8
Rebecca
At ten-thirty Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, Amy has language therapy with Charmaine, the speech and language therapist at Connell School whom I observed through the one-way mirror weeks ago. Today is Friday, Amy’s twelfth session. I thought I’d feel better once Amy started therapy, but I don’t. My life is more complicated and stressful than before. For the past two weeks, when I park in front of Connell and remove Amy from her carseat, she begins to cry and my stomach cramps. I make a conscious effort to relax my clenched teeth. “Here, John.” I hand him a cloth bag filled with small toys and books. “Carry this for Mommy.”
He shakes it. “What’s in here?”
“I don’t remember.” I placed the items in the bag fifteen minutes ago, but my short-term memory is overloaded. I grab Amy and hurry toward the door. Once inside, I take slower steps as I walk up the ramp so John’s short legs can keep pace with me. Walking up is slow, but John and Amy love going down the slope, which allows them to run faster than they could on flat ground. Shrieks always accompany their tumbling charge, and I worry their screams will disrupt the children in the classrooms or they will fail to make the U-turn and smash into the wall.
As we enter the now-familiar therapist’s office, Amy hides behind my skirt. I hear rhythmic sucking sounds and know her fingers are being transformed into shriveled, wet digits. I make no effort to stop her finger-sucking; this is the least of my worries. Amy avoids Charmaine’s outstretched hand. My eyes brim with tears as Amy pulls several tissues from a box and follows Charmaine down the hall for language therapy.
I know Amy will return in twenty minutes, and the therapy is necessary, but Amy doesn’t. Explaining this separation to a sixteen-month-old hearing child would be difficult; to a deaf child it’s impossible. After Charmaine and Amy are in the therapy room, John and I enter the observation room. Two speakers fill the room with Amy’s cries. Piping in sound from the therapy room isn’t necessary; I see her distress through the one-way mirror and hear her gut-wrenching cries through the glass.
I stare at my reflection in the glass and tell myself, I am doing the right thing. I am doing the right thing. But, if this is the right thing, why does it hurt so much? I am doing the right thing.
“Why is Amy crying?” John asks.
“She … she’s unhappy.”
John presses his nose against the mirror. “Why? They have lots of toys. Why doesn’t Amy play with the toys? Huh, why?”
John prefaces many of his questions with “why.” Usually I have an answer for his “why” questions, but when his questions concern Amy, I have too many “why” questions of my own to give him reasonable answers. “I don’t think she notices the toys, John.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s too busy crying.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t like being away from me.”
“Why?”
“Children like to be with their mommy or daddy, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but why?”
My only hope to stop the incessant questions is to change the subject or to ignore them. I choose the latter and feel guilty, but John does not notice. He changes the subject.
“Amy goes to school so she can learn to talk, right?” John repeats what he’s heard me tell him numerous times.
“Yes.” I wonder if that will ever happen. I open the book Goldilocks and the Three Bears. “Come away from the window, John, and sit by me.”
He climbs upon a chair and I read, “Once upon a time …” I enjoy giving each character a distinct voice, but today I read with little expression.
“Wait, Mommy. That’s not how the Papa Bears talks.”
“What?” My attention is focused on Amy’s mournful cries.
“He sounds like this.” John lowers his voice. “Who’s been sitting in my chair?”
“You’re right.” My eyes brim with tears as the intensity of Amy’s cries makes her chest heave. I sniff and tip my head back, but my tears escape.
“What’s the matter, Mommy?”
“Nothing. I have something in my eye. Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Yes.”
I continue reading, hoping Amy will stop crying; she doesn’t. The twenty minutes pass. As John replaces the book in the bag, I rush to meet Amy. I speak words she does not comprehend, “Mommy’s here. You have to go to school, Amy. It will be all right.” My hug calms her.
“Amy, you want a book?” John holds a book behind his back and runs toward the ramp.
Amy smiles and toddles after him. She’s happy now, but my relief is temporary. On Monday this scene will be replayed for the thirteenth time. I rush toward the ramp and my screaming children.
“John, don’t yell in school,” I call. “And slow down, before you kill yourself.”
Several weeks ago I took Mr. Snyder’s suggestion and contacted the John Tracy Clinic. They instruct students in lipreading skills and oral communication at their clinic and distant students, like Amy, through correspondence lessons. Their initial packet included a lengthy questionnaire. The first section was easy: name, age, birth date, et cetera. The second section: medical history, hearing evaluations, type of aids worn, and history of deafness in the family took longer. Three blank lines at the bottom of the page were for my questions. Unable to decide what to ask, I left it blank and mailed it.
Also in the packet was the first of twelve lessons that I’m to use to encourage Amy to vocalize. I’m intrigued by the lesson, but more interested in the one-to-one personal responses I will receive from Nancy Kelley, my John Tracy advisor. She’ll provide feedback on our completed lessons and respond personally to my concerns. I hope she’s prepared; I have plenty of questions.
Amy and I began Lesson One two weeks ago. Every afternoon we sit at a small table and I encourage Amy to look at my face. Whenever she looks at me, I speak. I stop when she turns away. Throughout our twenty-minute session, I turn her face toward me and hold her hand to my throat so she feels the vibration of my voice when I speak. The goal is for Amy to associate my lip movements with sound. After speaking, I put her hand on her throat hoping she will make a sound. So far there have been no results. Today I completed the feedback sheet on Lesson One. Under the special concerns section I scrawled: “I’ve done this lesson with Amy every day for two weeks with no results. When will I be rewarded with a response from Amy?” I mailed the form and began Lesson Two while waiting for Nancy’s response.
During the day I cope by attempting to make my environment perfect. I can’t control how quickly Amy learns to speak, but I need control over some aspect of my life so I don’t feel like a failure. The challenge of perfectionism makes my mind race and stomach hurt, but I can’t stop. At night my guilt keeps me awake. I didn’t spend enough time with John today. I snapped at Jack for no reason. I should have done the ironing tonight. I need to wash the clothes tomorrow. God is punishing you, Rebecca. Wait, that makes no sense. Why would God punish me by making Amy deaf? Jack rolls onto his back. I’m thankful he doesn’t snore. I can’t do anything right. Amy will never talk. God, give me patience. My prayer is like the old joke, “Give me patience, Lord, and give it to me now!” I mustn’t spend so much time with Amy that John suffers. Before going to sleep, I promise to give John the same amount of one-on-one time I give Amy. I have no idea how I can do this, but I never want John to say, “Mommy, you love Amy more than me.”
Monday, before we leave for therapy, the mail arrives. I sort through junk mail searching for a letter from Mother or the John Tracy Clinic; I’m not disappointed. Hoping for a miracle, I rip open Nancy Kelley’s letter. What kind of answer is this? Patient! She wants me to be patient. She explains that hearing children listen to their language for five or six months before they babble. After another three to six months of being exposed to language, a hearing child speaks simple words. Nancy’s closing sentence crushes me. “Even though Amy is seventeen months old, she’s only heard sounds for three months. You need to devote more time to Lesson One.” I shove the letter in my purse and exhale before shifting the car into reverse. More weeks on Lesson One. It’s hopeless.
Fifteen minutes later John and I are sequestered in the claustrophobic observation room listening to Amy cry. Midway through reading The Cat in the Hat, a strange sound fills the room … silence. Amy has stopped her mournful wailing. The book slips from my hand; I stand and press my nose against the one-way mirror. Charmaine holds a colored cube by her mouth and says, “block.” She pulls Amy’s hand to her throat and repeats the word. Amy takes the block and drops it into a container. Charmaine repeats the exercise with other blocks, reinforcing the John Tracy lesson we’ve been doing at home.
“Mommy, are you going to finish reading the book?” John’s voice is impatient.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Right now.” I retrieve the book from the floor. “What were we reading about?”
“Thing One and Thing Two. They were being naughty.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now.”
Today, when I go home, if I discover Dr. Suess’ demonic Thing One and Thing Two have wrecked our house, I won’t care. Amy stopped crying; her learning can now begin.