14
Rebecca
Today Charmaine will discuss Amy’s progress and outline future goals. After twelve months of intense therapy with Charmaine at school and with me at home, Amy can now say four words.
“I’m sure you feel Amy isn’t making any progress,” Charmaine says, “but that’s not true. She vocalizes all the sounds needed to speak every word in the English language. She comprehends more words than she speaks, and she understands the connection between sounds and communicating. Learning new words will be easier and faster for her now.”
“I hope you’re right.” As I say this, a book I read recently pricks my conscience. I must be doing something wrong. The book, written by the mother of a deaf son, related how every night before bed, she told him, “I love you.” After several months, her son said, “I love you” and soon spoke in sentences. Now at age five, he spoke as well as most hearing children. Why isn’t Amy progressing like this? I talk to her all the time.
“Part of the reason Amy’s doing so well is you work with her at home. I wish more parents were as diligent as you.” Charmaine leans back in her chair; her smile is genuine.
“Thanks.” But I’m not getting results that other mother did. “In books, it always seems easy.”
“Don’t become discouraged.” Charmaine rests her elbows on the desk and leans toward me. “The words will come. Nothing happens overnight.” Her voice is full of confidence.
One day I’ll write a book about raising a deaf child. An honest one. Books with fairy-tale endings give parents unrealistic expectations. “What else can I do to help Amy?”
“I have two suggestions.” Charmaine opens a drawer and withdraws a stack of index cards.
“Mommy, can I have my snack now?” John asks.
Charmaine pauses while I rip open miniature boxes of Froot Loops. “Here, John. Give this one to Amy. I’ll be done in a few minutes and we can leave. Go on, Charmaine, I’m listening.”
“Most deaf people learn visually. Labeling items at home will help Amy understand that everything has a printed word associated with it.” Seeing my perplexed face, Charmaine adds, “Deafness is an educational, not a physical, disability. Deaf people must see language, since they can’t hear it.” She hands me a card with “chair” written in block letters.
“This won’t be hard.” I slip the card into my purse. “What’s your other suggestion?”
Charmaine hesitates. “I know coming here three days a week is time-consuming, and I’m sure John finds it boring, but I’d like Amy to come for therapy on Thursdays also.”
“Why?” My voice betrays my disgust at another demand made on my shrinking day.
“Another deaf child is enrolled here. I’d like to have group therapy on Thursdays.”
I can’t believe it. There’s another mother out there struggling to raise a deaf child. “Who is she? How old is she? When will you start the group?” My excitement is obvious.
“Next Thursday. Her name’s Teena Eaton. She’s three months younger than Amy and has only worn her aids four months, so she doesn’t vocalize as much as Amy, but I think they’ll both benefit from group therapy.”
“What time?” I won’t miss the opportunity to talk to someone else with a deaf child.
“Ten o’clock.” Charmaine hands me a flyer. “Will you be at this meeting tonight?”
“What meeting?”
“The Central Nebraska Association of Parents of Deaf and Hearing-Impaired Children is meeting tonight in the gym at eight o’clock.”
“I’ll be there if I can get a sitter.”
That afternoon, as I attach 3 × 5 cards labeled with words to lamps, doors, and other items, I recall a Bible verse. “Be joyful always, pray continually, and give thanks in all circumstances.” Maybe St. Paul could be joyful in all circumstances, but I’m not very good at that. Pray continually. I have that one down, but I’ve yet to receive any answers. Give thanks in all circumstances. What blessings have I received as a result of Amy’s deafness? None that I know of. Oh well, one out of three; it’s a start. I take my stack of cards to the bathroom and ponder where to tape “bathtub.”
“Mother! Amy won’t give me the blue color,” John calls from the kitchen.
“Use a different color, John.” I put “bathtub” above the soap dish and tape it in place.
“But I want the blue one,” John whines.
“Amy will put it down in a minute, and then you can have it.”
“Amy’s arting on the wall,” John calls.
“Tell her to stop.” I adjust the sign and step back to look at it. Now it’s straight.
“Amy, Mother said to stop,” John says with authority. “Give me the blue color now.”
Shuffling of chairs alerts me to a fight. “Buh-mmmmmm. Eeeee,” Amy screams.
“All right. All right. I’m coming. No wonder I can’t get anything done.” When I enter the kitchen, John and Amy are still squabbling over the crayon, but my attention isn’t focused on their struggle. I’m transfixed by blue crayon slashes on the wall. The artist is still at work.
“Amy! Get off that table. Give me that crayon.” I snatch the offending blue crayon from her hand. “What’s the matter with you?” Amy’s eyes twinkle as she grabs another crayon. “Give me that crayon.” I pry a yellow crayon from her hand. “No more crayons for you.” I collect the scattered crayons. “Do you have the red one, John?” I kneel on the floor.
“No. Look, mommy.” John extends a picture toward me. “It’s for you.”
Under the table searching for crayons, I can’t see it, but answer, “That’s nice.”
“It’s a refrig-a-ray-tor.”
Crawling from under the table, I see John’s art is a lopsided purple rectangle with a small red handle. The drawing is crude, but what amazes me is that at age four, he’s written FRIGADOR on it. “It’s wonderful.” While pondering John’s accomplishment, I notice Amy has the missing red crayon. Before I can grab it, she adds an ugly red slash on the wall. Picasso she is not.
That night Jack watches as John sounds out words on the 3 × 5 cards and places them by the appropriate item on the table: fork, knife, spoon, plate. “When did he start reading?” Jack asks.
“Today.” I show him John’s “frigador” picture secured by a magnet to our refrigerator. “Our days of spelling words so John won’t know what we’re talking about are over.”
Jack spells a mild expletive.
“Daddy spelled a dirty word,” John says.
Thankfully, a neighbor girl can babysit on short notice and Jack has the evening off from work. When we arrive at Connell, the small parking lot is filled. In the gym, two dozen adults of various ages are engaged in noisy conversations. Not knowing anyone, we sit by ourselves. A woman breaks away from a group and joins us. “Hi, welcome. I’m Vodis Dahlke.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Rebecca Willman, and this is my husband Jack.”
A man with gray hair approaches. “This is my husband, Calvin.” He shakes Jack’s hand.
“I didn’t know about this group until today,” I say. “I thought I was the only person in Nebraska with a deaf child.”
“We’ve all felt that way. We lived in the Nebraska panhandle when Julie was born. Very few people out there and none deaf. I never met another deaf child until we took Julie to NSD,” Vodis says.
“What’s NSD?” Jack asks.
The Nebraska School for the Deaf,” Cal says. “It’s in north Omaha. Really nice.”
“How old is Julie?” I ask.
“Thirteen. She’s in the seventh grade at NSD.”
Thirteen! People do survive after learning they have a deaf child; Vodis is living proof.
Tonight the members discuss buying a neonatal testing device for the hospital. A local pediatrician that was invited to the meeting says, “This device is new and I don’t trust the results.” Parents argue that identifying a deaf child in infancy is worth the risk of some inaccurate results. The doctor is not swayed. “Go ahead, buy it, but I’ll never use it.” I vow not to take my children to this doctor.
“Does Amy wear aids?” Vodis asked.
“Yes. She wants them on first thing in the morning. What about Julie?”
“Julie stopped a year ago. I expect Amy will do the same when she’s twelve or thirteen.”
“Why?” Jack asks.
“Many reasons,” Vodis says. “Peer pressure. They don’t want to look different in public. And, many deaf people prefer their silent world instead of trying to interpret sound.”
“I can’t imagine Amy ever giving up her aids.”
“Maybe she’ll be different.” Vodis smiles, a hopeful smile.
Sleep does not come easy tonight, but my wakefulness is due to the excitement of meeting kindred spirits. Even though all the parents at the meeting had older deaf children, our bond was instant and strong due to our shared experiences. I’m no longer alone. In our quiet dark bedroom, an inaudible voice speaks to my spirit. I knew you could do it. That’s why I gave you Amy.
Thursday we race up the ramp. “They’re not here, yet,” Charmaine says.
The patter of small running feet, followed by a female voice shouting, “Wait! Slow down,” announces the arrival of Teena and her mother, Bernice Eaton.
Teena is a mirror image of Amy; the same height with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. They wear similar hearing aid harnesses. The girls stare at each other. A hearing aid squeals.
As if cued to speak in unison, Bernice and I say, “Come here. Let me fix that.” We reach for their earpieces, but the blonde imps dodge us. We look at each other and shake our heads.
“That squealing drives me nuts,” Bernice says.
“Me too.” We nod like old friends who have years of shared experiences.
After introductions, Charmaine beckons the girls to follow her. “I’d like the girls to spend thirty minutes together.”
Teena darts out the door and Charmaine dashes after her. Amy runs to keep pace with them. “Feel free to watch through the window,” Charmaine calls over her shoulder.
“I don’t envy her.” Bernice shakes her head.
“She’ll have her hands full with those two live wires. Come on, let’s watch.”
Bernice, John, and I pull chairs near the one-way mirror. Charmaine is on the floor with the girls. They watch as she withdraws an apple from a bag. “Apple.” Charmaine extends the apple like the witch offering the poisoned apple to Snow White. “Teena, say apple.”
Teena grabs the apple and runs around the room shrieking. Charmaine leaps up in hot pursuit and corners Teena, but not before Amy joined the race. A few minutes later, Charmaine has corralled the girls, and they are once again seated on the floor.
“Looks like organized chaos,” I say.
“Good thing she has plenty of patience,” Bernice responds.
“More than I have some days, that’s for sure.” I relax in my chair. John is reading a Dr. Seuss book, which allows me time to converse with Bernice without feeling guilty.
“When Charmaine told me about you last week, I could hardly wait to meet you.” Bernice turns toward me. “I thought, at last I’ll meet this woman I’ve heard so much about.”
“What do you mean? I’m not famous.”
“I’ve followed you around the state for months. When I took Teena to Dr. Proffitt, he said he’d diagnosed a little girl with deafness a few months ago. At the university, Dr. Zimmer asked if I knew you and about the speech program in Grand Island. I called around, and here I am.”
“Did you have trouble enrolling Teena into this program?”
“No, it was easy. All Mr. Snyder wanted was a copy of Teena’s audiogram.”
“You have no idea what I went through.” While detailing my struggle to enroll Amy in therapy, I realize my actions are a blessing to the parents of deaf children who follow me. God used me to accomplish something good for others. This revelation surprises and humbles me.
“When I learned Teena was deaf, I cried for weeks.” Bernice says.
“I couldn’t eat. I lost a lot of weight.”
“Too bad that didn’t happen to me.” Bernice pats her bulging stomach. “I ate everything in sight. After crying for six weeks, I said, ‘crying isn’t getting you or Teena anyplace. Get off your big butt and do something.’”
“Sounds like my story. Do you know why Teena’s deaf?”
“No. My husband and I are in the process of adopting Teena. We got her when she was six weeks old. We don’t know much about her parents. What about Amy?”
“I don’t know why she’s deaf. You’re lucky Teena’s adopted; at least you don’t have family members telling you your child’s deafness is entirely your fault.” My voice is tinged with anger and bitterness.
“Yeah, but the adoption agency wants to take her away from us.”
“Why? How can they do that?” My anger is replaced with surprise.
“The adoption isn’t final yet. The agency thinks raising a deaf child might be too difficult for us, so they want to put Teena in foster care.”
“That’s terrible. What are you going to do?” I watch Bernice’s reflection in the one-way mirror, an unwilling voyeur as she wipes tears from her cheeks.
“We’re fighting it.” Bernice dabs her eyes with a tissue. “We’ve had Teena two years; she’s family. If Teena was our biological child, we wouldn’t try to exchange her because she can’t hear. Our caseworker agrees and supports us. We’ll know the court’s decision in a month.”
I look through the mirror; Charmaine is beckoning us to join her. “I think the first session went well. We’ll be working on colors for a couple of weeks. If you have any small red, blue, or yellow items at home, have the girls bring them next week.”
“I have some crayons I’d be happy to donate.” Having shared the story of Amy’s artistic endeavors with Bernice and Charmaine, my offer is met with laughter.
Three weeks later Bernice’s face is flushed and beaming when we meet her at Connell. “The adoption was final yesterday. Teena’s all ours now.”
“Wonderful! I’m so happy for you.” We enter the observation room and John slumps into a chair. This morning he begged to stay home. He swings his feet so they hit the wall making a dull thump. When I frown, he glares and kicks faster and harder. I feel guilty for making him come here four mornings a week, but I have no choice. “Let’s go to lunch and celebrate the adoption after therapy. How about McDonald’s? My treat.”
At the mention of McDonald’s, John halts a kick midair. “Can I go too?”
“Of course, you’re my number one son.” I pat his knee.
“I love you.” “I love you too, Mommy. Will Ronald McDonald be there?” The swinging legs are still.
“Maybe.” John retrieves a small car from his toy bag and pushes it along the frame of the one-way mirror. “Bernice, be prepared for rude remarks and impolite stares at McDonald’s.”
“What do you mean?” Bernice frowns.
Bernice and her family live in Central City, a small, rural Nebraska town. News spreads like the flu in a small town. Everyone in Teena’s home town knows she’s adopted and wears hearing aids, so Bernice hasn’t been subjected to the prying questions of strangers as I have.
“You won’t believe the dumb questions people ask me in public, like, ‘Does she have to wear those hearing aids?’ I want to tell them, ‘Of course not, you idiot. We spent a small fortune on these squealing demons so we could get a little sympathy.’” My prophecy becomes reality for Bernice later.
When Bernice is in the “big city,” she often shops in Grand Island before returning home to Central City. Several weeks after hearing rude comments at McDonald’s, Bernice told me, “I was in the children’s department of Penney’s and a total stranger said, ‘What have you put in that child’s ears? She’s jabbering like an idiot. What’s wrong with her?’ That really hurt my feelings. Boy was I mad.”
“Did you tell her to mind her own business?” I ask.
“No. I was too stunned, but after she left, I thought of several snippy remarks.”
“Remember them. Maybe you can use them another time. I always think of my best lines when I’m lying in bed trying to sleep.”
Bernice and I make jokes about how ignorant people are about deafness to hide our pain, but we both know that having a deaf child isn’t the least bit funny.