I belong to a club no one wants to join. I have a daughter with special needs. Sabrina has developmental delays and moves much more slowly than other kids her age. The hardest thing is her delayed speech- at three she could only say “hi” and “mama”. I want her to fit in, to be a regular kid even though she isn’t.

When she was a toddler, I felt that my membership card to the club of parents who have kids with special needs was temporary. It wasn’t where I belonged. A month before Sabrina had her fourth birthday; I enrolled her in three classes through the city’s parks and recreation department in regular kid classes. Sabrina couldn’t do as much as the other kids and she was essentially mute but she looked normal when other parents saw her through the dance studio window or in the locker room at the swimming pool. I thought it was a big step for my daughter with special needs. I didn’t understand that it was also a big step for me.

Along with her two older brothers, Kyle and Jasper, Sabrina had swim lessons three times a week right after school got out in June. She was placed in a class for three year olds. The instructor told me she didn’t put her in the lowest class because Sabrina had just enough basic skills, such as putting her face in the water. It buoyed my hopes that she would overcome her delays and even learn to swim!

At each class, I tried to watch all three of my kids. One of the side effects of having kids who are different, is that they get most of the parent’s attention and I was aware that my sons needed me too. My eldest freaked out on the second day when he realized he was in a class in the big, deep, lap pool. It took me fifteen minutes to convince him to get in and still he barely participated. It’s not always the identified kids who have problems. Sabrina loved the water and Jasper was in a class next to hers in the same shallow pool.

On the last day of class, some of the teachers took one kid at a time down the water slide for a treat. Sabrina’s teacher, a young college student, left Sabrina and two other three-year olds alone as she took the fourth kid down the slide. The pool was crowded with classes but she didn’t ask another instructor to watch the kids. She just told the kids to stay put. I learned all this later. I had been watching my eldest try to learn the breaststroke when I looked over to check on Sabrina and Jasper. I saw my beautiful blond daughter face down in the water, thrashing to come up for air. I stood and screamed “Get her, get her!” as I ran over to the other pool. Just as I started to jump in, she came up on her own and another teacher only two feet away, turned around and grabbed her. He handed her to me and I wrapped her up in my arms. She sputtered and wiped the water from her eyes, but she didn’t really cry. She wasn’t traumatized but I was.

I sat in a chair and warmed her up in a towel while I caught my breath. Then I started to look around. No one paid any attention to us. No one offered assistance. Her teacher came down the slide and continued with the class as if nothing had happened. It was a warm June morning but I was shivering with anger, with grief, and mostly with outrage.

Even though I knew that the core issue was that the teacher should not have left three three-year olds in the pool alone, I also knew that this was about Sabrina. It wasn’t one of the other kids that nearly drowned, it was my daughter. And part of the reason was because she is physically and cognitively impaired. She is not normal. She is not able to do what most other kids her age can do. If this had happened to one of my son’s, I would have been angry with the instructor but not disappointed in my child. My hopes that she would be fine in these regular kid classes had washed down the drain. As a friendly, agreeable girl, she could manage the regular classes I had enrolled her in, but he truth is she couldn’t thrive in them. She would not learn to leap like a ballerina or hold her breath under water- at least not this year. While the other kids couldn’t necessarily do that either, the difference is that they understand what the expectations are. Sabrina doesn’t. That’s what had me so upset. It felt like my whole body was inside out, my heart beating wildly against the air, no longer safe in its cocoon of my ribs. It felt like I was breathing in great gulps of blood. Like I was the one trying to come up for air.

Part of what makes the “special needs club” unique is that the emotional terrain is so much more amplified. My idea of who my desperately wanted daughter would be was not what I thought. Sabrina loves baby dolls and is getting the idea that she could have a real baby some day. But even as I nurture her 'mommyness', I know that that day may never come. She may never have the personal skills to be a mother. She may never be able to live alone. She may never be able to go to college. No one knows what her future holds but at the moment I almost lost her, I knew I had to accept her as she is- a child with special needs. I would still have rounds of grief- wailing to the gods who had given me an imperfect child. I would still seethe with anger at how much harder it is to parent a child with a disability. I would still feel guilty about not loving her enough, about wishing she were normal, about not doing enough to help her. Even as I snuggled my baby in my arms, I knew I would face all these emotions again and again. It’s part of the cost of membership.

Carrying Sabrina, I found the pool manager and told him what happened. He gave me a patronizing look and said he would talk to the teacher about it and oh yah, he was sorry. Then he turned back to his conversation.

I sat back down in my chair, my breath still ragged with my own marrow. I looked up to the naked sun and saw a girl with Down syndrome slathering sunscreen all over her plump body. I guessed her to be about 10. Her mother stood in the shade on the other side of a short chain link fence. They had just arrived and hadn’t seen anything. Then I surprised myself and stood up. Just like all the other parents who saw what happened and didn’t reach out, I too was afraid to talk to someone whose child wasn’t normal. I too was afraid of offending her. I took a deep breath past my shame and went to introduce myself. I planned to keep it safe and ask her what her experience had been with the city swimming program. Did they meet the needs of her daughter? I opened my mouth to have a discussion and tears poured out. I sobbed out my story to this stranger and her daughter. I had never met Karen but she was not unknown to me. I knew that she was the only person there who would understand. She was the only one who also had a child with special needs. And that thought brought more tears to my wet face.

As I wept, her daughter Kristen came up to me and asked my why I was crying. I told her but she didn’t understand. At least she didn’t understand the reason but she did understand exactly what I needed. Kristen looked me in the eyes and said, “I think you need a hug,” and wrapped both arms around me, squeezing my heart with her deep love. It was the most compassionate moment of my life and it came from a girl who was slow, who couldn’t talk well, who didn't comprehend what had happened, but who acted from her heart. Of all the people there, all the “normal” parents and their “normal” kids, it was she who was brave enough to comfort me.

In that moment, I realized that I was a member of the club that no one wants to join. Kristen laminated my card. I hoped my daughter would be just like her.