Wanted: one wife!
I know my son would make someone a very lucky lady
Heather Calvert, 67, Portrush
Doing up my jeans, I looked across at my husband and smiled.
‘Won’t be long before these don’t fit any more,’ I said.
‘We’ll have to get you an elasticated pair,’ laughed my hubby Des, then 35.
It was June 1973, and we’d found out we were expecting our second baby.
Our daughter Samantha was a toddler and we couldn’t wait to give her a sibling.
We didn’t have scans back then, but the pregnancy seemed fine.
When my waters broke five weeks early, I was rushed to Ballymoney Route District Hospital.
Because the baby was breech, doctors did an episiotomy, and after four hours, my son was born.
But rather than handing him straight to me, there was panic.
‘He’s having trouble breathing,’ the midwife told me, whisking him away before I could see him.
Moments later, the midwife returned.
‘I’m not sure how to tell you this,’ she said. ‘But your son has been born with no limbs.’ ‘What?’ I gasped. I just couldn’t take it in. ‘Don’t worry,’ Des reassured me. ‘Whatever happens, we have each other.’
A few hours later, we went to see our baby in his incubator.
He looked so tiny, covered in so many wires.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the midwife said. ‘He might not make it.’
He needed to be transferred to the Royal Victoria Hospital, almost 50 miles away. ‘Have you thought about a name?’ she asked. Still in shock, I hadn’t.
‘Erm...’ I said. ‘I’ll call him Desmond – after his dad.’
Sitting on the Maternity ward without my baby, I was numb.
How could he have been born with no limbs? I’d read about the Thalidomide scandal but I hadn’t taken the drug. I hadn’t even suffered from morning sickness.
I was kept in hospital for a few more days and then, when I was discharged, Des and I travelled to Belfast.
I’d been told little Desmond might not make it, so I was afraid to get too attached to him.
But each time I saw him, I felt nothing but love.
His arms ended at the elbows, and his legs at the knees.
I still couldn’t hold him, but
the doctors told me he was doing better than expected.
‘He’s such a good baby,’ one nurse told me. ‘We’re all very taken with him.’
Desmond was kept in hospital for two weeks, and we visited him as often as we could.
Eventually, I could pick him up, and the bond got stronger every time.
Apart from his limbs, he was just like any other baby, and his breathing had improved.
I told Samantha about her baby brother.
‘He’s a little bit different to other babies,’ I explained. ‘He doesn’t have any hands or feet, so we’re going to take extra care of him.’
‘OK, Mummy,’ Samantha replied unfazed.
Friends and family were incredibly supportive – and after just two weeks, Desmond came home. I was as proud as punch. Desmond had the most beautiful blue eyes and thick, dark hair.
I loved dressing him up and sitting with him in the front garden.
All the neighbours loved him – but when we were out shopping, I noticed people staring at us.
‘Keep your eyes to yourselves!’ I wanted to scream out.
But gradually, I learned to hold my head high.
I also found out from a health visitor that Desmond’s condition was known as phocomelia.
Doctors couldn’t work out why his case was so severe.
As Desmond grew up, he started to show us how amazing he really was.
He couldn’t crawl, so he’d roll instead.
By 10 months, Desmond was into everything.
One day, he took himself off to the kitchen cupboard and emptied a whole box of washing powder onto the floor.
‘You little so-and-so!’ I laughed, scooping him up into my arms. When Desmond was 2, he was given his first pair of artificial legs. It wasn’t long before he’d mastered walking. Soon after, in March 1976, my daughter Ruth was born. ‘She’s pretty,’ Desmond beamed when we brought her home. Desmond proved himself to be a doting big brother – and, as he got older, he never questioned why he’d been born with no limbs or moaned when he couldn’t do things. He just accepted it. When Desmond started mainstream school, he taught himself to hold a pen, excelled in Art, made lots of friends. As he grew, Desmond started experimenting with Lego. Soon, he was building intricate projects – using his stumps to painstakingly squeeze together the tiny pieces. So determined! When Desmond turned 17, he passed his driving test in a specially adapted car and got a job as a forklifttruck driver.
But while his sisters met partners and settled down, Desmond stayed single.
‘What if women don’t see past his disability?’ I worried. ‘He’s so much more than that.’
Desmond was as positive as ever.
‘I’d like to find Mrs Right,’ he’d smile. ‘But if not, I’m happy on my own!’
Desmond’s 44 now and lives in his own house a short drive away from us.
I’m still his carer and I visit him daily.
He gives talks to schoolchildren about phocomelia, and is known around Northern Ireland as Mr Lego.
Desmond’s carved out a good life for himself – now all he needs is a lady friend to complete the picture.
So many women out there are looking for a good man.
If someone special can look past what Desmond doesn’t have, they’ll see what he can offer.
And she’ll be a very lucky lady indeed.
He is known in Northern Ireland as Mr Lego