Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs (38 page)

We picked Faith up the next morning at ten o’clock. We were excited about her accomplishment. She was excited about her adventure and did not want to come home. Sleepover mom filled us in on the details. Faith had slept in a top bunk (another new accomplishment) and went to sleep at midnight, neither first nor last of the girls to sleep. I was so happy to hear her say that Faith would be welcomed back anytime. She had assured me, the day before, that Faith would be no problem. Lo and behold, Faith was no problem! We had wondered how Faith would handle little girl things like sleepovers. Now we had our answer: she would handle them just like any other little girl.

Paulette Beurrier

Paulette Beurrier
is a career mom. She lives in south Florida with her husband and nine-year-old daughter, Faith, who recently began playing on the Little League Challenger League. Her first time out, she knew just what to do as she tapped the bat on the ground before batting. While practicing her catching, she repeatedly hit her fist into her mitt. She looked like she’d been playing for years! Paulette’s two grown and married children live nearby. Paulette advocates for Faith and studies Down syndrome. Her hobbies, besides writing, are sewing, reading, and playing with her grandchildren. She can be reached at Life with [email protected].

My Dad Made the Difference

A
ll about me may be silence and darkness, yet within me, in the spirit, is music and brightness, and color flashes through all my thoughts.

Helen Keller

“There’s nothing I can do,” the eye doctor told my parents. “Take your baby home. She’s blind.” Mom and Dad clung to each other and wept freely. “All I can do is give her a full, happy life,” Dad vowed. “I don’t know how else to treat her except as I would any other child.”

As I grew, my parents realized I could see partially. The greatest gift Dad gave me was expecting me to meet my potential and to persevere, even with my sight limitation. One day after school, my dad came home from work early and saw me holding
Dick and Jane
close to my eyes, struggling to read the letters. “Dad, I can’t do this. It’s too hard,” I told him.

“Honey, you’re not a quitter. I’ll help you.”

My brother banged through the door and blurted, “The kids are saying my sister is stupid because she can’t read. Is that true?”

My voice quavered. “My eyes are bad, Dad. Does that mean I’m stupid? Will I ever be able to read?”

Dad squeezed my hand. “You can’t see well, but that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. We’ll work together, and you will read.”

Dad made me want to try. He took out markers and paper. While I lay on my stomach, he painstakingly drew letters big enough for me to see. It took hours. I also have some hearing loss. He pronounced the phonics slowly and distinctly so I could hear them. I learned to read and proudly read
Dick and Jane
with the rest of my first-grade class. Because of my dad, I had confidence in myself as a reader—until middle school.

One afternoon at the end of class, the teacher stepped out of the room, and a student taunted me. “You blind bat. If you get your face any nearer to that page, your eyes will fall out of your head!” I ran out of the school, tears glistening on my cheeks.

Dad was home when I burst into the house. “I thought I was a good reader, but I guess I’m not. The kids are making fun of me.” I told him what my classmate had said.

Dad hugged me. “I’m sorry, Pam. Kids can be cruel, but that doesn’t change the truth. You can read, right?” I nodded, unable to speak. “You can read. Your classmate can’t take that away from you.”

The knot in my stomach went away after Dad’s encouragement. I walked over to the picture window and looked out. I saw our old sycamore tree blowing in the breeze against the blue sky. I noticed the plush green grass, Dad’s enormous red roses on the hedge by the house, and how the amber sun shimmered as it began to set in the distance. “Dad, I see—how can I be blind?”

“From what you’ve described, you see big items, not detail. Others don’t know how much you can or can’t see. It’s up to you to show them how capable you are,” Dad said.

I had a chance to prove this to myself soon after. At a fast-food court, the waitress asked my dad, “What does she want to order?”

“Excuse me,” I spoke up and smiled. “I can decide for myself what I want.” Dad nudged me and said, “That’s my girl.”

I used the sight I had and knew I was independent even as a blind person. Dad advised, “Take your cane in places like the grocery store so people will know you’re blind. It’s okay to let someone assist you because you do all you can on your own.”

Dad taught me to laugh at myself. He reminded me of the time I tried to pick up a sign that was painted to the floor. Another time, we ate in the deli, and I attempted to eat flowers off an empty plate. When I was ten, I wanted to ride a two-wheeler bike. I heard Dad say to Mom, “I’m not going to hold Pam back from the adventures any kid has.” On my first attempt, I said, “Dad, what if I fall off?” He replied, “You’ll get on and try again.”

I recall summers outdoors roaming with my friends. We crossed streets, played in the creek, and swung on a tire swing. In order to roller-skate, I used big landmarks: carport poles, garbage cans, a sidewalk contrasting with the grass, and the dark shadow of the house. Once, however, I smacked into a pole anyway. While the dentist capped my tooth, he objected, “Why are you letting her skate?”

“Don’t sighted children smash into poles?” Dad asked.

The dentist seemed appalled. He left for a minute, and I remarked, “Dad, don’t tell him yesterday I climbed a tree.”

“I won’t. It will be our secret.”

In the car, I exclaimed, “Dad, why do people think I can’t do stuff?”

“They can’t comprehend how they would do it if they couldn’t see.”

Dad continued to mentor and sustain me until all seven of my children were grown, and I became a grandmother. The legacy he gave me—unconditional love and determination— lives on within me and through them. I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for my dad. He made the difference for me to believe in myself.

Though my dad has died, I still feel him spurring me on, like that day I went on a field trip to Astoria, Oregon, where a column overlooks the surrounding beach area. “You can’t climb that tower. You’ll get hurt,” a teacher informed me.

“Watch me,” I replied. “Nobody tells me I can’t do something.” I started toward the column.

“She’s spunky. I like that,” another teacher said, following me, cheering all the way, just as Dad would have.

Pam Johnson

Pam Johnson
is a freelance writer, published in numerous magazines. Although she is legally blind and hearing impaired, she enjoys life. She loves exercising, going to the beach, playing guitar, and is a volunteer counselor. She has seven children and eight grandchildren. Pam recently married and currently goes by the name Pam Bostwick. Contact her at [email protected].

Reprinted by permission of Gustavo Rodriguez. ©2007 Gustavo Rodriguez.

The Most Important Words

W
ise sayings often fall on barren ground, but a kind word is never thrown away.

Arthur Helps

“There’s nothing wrong with you!” These were the words that my Nana would gruffly say whenever the topic of my autism would come up, and probably the most important words I would ever hear as a child and then as a teenager. Out of all the members of my family, and every adult, teenager, and child I would ever come across, I was closest to my grandmother because she understood something that the others did not: There was nothing “wrong” with me. I was different, and that was all. She did not treat me any differently from my brother or cousins. She did not focus on what was so “terribly wrong” with me. And she was never any more impressed with my accomplishments than she would have been if my brother, cousins, or anyone else had accomplished them. Nana had faith in me and what I could do.

Of course, Nana knew that I had painful digestive problems, headaches, and extreme sensitivity to smell, touch, and hearing. When I got overloaded with any of that, I would act strangely to try and calm myself. However, she had high blood pressure, and had had a heart attack and two strokes in the past, so she just saw my problems as medical things that I would have to deal with just like she dealt with hers.

I am now thirty years old. I am married, work in a high-paying job in the information technology (IT) industry, and am an area governor in Toastmasters. I graduated from college with a 4.0 GPA, I went to a regular school, and I never had special education (although it was hard for me). I drive a new car and conduct public speeches to professionals and parents about autism from a different perspective. Of course, I still have my medical problems, get overloaded easily, have digestive problems, and really don’t like going to large social events. That will never change.

I truly believe that the messages we hear as children really shape who we become as adults. Many of us spend so much of our lives hearing what is so terribly wrong with us that we start to believe that we
are
terribly wrong! The words of trusted adults have incredible power over children . . . even those who have autism. The negative messages drive many teens and adults with autism to depression, suicidal thoughts, and so on. The positive ones help them grow up to become productive and happy adults. I am a productive and mostly happy adult because an important person in my life had faith in me and gave me the right message while I was growing up . . . even if it was said in a gruff tone. To my dying day, I will be grateful to my late grandmother for telling me that there is nothing “wrong” with me!

Daria J. Skibington-Roffel

Daria J. Skibington-Roffel
is a writer, public speaker, artist, and activist focusing on respect, understanding, and acceptance for children and adults with autism. She works as an IT professional and is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in psychology. Daria was diagnosed with autism at the age of two. Please e-mail her at [email protected].

Something in Football

F
or life to be a dream come true, it is critical to know who is dreaming.

Jay Robb

“Hey, Seth! Gimme five!” The huge hulk of a man clothed in bright shades of yellow and grass-colored green, complete with helmet, shoulder pads, and leg pads, hollers to another, much smaller, young man, and hands slap together as they pass. Smiles flash, and it’s obvious these two like each other.

The University of Oregon football team, coached by Mike Bellotti, is getting ready for the upcoming “Civil War” game played each year against neighboring Oregon State University’s Beavers team.

This year, like every other year, the intensity of competition will be palpable as the two teams vie for position as Oregon’s number-one winning team. And Seth will be right there as always—constant supporter, loyal fan, and much-loved colleague. Probably no one would look at Seth and say, “Now there’s a kid who’s born to play football.”

Not quite as tall as his brother or sister, Seth’s Down syndrome, a genetic disorder that affects approximately one in every eight hundred to one thousand births, may have played a role in his shorter stature.

As a child, the tow-headed boy with sparkling blue eyes knew how to attract friends with his great sense of humor. He knew how to dance and wasn’t shy about joining in wherever there was music and a beat. But more than that, Seth knew a lot about football. Being part of a family that attended every one of the Oregon Duck games, Seth’s knowledge of football grew along with his interest.