Each Other: The Discovery of Ability

Friday, July 31, 1970.  I remember the day well, except for that time between receiving the phone call and now standing beside Dr. Hughes in the Emergency Room at Norwalk Hospital.  I stood motionless, my body numbed.  It seemed as though I had been transported here. 

A black stallion, the dream of nearly every horse lover.  My brother Dan had raised the Morgan from a colt and had already trained him to harness.  Now as a three-year-old, it was time for the saddle.  Power and beauty and grace.  The horse stood at fifteen hands, an imposing study in composition, the powerful neck and chest defining characteristics of the breed.  His registered name, “Stillwater Marauder,” was a valid oxymoron.  Though relatively gentle in disposition, there was that unmistakable glare in his eye, of unpredictability.  To work with this animal, one would have to meet him, literally, on his own ground, physically and intellectually.  And only someone of a parallel life force could conceive of calling him “Babe.”

Dan was the baby boy, the seventh son in our large family of ten siblings.  As children, we teased him for the chubby little fellow that he was.  When he entered the military, we older brothers worried.  We had been there, done that, how would Danny ever make it through basic training?  We concluded if he could survive that, he could survive anything.

Ten weeks later, he was home on leave.  What remained of our little brother was solid muscle, determination and willpower.  And Dan did more than survive his future training, he excelled, graduating first in his class.  Upon completing active duty, he also graduated from the Connecticut Police Academy and joined the Norwalk Police Department.  A different uniform, but still the strapping, capable, energetic young man.

We stood in silence in a small anteroom,  looking intently at the X-ray on the wall.  Only an hour before, I was at home, relaxing on the lower terrace.  It was late afternoon. Dan pulled up and parked his new Ford pickup in front of the house.  He had just finished his shift. Still in his navy blue uniform, he leaned over the stair railing and yelled down to me, “Hey, Rit, you wanna go over to the barn?”  He had three horses stabled there.  In addition to the Morgan, there was a quarter horse, “Pumpkin,” my favorite.  “Chief,” a newer acquisition, was a horse of a different disposition, a Type A locomotive on hooves.  Dan had bought him at a recent auction and I had not as yet settled into a comfortable routine to even feed him, let alone ride him.  For my brother, the challenge was second nature.   He’d loved animals since before the age of reason.    Barely two years old, he nearly drowned following ducks into the waters of Long Island Sound.  No doubt, Dan was a horse person.  Once, when working with the stallion, “Babe” unexpectedly nipped him.  Dan’s response?  He bit him back.

“No,” I said, “I think I’ll stay home.”

The Emergency Room, a world of white and stainless steel, doctors, nurses, technicians.  The bleeping of monitors faded behind half-opened curtains.  The smell of alcohol permeated the air.   I tried to reconcile the disparity unfolding before my eyes.  Dan and myself were familiar with this antiseptic atmosphere; we had both worked here.  Prior to joining the Force, he was an ambulance driver and an ER Technician, I an Inhalation Therapist.  I caught a glimpse of my brother’s face.  His eyes were open.  A tracheotomy was underway.  Soon the respirator took over and the handheld bag was cast aside.  But between the time of that sudden traumatic impact with the paddock sand and the arrival at the ER, it was the life breath of his friend Ky that had sustained him.  Dan’s last words before turning blue had been, “Breathe me.”  Chief walked away, unaware of how the trick riding session had gone awry.

My attention returned to the X-ray.  The once integral skeletal system that had supported his body now held him captive.  The first cervical vertebra was fragmented, the second broken in half, dislocated.  It’s called a hangman’s break.  Tears welled up in Dr. Hughes’ eyes.  He had lost his son only a year before to a similar fracture, a diving accident.

I heard the deadening thud of a hand hitting a wall button.  Immediately, the double doors opened.  A bed that Dan had once pushed now raced down the hallway, deftly following the center red line to the O.R.  Prostrate, completely paralyzed, eyes still open, he watched, as the glaring blur of ceiling lights – and his young, twenty-three years of life –  went by.

The doors closed slowly, as though sighing.  Activity in the ER continued at an uninterrupted pace.  But beyond the necessary stealthiness of performance, there were embraces, tears and comforting.  Dan was more than a new wrist bracelet, a name on an IV bag.

I stood transfixed by the X-ray.  In November of the previous year, I had studied another.  The picture was of the cancer that had metastasized in my father’s body.  To Mom, and my siblings, I was the harbinger.  Dad would be gone by April.  Now again, I would tell them.  I turned to the doctor, his tears falling.  I held the hands of this skilled surgeon, and father, and comforted him all over again at the loss of his son, he my brother.  There was no need for words.  No diagnosis-prognosis.  We knew.  Dan would not survive this day.  I did not question God.  I would do that later.  Right now, I needed Him.

In what’s called survivor’s guilt, I vowed to live my life “extra” for the life my brother Danny was denied.  It’s been forty-two years since.  In conjunction with my design and building career, I’ve become an avid ADA advocate, using my talents to build compatible and architecturally pleasing environments for the handicapped.  All gratifying, but I learned early on that I could not live my life for my brother.  I latched onto that shielding process that allows for acceptance – time.  I would hold on just long enough to let go.  I also learned that great joy sometimes comes from being wrong.  Forty-two years ago, we knew.  I, in my gut, the doctors in their learning and experience.  Certainly, their intuition was more credible than my emotions.

We were all wrong!

Beyond the range of possibility and that of the human spirit to persevere, beyond this is the domain of miracles.  Danny survived!  I did not argue with God, I thanked Him.

The wait began.  In 1970, there wasn’t much debate.  Life, or the perceived absence of it, was routinely disconnected from the respirator.  I had done so.  This was normally a patient/doctor decision, not a protracted legal argument in the courts.  My brother lay in a bed in the Intensive Care Unit, immobile, twenty-four hours a day.  The injury affected the area at the base of the brain, the medulla oblongata, the body’s control center for respiration and circulation.  Dan’s breathing function was non-existent, and although completely paralyzed, the remainder of his bodily functions, though diminished, were a go.  He could blink his eyes and move his eyebrows up and down, like Groucho Marx.  We devised a method of communication, whereby I would point to a letter on a clipboard alphabet and he’d blink once for “Yes” and twice for “No.”  The process was painstaking and the very first statement spelled out was devastating.  I printed the words one letter at a time, “WHEN… AM… I… GOING… TO… DI…   I didn’t finish the last word.  He knew the drill.  Even Danny would allow only so much time.  I was the one person he could look to for an honest answer.  I replied, “I don’t know.”

Day after day, his inert form rested on the firm mattress, his body stripped of all privacy, his muscular frame shrinking beneath the sterile fragrance of a freshly laundered sheet.  Even the dignity he maintained in his mind was compromised.  Stainless steel tongs were embedded in his skull, pulling tension backwards via a cable, pulley and weight system.  This traction held his head firm, relieving pressure and allowing swelling to subside.  An operation was out of the question.  The bones would fuse as they might –   the spinal cord damage, to be determined.

Days became weeks.  Bedsores developed.  All the while the respirator pulsed life through the ribbed tubing, to the clean gauze-padded trach collar at Dan’s neck.  And, still, the question remained, now condensed to one word, “When?”

The cubicle in the Intensive Care Unit became his home, my second.  Bleeps and buzzers.  Muted rings of telephones.  The soft ping of warning lights, machines with an infinite array of dials and gauges, monitor screens recycling multicolor graphs, each telling a story.  Curtains opening and closing on lubricated  tracks.  Visits by technicians became predictable.  Sights and sounds repetitive.  And, always, the pervasive aroma of alcohol.  Why were there no windows?  I resisted the temptation to answer the call button from the adjacent cubicle.

Three weeks passed.  I stood beside the bed, comforted that when Dan was sleeping, he could escape this preoccupation.  I held his hand, extending and massaging each finger – each joint of each finger. They would not move voluntarily, but neither would they atrophy on my watch.  The toes, too.  Then, suddenly it happened.  I detected a momentary hesitation in the rhythm of the respirator. Instinctively, I checked for a malfunction.  There was none.  I was familiar with the sound.  Danny had tripped the respirator; his breath had overridden the machine. With a raised arm and smile I alerted the nursing station.  Dan slept on.  There was no echoing PA announcement, but within five minutes the message rang out hospital wide: “Danny would live!”  I hurried to call Mother.  She dreaded my daily calls.  Her husband had died in April and now her youngest son was at that same door.  This call would be one of rebirth!

Movement of the big toe was first, followed by a flicker of the index finger.  He was moved onto a Stryker frame, a circular bed that allows for change of position and a whole new perspective.  I placed a mirror on the floor and we continued our conversations, down side up.  The bedsores would have a chance to heal.  Dan’s sense of humor returned.  “Do you think they’ll let me out of the National Guard?”  The “mirror on the floor” days were numbered when the nurses realized Dan was using it for more than blinking.  Gone, too, the question, “When?”  Within two months, the trach was removed and he regained the ability to speak.  He began to gain weight.

Dan was transferred to Gaylord Rehabilitation Center in Wallingford, CT.  He now had a prognosis: minimal.  His neck was permanently wired together in a nine-hour operation at Yale New Haven Hospital.  When he awoke, he refused pain medication, not wanting to be dependent upon it for the rest of his life.

The year seems now to have passed quickly, but in reality, not so.  Every day was a struggle, one my brother passionately embraced.  They said his breathing would be limited – but it improved.  Motion sickness – overcome.   Standing? – Not to be.  Walking? – Don’t even think about it.  Dan’s response was, “I will walk the Gaylord Mile!”  Denial?  What is it about the word not that my brother doesn’t understand?  Within the year, with the use of two aluminum arm canes, he walked down the wide rehab corridor.  We opened the door and Danny stepped over the threshold and into his new life.

Dan’s condition, quadriplegic, might be defined by the term disability, but he lives his life by a different one – ability.  “Borrowed time,” he calls it.  In this time, he has accomplished more than most with normal faculties.  He could no longer ride a horse, so he learned how to drive – becoming The New England Morgan Horse Association champion.  Only one of many such honors, he has also trained young riders, who in turn have become champions.  Boxes of show ribbons attest to his equine expertise, as well as the success of his renowned Tack Shop, “All The King’s Horses.”  The name is in memory of the beautiful Morgan stallion, “Babe,” the horse whose spirit kept my brother’s spirit alive, even today.

Dan has survived – lived – forty-two years since his accident.  His neck is bound together and cannot move, so his field of vision is limited.  He does not have a sense of hot or cold, yet his body reacts to it:  nerve damage, spasm, curvature of the spine, imbalance.  Limited use of hands, arms and legs.  Constant pain, managed by willpower.  His life has been difficult, yet he doesn’t complain. He relishes it!

This past year Dan drove his two-wheeled Meadowbrook cart, masterfully handling the reins as his new horse “Merlin,” a Cheval Canadien breed, gingerly trotted along the country road.  His passenger remarked, “Dan, when you’re holding the reins, your disability completely disappears.”  For my brother, the words were life confirming.  Disability?  On that Sunday afternoon, Dan was merely a friend sharing a passion with another friend.  The horse was not a “therapy dog.”  A tug on the reins, the command passing through the thin black leather — right, left, stop, go – was discernible only between horse and driver.  The horse’s gait, the motion of oaken spokes passing around a well-greased hub was an age-old means of transportation.  Soon, the bright orange triangle faded into the distance.  “Your disability disappears.”  What a concept.   I think to be truly free we have to let go, and other times hold on.  The question comes down to one word: when?

“Borrowed time.”  We’re all on it, in some fashion.  What have you done with yours?  Until a few years ago, I was content with my answer.  I’ve married, raised three children, Marilee and I are happy together.  My business has been moderately successful.  And, along the way, I’ve managed to help a few people.  I am especially proud of my work with the handicapped.  One might automatically think of ramps, wider doorways, grab bars.  More exciting are beautiful and uniquely functional kitchens and baths.  Universal design is the term.  Then there’s zoning issues, town ordinances, correcting misinformation, collaboration with hospitals and therapists, outreach to the community and nation, lobbying for the rights of the disabled.

These hard-won rights are almost taken for granted today.  It is said that if we do not know our history, we are doomed to repeat it.  I watched my brother grow and adapt to the challenges of life.  At this same time, a movement was emerging.  It would culminate in the Americans with Disabilities Act.  Dan, myself, and the rights of the disabled grew together.  Solidarity was the key, working with each other for the common good.

The Americans with Disabilities Act was a long time in the making; the Civil Rights Act of 1964 provided a firm foundation and an established pattern of activism.  There were benchmarks along the way.  Key legislation, like the 1973 Rehabilitation Act (Section 504), leveraged the weight of the Federal Government against discrimination by entities receiving Federal funds.  Societal stereotypes and prejudices were exposed for what they were: roadblocks to the progress of the disabled.  It wasn’t only the disability that limited access to a full life.  Most importantly,   categories of mental and physical disability, previously viewed as separate, now united and became a collective force.  The disabled were finally classified as a legal minority.  Supreme Court decisions would be reversed, and won.  Section 504 was challenged and upheld.  The Education for Handicapped Children Act (IDEA) passed.  Solidarity and perseverance – and justice – prevailed.  In 1992, after a twenty year campaign, the Americans with Disabilities Act passed, in its’ entirety.  Out of sight, out of mind?   Legally gone!  Protection and direction, under the law!  We heard great news on World Down syndrome Day, March 21, 2012, when the Polish delegate announced at the U.N. that within the year, Poland hoped to ratify a semblance of the Americans with Disabilities Act.

As proud and energetic as I am of promoting efforts for the physically disabled, there is that part of my being of which I am deeply ashamed.  I would see them at the local restaurant or the State Fair, on a small bus.  Invariably, one “kid” would be wearing a helmet.  They would sit in the large round corner booth, the two attendants dutifully governing the “outing.”  In my ignorance I labelled all of these kids as retarded, a term we used so freely. A word of dismissal.  Afterwards, they would go back to their school or group home.  Others would take care of them; it was always them, I did not see the individual.  They were none of my concern until, on the next occasion, when again I would have to feel uncomfortable around them.  Yes, I am a product of the ‘50’s mentality, the stereotype of the “out of sight, out of mind” syndrome.

A damaging aspect of stereotyping is that a concept becomes engrained; a misconception becomes a lifelong habit, proliferating in influence. Fortunately for me, the cycle was broken.  My daughter’s friend married and had two children.  Each boy had Autism, one mild range, the other more acute. They, them, now had  names:  Ryan and Kyle.  I could no longer look away, I began to look into.  I became more enlightened and sensitive to the needs of the mentally disabled or “challenged,” yet I remained uncomfortable in pursuing an active advocacy.

Epiphanies occur at all stages of our lives.  My granddaughter, Abby, had one at age five.  Her mom was pregnant with a third child, after two girls, maybe now a boy.  If so, the name was preordained, Louis Aloysius Craco III.  Little sister, Maggie, had already siphoned off some of the attention; now it would be diluted further.  Month after inexorable month, Abby protested, “I want things to stay the way they are, I don’t want a new baby.”  Finally, she declared, “I don’t want change!”  Eventually, the day arrived and, so too, the babe in arms. I opened the front door as Jen and Lou came up the Brooklyn brownstone steps.  Abby raced to the hallway and frantically clutched at her mother’s leg, unable to reach high enough to touch her new baby brother.  She stared up at her mother’s smile.  With tearful eyes, words of forgiveness, acceptance and welcome poured from deep down in this little girl’s heart.  Holding the edge of the soft blanket, she pleaded, “I want change!  I want change!”  Abby is now eight years old, Louis (pronounced Louie) is four. She is his hero.  They will be best friends for life, not because Louis has Down syndrome —  just because he’s her little brother, she’s his big sister.

It was a prenatal diagnosis.  Frightening, our daughter told us, but never a question of not wanting this child.  Her motherly instincts would find a way.  And Lou, Jenny’s husband: more than ever he loved his wife and family.  Being a father, I could relate to the questions, the doubts and fears, the anxiety of not knowing – degrees.  His son would be the fifth in line of “Louis Aloysius” and, most likely, the last.  Lou, Sr. had gone through his own process of acceptance.  He spoke to his son with deep conviction,  “I will be proud to have your son carry my name.”

My reaction.? I take pride in being able to see around the corner, prepared for the next step.  But this was a wall, blocking the possibility of celebration.  Then, I thought of the makeup of my “little girl.”  Jenny, though not physically much more than 100 pounds, was the most formidable of individuals, an embodiment of method and perseverance.  During her high school orchestra years, if she hadn’t practiced, we’d hear an hour of perfecting Mozart at midnight.  Jenny is now a prominent attorney, but it was at a young age that she became my mentor.  She had much to teach me!

Change?  How do we deal with it when the staggering unknowns of reality persist?  Lou Senior’s words spoke to all of us: Proud!  We, as a family, would follow Jenny’s example; we would do what family does best, LOVE!  It was no longer a diagnosis.  It was he, he would be Louis Aloysius Craco III.  This little boy, from birth, would have no choice – he would be embraced!

What was around the corner?  Down syndrome is a mystery to most – save for stereotypes.  We learned.

We sometimes hear that a person with Down syndrome wears his diagnosis on his face (it is a diagnosis, not the person).  Yes, it’s something you see.  The eyes can be slanted, slightly upward, and perhaps flatness in facial features is present.  Generally, an individual’s stature is smaller.  Some have a single deep crease across the center of the palm.  Low muscle tone is prevalent and transcends to the internal organs, as well.  This can be especially felt when holding a young child.  Hearing and speech may be affected.  Noticeably, cognition is interrupted.  Not all persons with Down syndrome exhibit the same traits.  Some more, others less.  These are some of the defining characteristics.

But there is another side to Down syndrome; it speaks of benefits.  Those with Ds exhibit remarkable willpower; stubbornness and compulsion can be  good things.  Their exceptional people skills and doing for others are admirable qualities, as are a sense of responsibility and orderliness.  They are visual learners, with almost a photographic memory.

This summer, at the National Down Syndrome Congress in Washington, DC,  I watched as a thousand young people celebrated their diversity at a teen dance.  In unison, they raised their arms, dancing to the blaring music and lyrics of a popular theme song, “When I see your face, I wouldn’t change a thing, ‘cause I like you just the way you are.”  Another positive trait: people with Down syndrome are fun to be around.

What causes Down syndrome?  Each of our cells has a nucleus, which contains twenty-three pairs of chromosomes.  In Down syndrome, the twenty-first pair has a partial or extra copy.  Hence, the syndrome is also referred to as Trisomy 21.  This is the most common form, about 95%.  Other types are Mosaicism and Translocation.  All have reference to the term “nondisjunction,” or an error in cell division.

Prenatal diagnosis is now routinely available by ultrasound screening.  A new blood test can detect the presence of the extra 21st chromosome as early as 12 weeks with 99.1% accuracy.  Chorionic villus sampling (CVS) and amniocentesis are also highly accurate, but more invasive and risky.   At birth, genetic testing of a blood sample can determine a definitive diagnosis.  In the United States, the current rate of babies born with Down syndrome is 1 in 691 births.  Research indicates that there is an increased incidence as a woman ages.  But, it is also true that most births occur at age 35 or before, accounting for 80% of the children born with Down syndrome.

Research is the pathway to improved functionality for people with Down syndrome. Lifespan, which in the 1920‘s was about 9 years, now ranges to over sixty.  The curve is moving toward higher cognitive ability and independence. Down syndrome is now considered a condition with treatable components.  Through research, society and the medical profession have been turned around.  No longer are people born with Down syndrome bound for institutional abandonment.

While we in the Ds Community forge ahead to help fill the gap in funding, research has made progress, literally, in filling the molecular gap.  Led by the Down syndrome Research and Treatment Foundation, funding at Stanford, Johns Hopkins and other universities and health centers, has resulted in identifying three “candidate drugs” which could positively affect cognition.  Roche, a world leader in biotech research, is conducting clinical trials, unheard of just a few years ago.  Cognitive and behavioral improvement in persons with Down syndrome is no longer a hollow hope – it is the future.

The State of New York embraced my grandson also.  Its early intervention program has served as a model for others to emulate.  Services, at no cost, are available from birth through three years, greatly enhancing the possibilities for children with Down syndrome.    Heart surgery, thyroid management, hearing and other fields, all improving.

“I want change!” Abby said.  She really meant it.  In first grade, she brought Louis to school to meet her friends.  As he sat in the middle of the Learner’s Circle, she proceeded to teach the class, and teachers, about Down syndrome.   After discussing chromosomes, Abby made sure to include the most important message – “Louis is the best little brother in the whole world.”  He then wowed them all with high-fives, fist-bumps and hugs.  Now when he visits her school, he is lauded with shouts of “Hey, Louis!”  He is seen as a kid with abilities, someone to be proud to know.  Abby’s example has inspired a new initiative, The Sibling Connection, which we will implement through our local, non-profit awareness center, GiGi’s Playhouse NYC.  Citywide, siblings will share their experiences about Down syndrome with their peers and others.

GiGi’s is a Down syndrome awareness, activity and educational center. The Playhouse concept, to educate, inspire and achieve, originated in the Chicago area where GiGi was born in 2002.  Her parents, Paul and Nancy Gianni, brought their new baby home, having little knowledge or direction in raising a child with Down syndrome.  2002?   The medical profession and referral agencies were still not up to par and offered little insight.  Nancy Gianni would change that – big time.  She made a promise to her new daughter, to change the way the world thinks about Down syndrome.  GiGi’s Playhouse would be the vehicle.  The first Playhouse opened in 2003; and locations have grown exponentially (14), but the real measure of success being the number of lives touched and improved.  Numbering in the thousands, we are striving for millions.

An eye-opening moment of my “conversion” was to realize the achievement levels attained by persons with Down syndrome.  The hallmark program at GiGi’s Playhouse is the Literacy Program.  Louis, just four years old, is learning to read at our New York City location.  Associations with Columbia and New York Universities are only some networks that are the core of our professional tutor and volunteer base.  We are most proud of our sincere advocacy.  In New York City, we are currently working with the United Nations in helping to organize World Down Syndrome Day 2013.  I think of Nancy Gianni’s promise to GiGi.  The power of one voice – it will reach the world!

Today is not the stereotypical environment of the ‘50’s.  Down syndrome, as well as disability in general, is viewed in a more positive light.  We do not have the luxury of “resting on laurels.”  The progress of today was made possible by dismantling the misery of the past.  Our past is the present, for much of the world.   “I want change!”  A little girl’s cry, the voice of a mother, can lead the way, solidarity will sustain it.  We can help them in building tomorrow.

We live in this world together.  Coexisting, separated or bound together by culture, religion, creed, societal attitudes and prejudices.  We can be judgmental.  The question has been advanced, “What sorts of people should there be?”  Infamous leaders of past generations answered it with disastrous consequences.  As Science “advances” we face again the dilemma of selectivity. That same machine of scientific progress that brings us better treatments for Ds, also presents us with the choice of eliminating a 12-week-old fetus.  We will always be a world of diversity, but we can do better than survive or coexist. Never before has there been a greater need for enlightenment and correct information.  And the mind must be tempered by the heart.  We can find an ever broader answer to the question of what sorts of people there should be.  We can create a thriving world with the focus on inclusion.

I reflect on my brother Dan and my grandson Louis.  Disability, yes – but theirs is a journey of expectation and possibility.  Out of sight, out of mind?  I don’t think so.  Their example is the light we should look to.  Those who lift themselves daily lift us up also.  They have led me to a fuller understanding of advocacy.

Seriously, what sorts of people should there be?  An acquaintance once said, “Richard, there should be more people in the world like you.”  Well, I don’t know.  Consider my make-up:  I’m a decent fellow, honest, caring and generous.  I prefer calmness over confrontation.  Perhaps, there should be more people like me.  However, I’m also bossy and tend to micro-manage: I wouldn’t want more people around telling me what to do.  I’m disorganized:  more messes in the world?  Occasionally, a bit of Irish melancholy grips me, making me unpleasant company: let’s spare the world more of that!

Despite some of the aforementioned traits, my grandson, Louis, thinks I’m an OK guy.  I like his kind of person.  He’s smart and he smiles a lot. Yes, he has Down syndrome, but the term doesn’t define his life.  He has a great sense of the comic and tells me jokes with theatrical delivery. I don’t always understand them—he’s only four.  He doesn’t always understand mine, either.  We laugh together.  I admire this young boy.  He achieves, and he works hard at it, harder than I have in my own endeavors.  He is methodical and compulsive, in a good way.  He always picks up his Cheerios that spill on the floor.  He always hangs up his coat, shuts doors, puts toys away.  He gets mad, but gets over it.  He doesn’t judge, he embraces.

My brother Dan, my Louis and myself: we each have love for the other.  There ought to be more people in the world who know how simple it is to love.  We need to discover our own ability to see the ability in each other.  

Richard Reilly

October, 2012

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Help!  In Spring of 2012 we opened GiGi’s Playhouse-New York City at West 117th Street in the vibrant Harlem area.  Our presence and programs have been so successful we are now searching for a larger venue to better serve our community.  All our programs and events are free.  GiGi’s Playhouse relies solely on contributions and right now we need your continued financial support.  Please consider sending a donation to:

GiGi’s Playhouse-New York City, LLC                                                                       Or donate online at

      PO Box 925                                                                                                                         www.gigisplayhouse.org/newyork

      New York, NY 10026                                                                                 Click on the “Donate” button

      GiGi’s Playhouse, Inc. is a non-profit organization, 501( c )( 3) number 20-0058563.

For larger gifts by private, foundation and corporate benefactors, join our Founders Circle Campaign.  

Call or contact me at 203-354-2304 or richardreilly@hotmail.com

Working together we are building the promise of a better tomorrow.  Welcome to GiGi’s Playhouse!

Richard Reilly

The Grandparent Connection

Board Member, Volunteer

GiGi’s Playhouse-NYC