Down's daughter has cosmetic surgery
Cosmetic surgery caused a public outcry!
Wednesday 7th May 2008
Think 'cosmetic surgery', and I bet your head fills with images of fake boobs and face-lifts. It's for people who are obsessed with their looks, right? Not always. Back in 1996, I put my 2-year-old daughter, Georgia, through three cosmetic surgery procedures. Not to give her a flatter tummy or a cuter nose. But because she has Down's syndrome.
When Georgia was born at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, in October 1993, I was devastated to discover she had Down's. Like any mum, I wanted my baby to be perfect.
'Why us?' I wept to my partner, Dave Bussey, then 29. We already had one daughter, Bianca, 4. How would we cope? And what about Georgia? Would she be bullied? Need constant care?
I'll admit, I was terrified.
It wasn't until she was 6 weeks old that I held Georgia for the first time. She'd been in special care, and part of me worried I wouldn't love her the way I did Bianca. But as I cradled her in my arms and looked into her eyes, that same protective rush of love washed over me. I would do everything I could to give her the best life possible.
That's why, two-and-a-half years later, I decided cosmetic surgery would benefit her. It wasn't because I was ashamed of my daughter. It was because I was worried about her future. Since starting at a nursery school six months earlier, she'd already been in tears more than once after being taunted by some of the other children.
Also, doctors had warned that, in time, Georgia's sight would deteriorate. But with her ears curled over at the top, she'd never be able to wear glasses. So, in 1995, I asked a paediatrician at the Chelsea and Westminster about pinning her ears back.
'It's not a major procedure,' he said. 'Have you thought about reducing her tongue, too?'
People with Down's have smaller mouths, so their tongues tend to stick out, leading to difficulties breathing, speaking and eating.
'I don't know…' I dithered.
I didn't want to put Georgia through anything else. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised it might improve her quality of life.
So a year later, Dave and I agreed to go ahead with the NHS operation. Finally, when Georgia was nearly 3, she went back to the hospital to have her ears pinned back. It all went well, and just before the second operation, to make her tongue smaller, the surgeon suggested removing the excess folds of skin above her eyes.
There were no health benefits, but it would make Georgia look more 'normal', and less likely to be bullied.
'OK, let's do it,' Dave and I agreed.
If it meant our little girl had a happier, more confident childhood and a better future, surely it was worth it?
Just two hours after the four-hour operation, Georgia was tucking into some ice cream.
'Mmm, lovely!' she grinned.
Relief hit me.
'We've done the right thing,' I said to Dave.
So I never imagined that all hell would break loose when the press heard about what we'd done.
CAN THIS BE RIGHT? screamed one headline.
I was inundated with calls from journalists wanting me to explain my actions. Some people suggested it was child abuse.
'I'm not ashamed of Georgia,'
I told Judy Finnegan and Richard Madeley, when I appeared on This Morning not long afterwards. 'I just want to improve her life.'
Thanks to the operation on her tongue, Georgia was soon learning new words and finding it much easier to eat and breathe. Everything seemed to be going right. But the same couldn't be said for Dave and me. After several years of drifting apart, we split in October 1997, when Georgia was 4. So now, I was a single mum. Not easy with a Down's child.
As well as taking Georgia to hospital five times a week to see a speech and co-ordination specialist, I still had to bath her and help dress her. Another worry, with Dave gone, was money. I needed a job.
'How about decorating?' my brother, John, 43, suggested. 'You've done a great job with your place.'
So in September 1998, I started an NVQ in interior design at Lambeth College, South London. And later that month, I beamed with pride as I waved Georgia off in her uniform on her first day at St Peter's, a primary school in South-west London. All day, I worried she was being bullied. Like many kids with Down's, she had a gentle, loving nature, so other kids' cruel words could really hurt. But she was smiling when I picked her up.
'It was fun, Mummy,' she said.
While Bianca and Georgia were at school, I made ends meet working part-time as a painter and decorator. My mum, Patricia, and dad, John, both 66, helped out as best they could, too.
A year later, I completed my NVQ and, in June 2000, I started teaching interior design skills as part of a community refurbishment scheme in New Cross, South-east London.
But I was tired of the city. It was hectic and aggressive. Did I want to live here when Georgia was a teenager, when kids could be even nastier to her? Violent even? By 2005, when Georgia was 12, I'd decided enough was enough. Once Bianca had done her GCSEs, I sold our house and found a three-bedroom place on the Costa Blanca, outside Alicante.
'It has a pool and everything,' I told the girls.
'Brilliant!' Georgia laughed.
She and Bianca were thrilled to be moving to Spain. I was excited, too, and planning to run a bar called Vice Versa in nearby Benidorm, with my mate, John Fleming, 56. In March 2006, John and I flew out to get everything sorted, and four months later, Mum brought the girls out to join us. As soon as Georgia saw our villa, with its bright blue swimming pool, her eyes lit up.
'I want to swim!' she cheered.
I enrolled her at a special school and she started learning the Spanish for simple words like 'bread' and 'dog'. Something I doubt she could have done without the operation on her tongue. The three of us had a great time, swimming in the pool and playing games in the sun.
But despite my best efforts, the bar started losing money. By November 2006, our nest egg was gone, and we were broke. I felt such a failure. This was meant to be a better future for the girls. Now, I'd let them down.
'It's OK, Mummy,' Georgia said, as we flew back home in April 2007, and moved in with my parents. But I could tell she was sad.
'You'll be back on your feet in no time, Kim,' Mum said.
If only, I thought, feeling sorry for myself. But of course, Mum was right. Two months later, I got a job teaching painting and decorating at a training centre called Springboard, in North London, and enrolled Georgia at a special school called College Park. She absolutely loves it. In fact, she's so confident, she's even started dancing and singing classes. Would she have done that if she hadn't had those earlier operations? Who knows?
I just know that since she had them, the teasing has stopped and she seems a much happier girl. So I've no regrets. And if Georgia came to me and said she wanted to have more cosmetic surgery, yes, I'd consider it. Because, like any mum, the most important thing to me is my children's happiness. And what could be wrong with that?
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