Special Parents: For the Willetts, doing things the hard way is way of life

Original Print Date: August 5, 1990

A gray-haired woman climbs aboard a Dial-a-Ride van and stares, taken aback by what she sees.

"Whose baby is that?" she demands.

"Ours," says the father, in his little-boy voice. Next to him, the mother drools; she is unable to speak.

"People like that," the older woman tells a reporter, "shouldn't be allowed to have children."

For Clarence and Tammy Willett, doing things the hard way is a way of life.

Tammy, 30, has cerebral palsy. It is a disorder of the central nervous system caused by brain damage. It began when she was a bright, freckled 10-year-old. A mild bout with the flu developed into encephalitis.

She was in a coma for six weeks, followed by 17 surgeries.

For 20 years, Tammy has been unable to walk or talk, dress or feed herself. Her muscles are in a state of continuous contraction called spastic paralysis.

She has a mind without a useful body, a million thoughts without a voice.

"We were thankful that she was alive," says her mother, LaFreda Mitchell. "We didn't realize she'd be handicapped forever."

Clarence is considered mildly mentally retarded. Three of his nine brothers and sisters have learning disabilities that range from slight to severe.

In school, some kids called Clarence "m.r." — as in mental retard. He graduated from Modesto High School's special education program in 1983.

At 24, he has neither a job nor a driver's license. With a lot of assistance, he's living away from home for the first time.

Last summer, Tammy and Clarence were married. Two months ago, they had a baby girl.

Rebeka Sue Willett. Six pounds, 1 ounce, 171/2 inches long.

She was born by Caesarean section May 29 at Modesto City Hospital and is a normal, healthy baby. She coos and ah-goos. She smiles. She's starting to lift her head. Pretty soon she'll be rolling over.

The notion that a baby like Rebeka could be born to parents like Tammy and Clarence — and be raised by them — elicits both skepticism, like the startled woman on Dial-a-Ride, and matter-of-fact support from the nurse practitioner who examined Rebeka.

"I was pretty impressed that they were right on top of things," says Jill Jenkins, who works at Stanislaus County's pediatric clinic. "They seemed in touch with the baby and had all the appropriate questions that parents have."

"When we found out Tammy was pregnant, it was the talk of the center," says Roger Frazier, program director at the United Cerebral Palsy Association.

Clarence and Tammy are clients at the cerebral palsy center. They took a child-care class before they had Rebeka, and part of the homework was to carry around 5-pound bags of Gold Medal flour, ersatz infants.

Tammy held the flour "baby" with the one arm she can manipulate — her left. With a clenched fist she secured the bag against her chest.

"Tammy was my star pupil," says Darlene Monroe, who taught the class and now is Rebeka's godmother. "She was the only person who could keep her "baby' from getting hurt — or punctured."

But still Clarence and Tammy have barriers, natural and manmade.

One Modesto obstetrician they visited said he would not be able to take Tammy as a patient.

"I cannot treat a patient if she cannot talk," says Dr. Fred Adams. "We have a big bathroom, but we don't have special tables or interpreters. A university center or county facility would have the proper personnel and equipment to give care."

When Rebeka was almost 2 months old, a public health nurse who visited the Willetts suggested that adoptive parents be found.