William & Patty: A Love Story

Editor's Note: Ty Phillips’ story on William and Patty first ran March 2, 2003.

William paced in the hallway, collecting himself. He pulled in a few measured breaths and moved into the living room. He wore a Special Olympics T-shirt, jeans and a rare nervous expression.

When he reached Patty, William swooped down to one knee. With his right hand, he took hold of her left. Patty blushed and turned away. Then she turned back and looked her man in the eye.

He grinned boyishly, as only William can.

"Patty," he said. "Would you marry me?"

"Yes," she said, fast as the word could leave her lips.

"Oh, that's great."

William stood and wrapped his arms around his fiancée. They hugged and kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

The next night, William again anxiously walked into their living room. Again, he sank to one knee. Patty knew to hold out her hand.

"Patty, you are the most beautiful woman I've ever met in my entire life. Would you marry me?"

"Yes."

And so it went for the next seven nights: William proposing, and Patty always accepting. For William, proposing marriage was far too much fun to simply let it pass as one nerve-racking event. Besides, by the third night, he was getting pretty good at it.

Patty savored the ritual as well. She had waited all her life for this man. She dreamed of him while everyone worked to convince her she was incapable of love. When their moment finally came, they seized it.

This is a story of unwavering hope, enduring devotion and happy endings.

It began about 47 years ago.

When Patty Taylor was born in 1956, doctors diagnosed her with Down syndrome — a condition caused by the presence of extra genetic material — and said she likely would not live more than 30 days. She had numerous health problems, including a misshapen head and a hole in her heart the size of a silver dollar. Somehow, she survived, but progress came slowly; she did not walk until she was 4 years old.

Patty's family, except for her older brother, Ken, moved from Washington to California, where the services and programs better met her needs. The family moved into a house on Modesto's Jasmin Avenue when Patty was 13 years old. Outside of school and periodic events, Patty spent her time in either her bedroom or her play room. For the most part, she came out only to eat.

Her parents were protective and strict. While Patty was in her early 20s, they had her undergo surgery to ensure she never could get pregnant, either by abuse or through consensual sex. Love was out of the question.

As sheltered as her life was those first 45 years, it offered far more freedom than the alternative: the state-funded care homes where many people with Down syndrome end up living.

Care homes are rigid places. The good ones are homes of special magic, fostering personal growth and community purpose. However, people who work with the developmentally disabled say those facilities are outnumbered by places where the main function is sustaining life. They are businesses, often housing 20 or more residents overseen primarily by unskilled people making little more than minimum wage. Waking, eating, learning, playing and sleeping become timed exercises. Individuality is rendered useless and nearly impossible.

It's a setting William Beaber called home his entire adult life. He was born in Kansas City, Mo., in 1970 and diagnosed with a moderate mental handicap.

After his family moved to California, he lived in and out of foster homes. When he was 11 years old, his mother abandoned him for good. William fell into the arms of the state.