The giver
This time of year, some give, some receive. And then there are those who could ask to receive, but instead choose to give. Providencia Aponte is one of those people.
This year, in Lawrence, Aponte decided to donate things she no longer needed: the DVDs, clothes, and toys her children have outgrown, things she gives to charities every Christmas; plus a good-as-new power wheelchair that her younger daughter can no longer use.
Aponte contacted Lazarus House, a charity that, among other things, provides Christmas gifts for the needy, and this year, in this city, that includes a lot of people. That might explain why, when Sister Mary Ellen Broderick took Aponte's call amid the Christmas crush, her first response was that the charity did not have the time or manpower to pick up the wheelchair.
Then, somewhere between saying no and hanging up the phone, Broderick paused to ask why Aponte was donating the chair.
The answer came back in a disarmingly upbeat voice. Aponte's teenage daughters, Rhaissa and Natalie Vazquez, are stricken with a rare degenerative disease, ataxia-telangiectasia, that has robbed them of the ability to move independently. It will probably take their lives before they reach their mid-20s. Rhaissa's condition has deteriorated to the point that she cannot control her arms, and can no longer operate the wheelchair.
Broderick kept pressing. Aponte, she learned, had told the girls there would be no Christmas gifts this year. There was no money; she had too much debt; she had no time to do much of anything beyond caring for them.
And yet, Aponte had never thought about selling, rather than donating, the wheelchair. She had not even thought to ask Lazarus House for help.
"I didn't call them for that," Aponte recalled later. "When I give, I'm not expecting anything in return."
Broderick, shocked by the unfailingly upbeat woman on the other end of the line, refused to hang up until she persuaded Aponte to accept an offer to send over some gifts so there would be something under the tree on Christmas morning.
On Tuesday, Lazarus House was a busy warren of Christmas activity, donors carrying gifts in, volunteers carrying them out for delivery. Amid that chaos, Broderick took a moment, standing in the hallway, to reflect on what she sees as the divine intervention that kept her on the phone that day.
"I could have hung up," Broderick marveled.
On Tuesday, at the Aponte's single-story, three-bedroom house on an unplowed street in South Lawrence, the wrapped presents lay in a cheery pile under the brightly lit Christmas tree (It's Christmas, so we can tell you: new clothes,
Every day is a challenge for them. They can speak: "Usher," Rhaissa, 16, cries out when asked about her favorite musician; "Both," Natalie, 18, smiles when asked whether she speaks Spanish or English; "7th Heaven," they both exclaim when asked about their favorite TV show.
But someone else has to move them, dress them, wash them, put them to bed, take them out, and watch them constantly. Insurance allows Aponte a personal care assistant, but much of the time, she does all that.
"I try to make their life as good as I can," she said in that steady voice, no tears. She can't afford to cry in front of her daughters.
With help, Natalie graduated from high school last June. Rhaissa will not.
"It's getting harder and harder for her," Aponte said. This year, Aponte kept Rhaissa home. The girl can't hold a cup or write, much less control the little joystick that turns the wheelchair, or operate the simple, clearly marked throttle - turtle means slow, rabbit means fast.
In the room where she keeps the wheelchairs, where the girls could not hear her, Aponte said the doctors have told her Natalie might live to age 21. Rhaissa - that's even harder for her to take. They have told Aponte to get ready for the worst.
"Rhaissa is in a dangerous position right now," Aponte said, as she showed the red wheelchair with Rhaissa's name stitched in the seatback.
Their father, Luis Vazquez, left in 1995, Aponte said, when Rhaissa was diagnosed with A-T. She said he pays $34.88 a week in child support, but otherwise has no contact with the family. Aponte's mother died in 2004, her father in 2006, the year she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. It's in remission now. She said she gets disability payments of $620 a month for each child; her boyfriend pays half their $1,230-a-month mortgage payments.
It's not all bad. Community groups have helped by building a wheelchair-accessible entrance and a large bathroom with a walk-in shower. The Make-A-Wish Foundation of Massachusetts sent them to Disney World. Aponte has a large television set and entertainment center; neat floors; new appliances. She helps other parents of special needs children.
But there are bills: car insurance, utilities, food, and clothes. Just like anyone else these days, especially in a hard-hit town like Lawrence, she has run up debts, over $30,000, she estimates.
She is not asking for a different fate. "I've been blessed with so many things," Aponte said, always upbeat. "And there are so many people who need."
Referring to the wheelchair she donated, she said, "Someone out there needs this."
Said Broderick: "She was basically really reticent in what she would ask from us."
Lazarus House found someone to take the wheelchair. They will pick it up next week.
Aponte wants people to know she only wants two things. "Keep praying for me," she said, "and for the health of me and my girls." And for you, she wants this: "You might as well just laugh, enjoy the moment."
Now if everyone did that, what a Christmas miracle it would be.
Globe correspondent Anne Baker contributed to this report. David Filipov can be reached at filipov@globe.com. 