Playing The Game

They offered me an abortion. Then insisted on it. One of them even suggested it would be for the best.
Better for me, better for the baby. The doctor used the rubber tip of a pencil to point out the abnormalities on the screen.
My eight-week scan should have been a time of joy, seeing life growing inside me for the first time.
First and last time, if the staff had had their way.
Naturally, I was devastated.
When it was time for the 12-week scan I had hoped it would show that it had all been a mistake, a malfunction of the equipment. Or something - anything - had blocked a clear view of the foetus.
Just let them be wrong.
But they weren’t wrong.
The pressure on me to abort intensified.
What kind of life was I going to inflict on my son? Didn’t I realise he’d constant care? Or how much of a burden he would be? I was young enough to have other children, whole complete children, who in turn would one day have children of their own.
He has no legs, they said. Part of his forearm is missing. There could be other problems.
“Like what?” I said
“Brain damage,” they said. “We could terminate now.”
I refused, through tears, screams and an attempt to punch one of the doctors.
What about the father, someone said.
“What about him? He cleared off twenty minutes after conception.”
They continued to persist. I continued to resist.
“It’s my body, my son and he’s going to stay in there until he’s ready to come out,” I said.
And come out he did.
Life wasn’t easy, as you can probably guess. But we muddled through it all.
And now, twenty years later, I sit in this stadium in Brazil as my son runs down the track as fast as his blades will carry him.
I stand, because everyone else is on their feet, cheering and screaming and jumping as he is first to cross the line.
It’s a gold medal for my son and a Paralympic record.
People are hugging, some are giving high-fives, while others are overcome and dry their eyes on the Union Jacks draped around their shoulders.
Those who know I’m his mother throw their arms around me, kiss me, and through their tears tell me how proud I must be.
During his lap of honour my son, all smiles, is followed by a TV camera. The image of him enjoying his victory and lapping up the adoration from the crowd, is put up on the screen.
I know it’s a picture that will be beamed to every nation across the world.
And I wonder if those doctors are watching.