Daddy’s Girl
Vicky knew that having a baby wouldn’t be simple for her and Simon…
I t was life-changing the night I met Simon Moore.
I went home after meeting him at a sign language class and I just couldn’t stop thinking about him or his dog, Foggy.
I’d gone because I’d always had a fascination with signing – it’s such a beautiful and expressive language.
Ever since meeting Simon there, I found myself daydreaming about him. You see, Simon isn’t your average bloke.
He has a condition called Treacher Collins Syndrome, which means he is profoundly deaf and has a facial disfigurement. I’d met Foggy first, and as I stroked his head my heart just melted.
When I looked up, Simon, 32, was staring down at me. ‘Hello!’ he said. I noticed Simon’s face straight away, but as soon as we got talking, his amazing personality and wicked sense of humour shone through.there was something special about him.
I was desperate to see him again, so I used Foggy as an excuse to ask him out for a coffee.
Shaking like a teenage girl, I sent him a text.
‘I want to raise some money for hearing dogs,’ I said.
‘That’s wonderful! Do you want
to meet for a coffee?’ he replied.
There was a nervousness in his tone too that put me at ease.
We met at the sign language class where Simon was working and I knew I was falling for him.
His workplace was eight miles away, but I started finding reasons to be near his office around lunchtime so we could meet up.
Simon told me all about his life, his struggles with his condition and how he’d been bullied all his life.
‘Without Foggy, I’d never have left the house,’ he admitted.
I told him how my marriage had ended badly and how protective I was of my three children.
But it was impossible to deny my feelings for him.
Fast-forward eight months and life couldn’t have been better. Simon
had moved in; my girls, Bethany, 15, Natasha, 13, and Eleanor, 10 adored him, and Foggy was part of the family.
I’d always accepted Simon’s differences, but I couldn’t have prepared myself for the way we would be treated by strangers.
People would shout insults at us as we walked hand-in-hand down the street. ‘What are you doing with a thing like that?’ one woman spat.
One woman even said ‘Eurgh’ to Simon before scurrying away. It really upset me. Simon shrugged it off. ‘Their behaviour says far more about them than us,’ he said. ‘Just ignore them.’
A few months later, Simon gathered all my friends and family at the deaf centre and surprised me
I knew he was special
with a romantic proposal.
Our wedding at the Assembly House in Norwich in August 2012 was perfect.
Foggy even carried the rings. When we got back from our honeymoon in London, we began talking about starting a family together.
‘I’ve just married the girl of my dreams, but having a child of our own would make our family complete,’ Simon said. But having a baby wasn’t simple . Simon’s condition is genetic, and there was a 50/50 chance of passing it on to a baby.
We spoke to the hospital about the risks, and what, if anything, we could do about getting pregnant.
I’d been sterilised after having Eleanor, so we couldn’t get IVF on the NHS. Thankfully, Simon’s mum offered to pay the £6,000 for private treatment.
The hospital advised us to attend genetic counselling.
‘You need to be aware of the
risks,’ they said. But we weren’t naïve. We knew the baby could be born with almost no face, or have no problems at all. We were offered a special form of IVF which included a state of the art pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD) to screen for the Treacher Collins gene.
‘If the procedure finds any irregularities in the embryo, it will destroy them,’ the clinic told us.
But we also risked being left with no embryos. ‘If it’s a choice between having a baby with TC and not having a baby at all, then I know what I want,’ I said.
‘Me too,’ Simon said, reassuringly.
We had the procedure done at Bourn Hall Clinic in Cambridge and we were successful on our first try.
At our 16-week scan, it was clear that our baby had inherited a mild form of the condition.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed, but just hearing the heartbeat meant so much more.
In February 2014, our beautiful daughter, Alice Moore, was born by C-section weighing 6lbs 9oz.
She has a mild form of TC with full cheekbones and only the slightest gap below her eyes which makes them droop slightly.
Alice has small nasal passages which makes it a bit difficult to breathe, and feeding can be a problem with her high palette.
She also has the typical malformed ears and has no hole into the inner ear, so she’s got a hearing aid that’s anchored to her head.
Despite all this, she’s a typical little three-year-old: cheeky and constantly grinning.
‘There’s nothing on this planet anywhere near as special as Alice,’ Simon often says. ‘She’s changed my life.’ Alice is certainly a daddy’s girl. Sadly people point and stare now more than ever.
Whenever Simon’s out with Alice, he’s a bigger target.
‘What’s he doing looking after a baby?’ people say.
I’m even accused of being Simon’s carer. It’s awful. But I just say proudly, ‘I’m his wife. He’s my husband and I’m her mum.’ One neighbour even called us ‘cruel’ for bringing her into the world! I was shocked.
But as usual, Simon never says a nasty word back.
Despite the taunts, we’re stronger than ever, and there’s so much love in our family for Alice, that we know she’ll never be without.
To us, she is perfect.
Strangers called us cruel