And the crate with my chair? Well, I was without the wheelchair—and the clothes Dan had packed with it—for the next week. The airline mistakenly sent the crate to Boston before forwarding it to London.
Runaway Wheelchair
Four months after I refereed at the National Games held in Vancouver, BC, in 1993, I had the privilege of travelling with Jen to Sheffield, England. I enjoyed refereeing there, but that wasn’t the most exciting part of the trip.
We had a day off during the competition, so Jen and I decided to take the train to Birmingham. I had been so impressed with the wheelchairs used by the British team that I wanted to touch base with the people who manufactured them. While we were there, I picked up some spare parts.
“That was a good day,” Jen said when we arrived back at the Sheffield train station.
I agreed.
We got situated on the platform, and Jen placed the box of spare parts on my lap. Everything would have been fine, except the train whistle blew and I jumped. The box of parts went flying.
“Here, let me pick those up,” Jen said. She got to work but forgot one important thing: to secure the brakes on my wheelchair.
I was screaming for help in my mind, but nothing came from my lips as I began to roll toward the moving train. I crashed into the side of the train with such force it bent my footrests. Angels must have been surrounding me that day. Even though my seatbelt wasn’t fastened, I stayed in the chair.
“Deb, I’m so sorry. How can I ever make it up to you? I can’t believe that happened.”
I was speechless during our ride back to the hotel. I’m sure I was in shock, but I was also contemplating just how good and gracious God had been.
Surgery and a Wedding
When I got home in February, I went to the doctor’s for a routine test.
“Deb, I have something to tell you.” The doctor pulled up a chair in front of me. “I suspect you have endometriosis, and I want to send you to a specialist next month.”
Endometriosis...really?
When I got the name and address of the specialist and the date I was to see her, I made all the necessary arrangements. After the examination, I went home to await the results. Because it’s difficult for me to get to the doctor’s, they usually give me the news over the phone. I was alone when the specialist’s office called.
“Miss Willows?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“We’re calling to confirm that you do have endometriosis and will need surgery.”
My head was spinning when I got off the phone. When the shock wore off, the tears came. However, in less than an hour, I came to the realization that God hadn’t let me down in the past and He wasn’t about to start. He would see me through.
My parents came home from holidays on the Saturday, and by Sunday we had tracked down my surgeon’s home number. She graciously accepted the call, and we discussed what would happen next.
“We’ll do exploratory surgery to see the extent of the endometriosis,” the doctor said, “and then a follow-up procedure will likely be scheduled.” She paused briefly. “Debbie, you’ll probably need a hysterectomy.”
My parents and I talked at length with her, and she agreed that it would be best to perform the hysterectomy at the first surgery. It didn’t make sense to subject me to two procedures.
When I was 16, I had been scheduled for a hysterectomy. At that point, nothing was wrong—except that I had CP. Routine sterilization was common for people with disabilities. I didn’t want to go through with it, because I hoped to, one day, have children. When the whole controversy hit the news, the hospital dropped me from the surgical schedule for fear of the backlash. At 35, with a diagnosis of endometriosis, things were different.
On April 1 I underwent the procedure. I was in the hospital for nine days and was abundantly thankful for family and friends who could meet my needs. The nursing staff did their best, but they weren’t trained to assist patients with disabilities. I was especially touched by my brother Terry.
“Hey, Sis,” he said before the surgery, “if you need a transfusion, I’m your guy. I don’t want you getting some stranger’s blood. You never know what can happen with this whole contamination thing.”
Although I missed celebrating Easter with my church family, I didn’t miss my brother Dan’s wedding. The last week of May, I flew to Belgium with my friend and assistant Cathy. Terry, his wife and their six-week-old baby came with us. Mom and Dad had flown over the month before to help with the preparations.
“What a great camp,” Cathy said.
“Yeah, Grace arranged for us to stay here,” I said. “This is where they’ll hold one of the ceremonies.”
“One of them?”
“They have to have a civil ceremony at city hall. Then they’ll come back here for the Christian service.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh.”
The ceremony at city hall was performed in French, and the city employees who attended were dressed in traditional clothes from the 1800s. After the half-hour ceremony, we did pictures, ate lunch, then headed back for the second ceremony, which Grace’s father, Jonathan McRostie, officiated.
My brother Terry, who was a pastor in Belleville, gave the message at Dan and Grace’s wedding.
Two days later, Cathy and I, Terry and his family, and my parents flew home. Dan and Grace joined us the following Saturday. We held a second reception for them at our church in London.
“Isn’t her dress beautiful?” one of the ladies said.
“Lovely.”
It was a great evening, but Grace and I woke up the next morning very sick. It seems a week and a half of wedding celebrations proved to be a little too much.
Carrying the torch in London, ON, 1996
3. A Slight Setback
Before my days as a Paralympic athlete and boccia referee, we faced some challenging times. My parents have often shared with me their first memories of our little family.
“Why can’t we hold our little girl? Is she all right? Everyone else gets to hold their babies.”
My dad stood beside her, holding Mom’s hand and doing his best to comfort her as they watched me through the window. “She’s in intensive care. They’re doing all they can for her.”
Because of oxygen deprivation at birth, I spent the first seven days of my life in the neonatal intensive care unit at Victoria Hospital in London, Ontario. Although they could visit me, neither of my parents could hold me. At the end of the week, the nurse placed me in my mother’s arms for the first time. Mom smiled down at me, then hugged me close. For the next four days, the nurses brought me to my mom daily.
“Mrs. Willows.”
“Yes.”
“We’re releasing you and the baby tomorrow.”
Her smile lit up the room.
My dad came to get us the