7
Rebecca
The next morning I scan the telephone directory for agencies serving the hearing impaired. Grand Island, a town of 25,000, is the third largest city in Nebraska. If there are any services outstate, they’ll be here. Midway through the list of schools, I stop: The Grand Island Speech and Hearing Program. Minutes later I have an appointment with the director, Mr. Snyder.
Jack’s response to my news is, “Look for my initials on the wall at Connell School.”
I frown, confused.
“Connell was a junior high school years ago. My friend Larry and I carved our initials by the gym when we went there.”
“You defaced school property? I find that hard to believe.”
“It wasn’t my idea. Larry suggested it.” He defends his behavior, but his smile betrays him.
His impish smile attracted me to him in college, but Jack’s demanding job and Amy’s deafness have wiped the smile from his face. “I’ll look for them, but I don’t think I’ll show them to John. I don’t want him writing on our walls. Like father, like son.”
Our smiles give us a brief respite from the tension.
The following Tuesday, John, Amy, and I arrive at Connell. Lack of landscaping, the age of the building, and the grim exterior concern me, but the inside is remodeled. The walls are freshly painted, indoor-outdoor carpet covers the floor, and colorful posters decorate the walls.
Mr. Snyder’s office is on the second floor. Instead of a stairwell, a ramp leads to the second floor. I’m certain the architect never imagined the ramp installed so rowdy teenagers could move quickly between two floors would be ideal for special-needs children in wheelchairs forty years later. The slope stretches my calf muscles, making them twitch as I carry Amy, who now weighs twenty-three pounds. John enjoys climbing the “big hill.”
Mr. Snyder ushers us into his office and motions toward chairs opposite his desk. He asks the usual questions. I have answers for all of them, except the one that torments me.
“What caused your daughter’s deafness?”
“I don’t know; neither do the doctors. They think it’s genetic, because she hasn’t had an illness that could cause deafness.” I add my silent prayer, Please God; tell me why Amy’s deaf?
Mr. Snyder explains that he supervises therapists who work with the special-needs children attending Connell and those in regular public school classes. “We offer speech and language therapy.”
“Speech and language?” I ask. “What’s the difference?”
“Language therapy encourages children to speak. Speech therapy helps a person pronounce words properly. Children like Amy who were born deaf need language therapy to encourage them to vocalize. In the future she may need speech therapy.”
“How do you do this?”
“The children in our program wear hearing aids and are taught lipreading skills. This is an oral program. The deaf here learn to speak. We don’t use sign language.”
Amy quits squirming as if interested in what Mr. Snyder is saying.
“After a child is assessed, appropriate therapy is arranged. Some kids receive therapy two days a week, others every day. We have individual and group therapy. Kids progress differently, but we have many success stories. Parental involvement is encouraged. Children progress faster if their parents repeat the exercises at home.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to help Amy.” My voice is a combination of excitement and apprehension. I have no idea what I am promising to do, but my enthusiasm is genuine.
“There’s a group session here now. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes.” I rise. “Come on, John.” He scoots off the chair and follows me.
Mr. Snyder leads us down the hall awash with fluorescent light to a small, narrow room dimly lit with recessed bulbs. I stumble over a chair before my eyes adjust to the low light. The long wall in front of us is a one-way mirror. On the other side of the glass, a therapist sits at a U-shaped table facing several preschool children wearing hearing aids. She holds a ball aloft. “What is this?”
“Ball.” A girl speaks. Her voice has a slight nasal quality. She reaches for the ball.
The therapist holds the ball higher. “Melissa, sit down. What is this? Use a sentence.”
“It’s a ball.” Melissa grabs the ball and plops onto her chair. Her voice is flat, but her speech is clear and understandable.
A boy beside Melissa says, “Let me see it, puh-leez.” His speech is slow and deliberate.
“It’s mine!” Melissa pushes away the boy’s outstretched hands. “You can’t have it.”
“Melissa, stop that,” the therapist says.
Amazed, I watch and listen as Melissa defends her right to the ball. She shoves the boy away. I ignore her rough actions. “She has great speech.” This is the place for Amy. If she can speak like that in four years. I drift into my future. I see Amy in that chair, speaking in sentences.
“Melissa speaks very well,” Mr. Snyder says, “but her speech came at a price. Her family was determined she’d speak, so they invested a lot of time and money in therapy, but they failed to realize a hard of hearing child such as Melissa needs more than good speech. Melissa lacks social skills. She’ll have a difficult time in kindergarten next year when she learns the world does not revolve around her.”
My happy vision disappears. Rebecca, don’t become so focused on Amy’s speech you forget she’s a child. Amy must be taught the same social skills I’m teaching John. But, I hear Melissa speak again and pray that one day Amy will speak as well.
Mr. Snyder opens the door of the observation room, and we return to his office. The exterior of Connell may be dilapidated, but the hearing program has excellent equipment and qualified staff who produce results. I’m ready to enroll Amy.
“Amy will definitely benefit from the programs we offer here,” Mr. Snyder says. “When she’s four, bring her back so she can start.”
What! Anger bubbles inside me, my stomach churns. Amy needs therapy now. If she can’t start for three years, she’ll be years behind “normal” kids by then.
I squelch that thought and calmly say, “I think Amy should start now. If she doesn’t, she’ll be lucky to have the speech of a two-year-old when she’s five.” I sit in a chair facing Mr. Snyder.
“We don’t accept children until they are four.” Mr. Snyder tilts in his swivel chair.
“Couldn’t you make an exception?”
“No. We’re not equipped to handle children younger than four.”
“What difference does it make if the deaf child is sixteen months or four years old? They both need to learn language skills, right?” Mr. Snyder nods. “Hearing children Amy’s age already speak. She shouldn’t wait three years.” I feel like a teenager begging a stern parent for a favor.
He swivels his chair from side to side, and then stops to face me. “This program provides language therapy, not daycare. Children as young as Amy wouldn’t benefit from our program.”
“How do you know that? You’ve never had a student this young?”
“As an educator I can tell you, children less than four years …”
We continue our stalemated dialogue several minutes. I try to understand his viewpoint, but he makes no attempt to see mine. I plead through clenched teeth. My stomach tightens and gurgles; ominous noises I’m sure he can hear. There’s no justice. Damn it! Why can’t anything be easy? The roadblock is now a “bridge out.” We are at an impasse.
Mr. Snyder offers a parting peace offering. “You could try the John Tracy Clinic.”1
“What’s that?” I shove my arm in the sleeve of my coat.
“You know the actor Spencer Tracy?”
I nod, wondering what an aging actor has to do with Amy’s education.
“His son is deaf. His wife operates a correspondence course for families of deaf children. You might find it helpful.” He extends a pamphlet in my direction.
I stuff it in my purse and pick up Amy. “Thanks. Come on, John, let’s go.” I stomp to the car before realizing I forgot to look for Jack’s initials in the scarred woodwork, but I’m in no mood to return to the building. Life isn’t fair. I thought I’d found a place to help Amy, but it’s a dead end. At home, I contemplate my next step. Surely this guy has a boss. Someone he answers to. I’ll speak to whoever is in charge of special education for the entire school district. I’ll fight my way to the State Department of Education if I have to. Amy needs to start therapy now.
I open the telephone book, and after several calls I have scheduled a meeting with Mrs. Fishbach, the Director of Special Education for the Grand Island School System. Nothing to do but relax and wait until Tuesday, but relaxing is not my strong suit.
The next week John, Amy, and I are seated on no-nonsense wooden chairs in Mrs. Fishbach’s office. She’s an old lady compared to my twenty-five years. Her hair is gray, streaked with strands of chestnut brown; facial wrinkles mark deep smile lines.
As I explain why I want Amy to start therapy now, she listens with interest. Her eyes are thoughtful, focused only on me, not on the stacks of papers that clutter her desk or the blinking light on her telephone. When I finish, she folds her hands on her desk blotter and leans toward me, silent. I wait for her response, planning what I will say when she refuses my request.
“You’re absolutely right,” Mrs. Fishbach says. “Amy should start language therapy now. I’ll speak to the school board and Mr. Snyder. I’ll call you as soon as it’s arranged.”
Not sure if I have achieved my goal or am being politely dismissed, on the way to the car I think, that was quick. Too easy, actually. She said she’d try, but she’s retiring in six weeks. I suppose I’ll never hear from her again. Then what?
A month later, Mrs. Fishbach called. Amy is a pioneer, led by her determined scout: me. She’s the youngest child ever to be enrolled in the Grand Island School System. I’m frazzled, but claim my victory, small though it may be. I challenged the school’s policy and prevailed, but I have no time to bask in glory. Tomorrow is my sixteen-month-old daughter’s first day of language therapy at Connell.
1. The John Tracy Clinic is a private, nonprofit education center founded by Louise Treadwell Tracy in 1942. Its mission is to offer hope, guidance, and encouragement to families of infants and preschool children with hearing losses by providing free, parent-centered services worldwide. The clinic has more than sixty years of expertise in the spoken language option. Contact them at http://www.johntracyclinic.org/.