Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs (9 page)

“It’s been a tough day, Al,
you better make mine a double.”

Reprinted by permission of Andrew Toos and Cartoon Resources. ©2005 Cartoon Resources.

What They Forgot to Mention

T
he strongest and sweetest song remains to be sung.

Walt Whitman

I remember the day of my son’s diagnosis of autism as if it were yesterday. The tone of the doctor’s voice, the silence in the room, the words “lifelong disability, no cure, I’m sorry” still sting when I allow myself to reflect on that day.

But I have paused on occasions too numerous to count and thought,
Someone should’ve mentioned that
this
would be part of the package
when my child was diagnosed with autism.

Someone forgot to mention that I would listen to my child’s simple utterances or attempted approximations as if he were a world leader giving the speech of a lifetime. I could never have imagined the worth of a single word despite the fact that I may never hear it again.

Someone forgot to mention that when my son was finally potty-trained at age nine, there would be few people who could understand the significance of such an accomplishment, and even fewer with whom I could actually share it. Accomplishments of any size, their true worth known only to me, would bring quiet celebrations between my son and me.

Someone should’ve mentioned that autism is messy! Wallpaper’s meant to be shredded, bathrooms are designed to be flooded, walls are bare in order to smear stuff on them, washable paint really isn’t, and more food will actually be crushed and dropped than eaten.

I wish someone would’ve mentioned that autism is extremely expensive! Doctors, therapists, medications, supplements, conferences, and sensory equipment are only the tip of the iceberg. I could not have guessed that my child’s disability would allow people to cross our path in life who otherwise would not have, and that such people would willingly respond to a child in need.

Someone should have mentioned that each time a child with autism initiates or engages in a reciprocal hug, that feeling that you had when you held him for the first time comes back time and time again.

And they forgot to mention the day my son was diagnosed with autism that the triumphs over this disability would far outweigh the tears, that laughter would eventually ease the sense of loss, and that sheer faith would allow me and millions of other parents to fall into bed exhausted each night, only to get up the next day eager to discover what else they forgot to mention.

Sandy Sotzen

Sandy Sotzen
holds a master’s degree in education and has been a special-education teacher for twenty-one years. Sandy is the proud mom of two boys, ages fifteen and twelve, the youngest of which is identified with autism. She can be reached at [email protected].

2
GRATITUDE

T
he greatest gift you can give a child is the essence of your true self.

Fred Rogers

Is That All?

I
t is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry,
The Little Prince

Immediately upon giving birth to her fifth child, Nelma’s arms were empty. The hospital staff whisked away the baby before she could see him.

“I want to see my son,” Nelma insisted.

“You need to understand that there are problems with the baby.” The doctor explained that perhaps Nelma and her husband should consider an institution for their newborn.

“I want to see my son,” Nelma demanded.

So the new bundle of babe was brought and placed in his mother’s arms. Nelma smelled the sweet new baby smell of him. She cooed to the little boy and cradled him to her heart. Then, ever so carefully, she unwrapped his blanket. There lay her infant, born without legs, his hands and arms not fully developed. Nelma took it all in, caressed his soft new skin, and smiled into his trusting eyes.

“Oh,” she smiled softly, “is that all?”

And so Jerry went home with his mother to the welcoming arms of his family. There were struggles along the way as there are for all families, yet Nelma continued to love her children and cover them with prayer. One of seven children, Jerry was treated just like everyone else in the family with the exception that there was no chair at Jerry’s place at the dinner table, to allow for his wheelchair. When it was Jerry’s turn to wash the dishes, he washed the dishes.

When a man from the circus came to ask if Jerry could be part of their freak show, Nelma and her husband took the man by the scruff of his neck and threw him out of their home. “Jerry is not a freak,” Nelma informed the visitor. “Jerry is our son.”

Years later, Jerry prepared to move away to college. A friend from church, Barbara, was overjoyed that Jerry would attend the same college where her daughter, Kathi, was enrolled. “Be sure to look her up when you get there,” Barbara said.

Nearly a year later, Kathi made an impulsive trip home. In the familiar surroundings of her mother’s living room, Kathi’s confused emotions exploded into tears. “Mom, Jerry wants to marry me. I know he loves me, and I love him. But, Mom, Jerry doesn’t have any legs. Can you marry someone without legs?”

Barbara’s arms and calm voice encircled her grown daughter. “Honey, since you were young I have prayed for just the right husband for you. I prayed he would be a thoughtful, compassionate man. I prayed your husband would be strong in character and integrity, that he would be a leader in his home, that he would provide well for you and your children. I prayed your future husband would know God, that he would be an honest, hard worker, and that he would love you and be a tender life partner. I prayed you would be best friends, as well as husband and wife.”

Barbara paused to lift Kathi’s chin so their eyes met. “But, Kathi, I never prayed he would have legs.”

With the blessing of their parents, Jerry and Kathi were married. They have five beautiful children, and every other one has red hair like their mother.

One day, Jerry and Kathi’s oldest daughter invited her school-age friend to come for dinner. Partway through her hot dog, the guest turned to her young hostess. “Your dad doesn’t have any legs,” she reported.

Anna paused, and then peered under the dining table to study her dad parked in his wheelchair. Returning upright, she regarded her friend. “Your dad doesn’t have a wheelchair,” she replied.

All too soon, Jerry escorted his eldest daughter down a long church aisle to meet her groom, a young man she had grown up with in church. Next, Jerry and Kathi welcomed a daughter-in-law and the joyous arrival of grandchildren.

A lot of credit for the success of Jerry and Kathi’s family is directly attributed to Jerry and Kathi’s mothers. Nelma saw not her son’s disabilities, but his potential. And Barbara saw not the wheelchair that held the man, but the answered prayers within the man.

PeggySue Wells

PeggySue Wells
is the author of several books, including
What to Do When You Don’t Know What to Say,
and
What to Do When You Don’t Want to Go to Church.
She is an award-winning writer and speaker. Her articles appear nationally in newspapers and magazines. Today, Jerry is a teacher. As a public school resource specialist, he works with seventh-graders with learning disabilities. Jerry serves as an elder at Open Door Christian Church in American Canyon, California. As vice president of the Institute of Abundant Living, Jerry is a popular guest speaker, sharing his story and the stories of others who have overcome great challenges. Contact PeggySue at
www.peggysuewells.com
.

The Little Boy Who Waves

“
H
ope” is the thing with feathers
That perches on the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.

Emily Dickinson

On the first day of school, the yellow bus with the squeaky brakes stopped in front of our house. The attendant took my child’s hand as he made his way up the steps into the bus. She told him, “Good morning . . . this is your seat.” I stepped away from the door and went to the window where he was sitting. I tapped on the window, trying to get my son to look at me. He wouldn’t. The fan on the dashboard had caught his attention, and there was no distracting him from that. I waved good-bye to him anyway.

Time went on. We had our routine down, Brandon and me. I would guide him up the stairs of the bus, and then go to the window to try and get my son to look at me. He never would. I simply could not compete with the fan on the dashboard that fascinated him so. But I kept waving.

One day, I noticed the other children sitting behind my child. One child would stare out the window as he rocked back and forth. I wondered what he was thinking. He had such a serious, far-off expression on his face. One morning, I noticed another child a couple rows behind him. As I was waving to my son as the bus left, this particular child was waving back at me and smiling. And so it became our new routine. Each morning after I would tap on the window and wave to my son, I would then turn and wave to this little boy. He actually appeared to be anticipating his turn to be waved at. I admit I am very jealous of this boy’s mom. Every morning she gets a wave and smile from her son, and my son doesn’t even know I am there waving at him. Once my son gets on the bus, his focus turns to the fan on the dashboard. Yet this little boy I now wave at gives me hope that someday my child might notice me, and wave to me with a smile. It is a very bittersweet moment each morning, but hopeful, as well.

Many mornings I have walked back into my house in tears, pleading with God to make my child be more like that child. One morning, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. After I grumpily handed my child off to the attendant, I turned to go back inside. I didn’t tap on the window to wave good-bye to my child—or anyone else’s. As I got to my front door and was about to open it, something made me turn and look at the bus. There it was—a panic-stricken face pressed against the school-bus window with a little hand waving frantically at me. A wave of guilt spread over me. I hastily stepped back and put my hand up to wave—but it was too late. I don’t think the little boy who waves saw me. Never again did I forget to wave to him. And I truly miss that little boy when he’s not there to wave at me.

I was sick one morning, and my husband had to do the bus routine for me. As I was giving him instructions as to what to put in the backpack and so on, I told him about the little boy who waves in the sixth row and made him promise me he wouldn’t forget to wave at him. “Why do you want me to wave at someone else’s kid?” he asked me. I didn’t have the energy to explain my feelings to him right then—that the little boy was my hope, my inspiration, my prayer for my own son. That I do it because, for that one moment, I imagine my son being the little boy who smiles and waves good-bye to me each morning. Instead, I merely replied, “Just please . . .” My husband promised he would.

I would never trade my son for anyone else’s. I thank God every day for my child and what he
can
do. But inside of me, I do long for the day that the “little boy who waves” will be mine.

Another school year came and went. The little boy in the sixth row is no longer on the bus, but still I wave at my son in the hope that he will wave to me. One day, out of the blue, the attendant said to me, “You know, it’s the cutest thing—whenever the bus starts moving, and your son is humming and watching the fan, he will hold his hand beside his leg and start opening and closing his fist like he is waving.”

Never give up hope. Have faith that what may seem impossible may just become possible someday . . . because you never know when the little boy who waves could be yours.

Michelle M. Guppy

Michelle M. Guppy
is a wife, mother, and autism advocate. But more than that, she is constantly amazed at the inspiration received from watching her son grow and learn and do things that she was told, or that she thought, would never be possible for him! Brandon inspires her to give faith and hope to other parents through her writings. Michelle can be reached at [email protected] or through her website at
www.TexasAutismAdvocacy.org
.