaf and he was also diagnosed with cerebral palsy. This was painful news to my parents.
Four years later, I entered the world. Growing up together, my brother and I did everything together. We played outside, took naps, ate our merienda and committed our fair share of mischief as brothers. I hadn’t noticed his handicap then. We simply enjoyed our childhood in our small neighborhood.
As I mature, I became aware of my brother’s condition. I then started keeping away from my brother as I was embarrassed. I always felt strange about this matter. I felt really sorry for my brother’s sad state but I also didn’t want to be associated with him especially in public. Our closeness during our childhood seemed as if it had never existed because I feared for my reputation. He didn’t seem to mind because he wasn’t aware of what I was doing. He went to take on the world in his own way. Poch loved to dance and perform in front of a crowd despite his condition. What did I do? I pretended to be oblivious of his performance on stage. I didn’t even dare watch. I was ashamed for myself and for him. Although he did possess great dancing skills, the thought of my handicapped brother performing in front of the crowd made me feel bad.
I thought of him as a burden. He made me feel bad about him and myself. He couldn’t take the responsibilities of the kuya and so it fell upon me. I always questioned God about him. Why did it have to be my brother? Why couldn’t we have a normal family? This was a question that was to be answered later on.
I was a freshman at that time. My buddies and I went to Megamall just to hang out. We were just goofing around when I saw the most touching thing I’ve seen in my life.
I saw another special kid of about five years old. He was in a stroller much too small for his size and was salivating uncontrollably. His father then pulled out a small towel and wiped off the excess drool. The mother then seemed to talk to the kid and gave him a tickle. The child was oblivious to the doings of his parents but they still proceeded to laugh and talk to him. It was clear that they were happy. I took a good look again at the child and he was wearing a smile of sheer joy. The parents’ unconditional love for their child had me almost break down into tears. If it weren’t for the presence of my friends, I probably would have. I knew God wanted me to see this. I then realized that I haven’t been doing what I should’ve. I had to be a brother to Pocholo. I asked God for His guidance and forgiveness. I had let my family, especially Poch, down. From then on, I wanted to make my brother happy as the caring parents did for their own child.
As I thought about the situation some more, I started to realize that not everything was all bad. Compared to other children with the same condition, Poch had a milder case. He could actually communicate with us verbally and through writing. He preferred to write down what he’d want to say. I think it’s because he observed that everyone understood him more through writing. Surprisingly, he was very smart and practical. He reused his communication papers and used a pencil instead of a pen to further preserve paper. He was also quite the dreamer. Poch wanted to be an actor, a singer, a guitarist and a family man. Until now, it still pains my heart to know that his dreams are farther than they seem to him.
We now share the close bond we once had. He’d always joke around with me about celebrities, friends and girls. We’d be laughing and talk about many different things. I could now see what a great blessing the Lord has given me.
My brother, though unknowingly, formed the person I am today. I learned to be grateful to the Lord for the life he gave me. I now look at the world from a different perspective. We need not question or complain when something doesn’t go our way. We should, instead, be grateful for everything that happens and live every day as much as life would allow.
As far as the future is concerned, I’ll be the one to take care of my brother when my parents are gone. He’ll be living with me. Also, when I reach the right age, I dream to build an educational institute for the handicapped. I want to live and fight for these people just to see, once again, the smile that changed my life. - Joaquin Valenzuela Torres
(Ed’s Note: Joaquin Valenzuela Torres, 16, is a fourth year student at Head Center, Beverly Antipolo where he is the student council president. He has won awards in creative writing competitions ever since he was in grade school at
