Best for your
By BERNICE KENNEDY as told to Terry Morris
lighter!
MY story begins a few years before Vicki was born, on
an afternoon in 1949 when I was working at the infor
mation desk of the telephone company.-
I had handled rudeness from callers before, but for some
reason this particular "gentleman" shouting in my ear really
affected me. Snatching off my earphones, I put my head
down on the desk and cried.
My understanding supervisor, sensing I was upset about
something, gave me the day oft. I ran out of the building,
tears streaming down my face. I knew it wasn't the caller's
rudeness that had upset me.
I simply wanted a baby! Why couldn't I have a baby?
I was married when I was 19. After a serious miscarriage,
I had a full-term pregnancy and gave birth to an RH baby,
stillborn. The doctors made it plain that I had better accept
the fact that my husband Benedict and I would be childless.
I was an only child, yet I grew up surrounded by children
and loved every one of them. My mother and father partici
pated in a program of giving convalescent care to babies after
their discharge from the hospital and before they were re
turned to their own parents who, for one reason or another,
were unable to give this kind of care
themselves.
The afternoon I ran out of the telephone-company
building I knew that the
only job in the world I wanted was the
job of motherhood. Somehow, I decided,
I would have babies lots of babies. If
they couldn't be mine, then they would
be somebody else's.
I had youth and energy, and our house
had ample room and yard space for little
ones. When I read the appeal then being
made by the Cardinal's Campaign for
Foster Homes, it seemed as if it was di
rected right at me.
Our priest referred me to Catholic
Charities which, in turn, put me in touch
with the New York Foundling Hospital.
After careful investigation, I was able to
bring our first foster child home two days
before Christmas, 1949. From that
Christmas on, I was foster mother to a
total of eight children. I just couldn't
resist a call for help from the hospital.
Then, in 1953, they called to ask wheth
er I would take a handicapped child.
"Of course," I said promptly. "I'll come right down!"
When I first saw Vicki, she was 13 months old but looked
only six months. A premature baby, she had been abandoned
soon after birth. "She has a very weak back," the nursing
sister told me. "And she'll be difficult to care for. Will you
take her?"
At this time, I had at home Gina and Michael, both of
whom we have since been able to adopt. I wondered whether
I could give Vicki, this lame little sparrow, the extra time
that she would need. But it was a momentary doubt. This
little child needed me more than the others. This little one
had nobody!
For the next three years, I took Vicki for regular visits
to St. Vincent's Hospital. I had to carry her everywhere.
She couldn't move her legs, and even crawling was impos
sible. Accurate diagnosis of her condition was still difficult,
but it was fairly clear that she suffered from cerebral palsy,
spastic type.
"She'll never walk," the doctors said.
But she certainly talked! A mile a minute. Of all our chil
dren, Vicki was the liveliest and most vivacious, a sassy,
Vicki, as courageous as ever, clumps
around in Mommie's pretty high heels.
bright-faced girl who attracted people like a magnet. Every
body prayed for little Vicki.
We bought Vicki a walker because I was convinced she
could walk. For the doctors, I took snapshots of her holding
onto the bars and moving her legs. I took pictures of every
tiny move she made.
But the doctors weren't impressed. When Vicki was three
years old, they decided on an operation to cut the nerves in
the back of her legs to relieve the spasticity. I was strongly
opposed to the whole idea.
I kept telling myself: they must not operate! If they cut
those nerves, Vicki would surely be a cripple, and I felt so
certain that if the child and I were permitted to keep pulling
together as a team, she would walk'.
But as her foster mother, I had no legal status or rights to
Vicki. To operate, her real mother, who had abandoned her,
would have to consent. I was terrified for several reasons. If
Vicki's mother chose belatedly to claim her child, then any
chance I had of adopting her might be ended. And of course
Vicki's mother might consent to the operation.
While a search was made for the mother, I lived in a state
of near-hysteria. I broke out in rashes
and had daily headaches.
When Vicki's mother was found, she
gave her consent to the operation. But
at least she did not claim her. The opera
tion was set. How I prayed for a miracle!
I was walking the corridors of the hos
pital, utterly distraught, when Vicki was
returned to her room without being
operated on!
I learned that the surgeon who was to
have performed the operation was driv
ing to the hospital when, swerving to
avoid a collision, he rammed his car into
a tree. He was unhurt but sufficiently
rattled to cancel the operation.
One of the nursing sisters smiled at
me. "You prayed so hard against this
operation, Mrs. Kennedy, but did you
have to pray the doctor right into a tree?"
When the operation was rescheduled a
few days later, Vicki developed a high
temperature and a bad bronchial cough.
Again the operation had to be postponed!
"I have faith in her legs," I kept plead
ing. "I feel strength in them. I see im
provement day by day! Please don't cut those nerves."
We offered to pay for braces or any other appliances from
our own funds. As foster parents, we were paid a sum each
month for her food and board and a quarterly clothing al
lowance. Medical and dental expenses were also covered,
but we knew the agency could not bear all the extras, too.
The agency agreed to let us take her to the orthopedic
clinic at Cornell University Medical Center where special
work was being done with cerebral-palsy cases. For three
days, a medical team made tests. Happily, they, too, opposed
an operation and supplied Vicki with low leg bands which
gave her a certain amount of support. We were advised to
put her on the floor and coax her into trying to crawl. If she
crawled, she might pick herself up and try to walk.
So I began to put tempting objects just out of her reach,
and playful, inquisitive Vicki slowly began to crawl toward
them. Then she began to hold on to things, trying to stand.
Every so often, she did manage, but she couldn't balance
herself and would totter a few seconds on her toes before
falling. Of course, I worried about those falls, though Vicki
instinctively shielded herself.
(Continued )
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