18
Rebecca
It’s Monday, September 20, and John, Amy, and I are on our way to Lincoln. During my six-week reprieve from taking Amy to therapy, by adding sign language to my verbal queries Amy now understands, “Do you need to use the bathroom?” At last she is toilet-trained.
At the university, I greet the mothers I met last summer and nod “hello” to the new ones. Joyce, who was seven months pregnant, is now holding a squirming infant dressed in blue.
“Amy. Look. A baby.” I sign “baby.” John and Amy hover over the baby.
“He’s so little,” John says.
“You were that little once, John.” I sign “baby” again for Amy.
Joyce places the hand of Doris, her deaf-blind daughter on the baby’s head. “Donald was born screaming. No incubator or oxygen needed for him. Thank God.”
Before Joyce can hand me Donald to hold, Mrs. Kramer strides into the room with twelve coeds following her like ducklings. Without so much as a hello, Mrs. Kramer’s launches into the assignments. “Doris Muenster, Kathryn Davis.”
“Here.” Joyce puts Donald in my waiting arms. She leads Doris to the therapist. “Can Doris feel your face?”
The therapist’s face reveals she’s uncomfortable with such close contact. Her lips form a false smile. “Of course.” She kneels to Doris’ level.
“This is Kathryn.” Joyce places Doris’ hand on Kathryn’s cheek. Doris rubs her hand across the unfamiliar face. “She’s blind, as well as deaf. You knew that, didn’t you?”
Kathryn shakes her head “no.” The uncomfortable look in her eyes is replaced by fright. “I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.” Her voice is not convincing.
“Let’s move along or there’ll be no time for therapy today.” Mrs. Kramer calls several names. She glares at Tommy’s mother with piercing eyes. “Janet Parker, Thomas Lawson.”
Tommy’s mother nudges him toward Janet. This time he takes the therapist’s hand and enters the elevator without a howling battle. She heaves a sigh. I give her a thumbs up.
Amy’s name is called last. I didn’t understand the name of her therapist and Mrs. Kramer left the room before I could ask her to repeat it, but it doesn’t matter; we’re not allowed to have any contact with the student therapists. Our comments must be directed to Mrs. Kramer, who then informs Dr. Zimmer.
Today group therapy is bedlam. At first, Amy remained seated when other children ran around the room shrieking, repelling any efforts their therapist tried to make them behave. Before long, Amy joined the mayhem. At a loss on how to regain control, the therapists converse among themselves in one corner of the room.
Amy is sweaty and rambunctious when we leave the Temple Building, supercharged by forty-five minutes of undisciplined activity. She tries to break away from me and run toward the car on the opposite side of the street.
“Nooooo!” Amy swings her free arm to swat away my hand.
“Amy! Stop it!” After several minutes of pulling a screaming child down the street, I put her into the car and sign, “Bad. You were bad at school. You’re supposed to sit down, not play.”
Amy is more familiar with the meaning of my stern face than she is with hand signs. She climbs into her car seat, pulls the restraining bar over her head, and pops her fingers in her mouth. I sign, “bad” again. She puts her left hand over her eyes, shutting out my discipline.
Wednesday is no better. By Friday I’m frazzled and fuming. I wish Karen was here so she could tell me, “I told you so.” She was right; the university has one twelve-week program of instruction to use with the deaf children. Amy didn’t master all of the language skills this summer, but she will before this semester is over. If I bring Amy here until she starts school, she’ll be doing the same lessons for the next two years. It’s pointless and nonproductive. I come to the unhappy conclusion that if a deaf child receives any benefit from the therapy here, it is purely by chance. The university’s objective is to train their students, not help the children.
“Have you talked to Mrs. Kramer or Dr. Zimmer about this?” I ask several mothers.
“No.”
“Why not?” I snort with disgust.
“This is our only option.”
“You can’t buck authority.”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
I ponder their passivity. Saying nothing is not the solution.
The more I observe Amy’s therapy at the university, the more dissatisfied I become. The therapists are inexperienced and unable to properly discipline the children. During one session, a young deaf boy who refused to behave was placed in a chair facing the wall for more than thirty minutes. The money his family spent on therapy that day was wasted. The therapists rarely change their discipline tactics. I wonder how often instructors observe and critique the student therapists.
Three weeks into the fall semester, I speak to Mrs. Kramer. “I’m concerned that the therapists aren’t skilled in disciplining the kids. What does a child learn by sitting in the corner for thirty minutes?”
“It takes time for the therapists to learn what discipline works with these children.” The edges of her mouth form a brief smile.
“You could correct the therapists instead of letting them punish a child for an entire session?”
“We don’t believe in interrupting a therapy session. We routinely observe the students and they receive a written critique each week.”
My fingers curl into tight fists. My bitten-off nails save my palms from being scratched. My jaw tightens; my head throbs, warning of an impending headache. How can you call this a teaching program when you let a therapist continue the same mistake for a week? I swallow, to suppress my overwhelming urge to spew angry words at Mrs. Kramer.
“I realize therapists need to learn discipline tactics, but does it have to be at the expense of these deaf children? Couldn’t they learn to work with hearing children first?”
“I see no need for that. We’ve conducted our program this way for years with no complaint.” Mrs. Kramer straightens papers on her desk. She considers the matter settled.
I have just begun.
The next Monday a notice is taped to the door of the observation room: Parents are not permitted to observe therapy. This room is reserved for student therapists and university staff.
The other parents are as upset as I am. When Mrs. Kramer marches by the waiting room, I halt her progress. “Why can’t we watch group therapy?” My hands are planted on my hips.
“The room’s too small. Faculty and students are required to observe one session a week. There’s not space in the room for them and you people.” She pushes past me.
I retreat to my chair. How can I tolerate two more years of this? And now I can’t even see what they are doing with Amy. I scan the face of the other mothers. Are they blaming me? I’m sorry; it’s not my fault. I was only trying to help.
At supper, I tell Jack about my conversations with Mrs. Kramer. “… and now I can’t even see what they’re doing with Amy.” My voice sounds like a child’s plea.
“You’ll have to put up with it until there’s a therapist here.” Jack takes his plate to the kitchen. He never clears the table. I’m moved by his uncharacteristic behavior; his way of showing he’s concerned. “I have to go back to work. It’s my night to close the store.”
I wave my hand in front of Amy’s eyes to get her attention. “Say good-bye to Daddy.”
Amy waves and John says, “Bye, Dad.”
I swallow one of my little yellow pills. In twenty minutes I’ll feel better. Instead of the usual miracle cure, my stomach spasms. Like a two-year-old sick child, I want my mommy. After putting the children to bed, I call my mother.
“Hi, Mother, it’s Rebecca.” I know my voice conveys my sense of failure.
“I know who it is. What’s wrong, Rebecca?” she asks.
“Nothing. I just wanted to talk to someone.”
“I’m glad you called. How are John and Amy?”
“Fine. John’s reading quite well now. I hope he won’t be bored in kindergarten next year.”
“He’ll be fine.” A voice in the background distracts her. “Your father says ‘hi.’”
“Tell him ‘hello.’ Does he still have tomatoes? We had frost last night. Mine are dead.”
“No frost here. I have tomatoes coming out my ears. How is Amy doing in therapy?”
“Mother, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Tears fill my eyes; I am thankful she cannot see them. I rattle off what the university is doing and that Grand Island still has no program.
“Have you talked to the people in charge at the university?”
“I’ve tried, but it’s pointless.” I huff. “They’re pigheaded and stubborn.”
“Well, it takes one to know one,” Mother jokes.
I laugh in spite of my pain. “Yeah, but I think I’m right.”
“I’m sure they do too. Why don’t you try again next week?”
“Maybe I will. Did I tell you I’m using sign language with Amy?”
“No. How’s that working out?” Mother’s interest is genuine.
“Good, but if Dr. Zimmer hears about it, he’ll have a fit and fall into it.”
“So be it.” Mother’s voice is emphatic. “You have to do what you think is best for Amy.”
“I don’t know what’s best.”
“Rebecca, you don’t have to decide anything now. Think about it this weekend.”
And think I did.
Over the weekend I ask Jack and my friends. Jack’s answer is much like my mother’s. “Do whatever you think is best for Amy.” My friends offer consolation but no solutions.
When I ask my best friend Pat, she says, “Tell Dr. Zimmer to take a flying leap. Who does he think he is, God?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve got news for him; everybody in Nebraska knows Bob Devaney is God.”
I laugh. Devaney is Nebraska’s football coach. He coached a team that lost consistently for years to a national championship last year. “I’ll tell Zimmer we took a vote and decided there’s not enough room on the throne for him and Devaney, so he’ll have to take a hike.” The laughter relieves my tension, but does not provide a solution.
Saturday night, wide awake at two in the morning, I mull over my options. I could try to have the university change their program. Fat chance. They’ve been running their program this way for years. I suppose I could just work with Amy at home. That’s possible, but I’m not qualified. Maybe someone will call from Connell tomorrow and say the therapy program will start next week. That’s wishful thinking. Maybe I’ll do nothing. That’s an option but that won’t help Amy.
I’m not the same person I was a year ago, cowering in my chair before Dr. Zimmer, speechless, while he and other professionals told me what was best for Amy. Doing nothing is no longer an option for me.