Is a disabled person’s life really worth less than yours?

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Diego blinks several times and looks at me with his trademark grin. “S-s-s-sophie”, he stammers, his eyes alight with excitement, “Can we sing the Shrek song again?” Happily, I oblige, and we dance, and we play, and we laugh a lot. We do this every single day. Next, he’ll ask if we can sing YMCA, we’ll laugh some more, and then at some point I’ll persuade him to back away from the music blasting out of the computer and come for a walk in the countryside with me.

He’ll hold my hand as we amble through the woods. He’ll point out birds and many other wild sounds I hadn’t even noticed – being as I am too wrapped up in my everyday problems – and I’ll be glad he brought me back to the present moment, as always. Then Diego will usually tell me the same story over and over again, and even though it takes him a while to find the words, I’ll never get tired of hearing it because he does it with such enthusiasm – always smiling, always peppering the tale by telling me ‘I l-l-l-l-love you Sophie’, with his beaming grin, his pride and his genuine affection cheering my day up no end. I feel the urge to kiss Diego all over his cutesy, chubby little face every time I see him. He’s probably the most adorable child I have ever met in my life. 

Diego happens to have Down’s syndrome, which, far from being a burden to me as his (informal, family-friend) nanny, only seems to reinforce my belief that most disabilities could be more accurately termed ‘dif-abilities’. 

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