23
Rebecca
Yesterday, Amy completed her first year of therapy with Marge and can now speak, lipread, and sign many words. Her spoken vocabulary has more than one hundred words, far less than a hearing child her age, who would speak approximately nine hundred words. For a child born profoundly deaf, however, one hundred spoken words are a major accomplishment. Of course, many of her spoken words can only be understood by Jack, John, or me.
Lipreading is difficult for Amy, as it is for most deaf and hard of hearing people, because many English letters, such as P/B and T/D, have the same lip movements when spoken. Last week I looked in a mirror and said “papa” and “bye-bye.” My lip movements looked identical. I marvel that Amy can lipread and understand any words. Another obstacle to lipreading is that many words and letters are formed inside the mouth. From what I’ve read, only 30 to 40 percent of the English language can be recognized visually.
I thought sign language would be the solution to our communication problem, but I’ve discovered there are different ways to sign. One method is signing in English word order, using a method like Signing Exact English (SEE), and the other is signing American Sign Language (ASL). My use of signs has been limited to individual words, but now that Amy has enough vocabulary to form simple sentences, I must choose to use either SEE or ASL. Everything concerning Amy involves decisions, and with no definitive answers available, I often feel that making the right choice is akin to playing darts in the dark. I hope I make the right decision; I only have one chance to do this right.
SEE is an accurate representation of the English language, which enables me to sign exactly what I’m speaking, when I’m saying it. SEE would allow Amy to observe the use of prepositions, articles, verb tenses, and proper English sentence structure. SEE is easy for me, because I don’t have to translate my thoughts into a different language.
ASL is the true language of the Deaf community; a language with its own sentence structure. If I use ASL, Amy will have to learn English grammar and sentence structure later. Using ASL is hard for me, because I can’t speak one thing and sign something else at the same time. I’m worried that using ASL will confuse Amy, since what she might hear and lipread will not be in sync with what I am signing. ASL is best used without speech, but if I quit speaking, I fear Amy will lose her ability to speak and lipread.
Without an instructor, learning either method is difficult. Kay shows me new ASL signs weekly, but I only see her for two hours, not long enough to become proficient, and I forget more signs than I remember. I don’t think I can teach myself ASL, so I’ve decided to use SEE, which is a bit easier to learn. Maybe I should consider Amy in my decision, but how can I expect a three-year-old to make a decision I can’t?
In June, John stays with my parents while Amy and I go to the Nebraska School for the Deaf Summer Workshop in Omaha. When Amy and I drive someplace alone, I really feel her deafness. I’m unable to communicate with her when she sits in the back seat except with simple signs I do above my head. Amy seems to know she must speak if she wants a response from me, but today we make the two-hour drive from Beatrice to Omaha in silence.
I wish I knew what Amy was thinking. For weeks I’ve told her we’re going to NSD. Does she understand this? As I drive past wheat field turning golden, my thoughts swirl. Am I doing the right thing? Of course you are, Rebecca. You’re only visiting the school, not enrolling her. We could move to Omaha. Jack has a marketing degree; he could get a job there. Are you nuts? He’d never leave his family’s business. He might.
The buildings at NSD are scattered throughout an immaculate campus, which is surrounded by chain link fence. After we register, the secretary directs us to the primary dorm. Kathy Becker, the housemother fingerspells her name, and points to her name tag. I nod that I understand.
Kathy’s auburn hair has natural blonde highlights. Freckle-covered arms, like those of my mother-in-law, Esther, beckon us to enter. I know Kathy’s freckled arms will be more accepting to Amy than Esther’s, because Kathy is deaf. In the large open dorm, she waves her arm over small beds and wardrobes, reminding me of the women on The Price Is Right who prance around showing items up for bids. The dorm is flooded with natural light from a row of windows along one wall. Kathy stops by two small beds and points to Amy and me. “You’ll sleep here,” she signs. Other signs follow at a rapid pace. I don’t understand every sign, but I catch enough to determine supper is at five. A mother and daughter approach us. Kathy smiles and introduces herself to them.
Amy pulls open a wardrobe door and stands inside the large closet. “House for Dopey,” she signs. I smile at her comparison of the small beds and chairs to those in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
“Amy, let’s get our clothes from the car.” I close the wardrobe door, which has no lock.
Kathy taps me on the shoulder as we pass. Pointing to Amy she signs, “She may stay here with this girl and play while you bring in the suitcases.”
The other woman’s face reflects my weariness and concerns. We nod and walk outside.
“Hi, I’m Rebecca Willman. Have you ever been here before?”
“Nope, this is my first time to lay eyes on the place.”
“Me too. I live in Grand Island. Where do you live?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off all day. I’m about half nuts now.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I’m Karen Thomas from Norfolk. Kelli’s our oldest child. My husband took vacation to stay home with our other kids. It won’t be much of a vacation for him chasing after them.”
“It’s nice your husband can do that. My husband owns a grocery store. He never has time off, or at least it seems that way. Our son John is with my folks in Beatrice.”
“How old is your daughter?” Karen asks.
“Amy’s three. She’ll be four on January 23.”
“What a coincidence. Kelli will be four January 22.” Karen grabs her suitcases.
“I didn’t know if I should come to the workshop this year or not. Kids can’t enroll here unless they are five by October 1, and that’s two years from now for Amy, but I wanted to see the school. If I don’t like it, I’ll have time to check out other options.” I lift our suitcases from the trunk.
“What other options are there beside this school?” Karen closes her car trunk.
“None in this state, but I’ve read about a school in St. Louis and one in Massachusetts.”
A discussion I had with Jack last week flashes through my mind. I had requested information from the Clarke School for the Deaf in Massachusetts and Central Institute for the Deaf in St. Louis. I asked Jack to read it, but felt certain he didn’t since the material remained neatly stacked on the coffee table. After I had read it several times I asked him where he thought Amy should go to school. His response was typical, “I don’t know. Whatever is best.” But I don’t know what’s best, I pleaded. He replied, “Amy’s not old enough to go to school for a couple of years. We can decide something then.”
I recalled the old joke about a couple who had lived happily for forty years. When asked for the secret to long marriage, the husband said I let my wife make all the small decisions, like how to spend our money, raise the children, where to live, what job I should have, etc. I make the major decisions like U.S. foreign policy and how to achieve world peace.
Unlike that wife, I feel overwhelmed. I do not want to make this decision without his input and support. But, I fear this decision will be mine, and mine alone.
“Those are too far away. I don’t like the idea of sending Kelli to a school eighty miles from home.”
“Neither do I, but I’m hoping to move …” Karen opens the door to the dorm and my sentence is lost in the excitement of Kelli and Amy seeing us.
As I unpack our clothes, warped déjà vu engulfs me. I remember moving into Piper Hall as a university freshman, but now I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Nothing is right; everything is askew. The bed is low and too short for my five-foot, two-inch frame. The closet rod is so low my clothes rest on the floor, but Amy’s hang perfectly. This space is designed for children.
That night, eighteen children ranging from age three to twelve, their parents, and NSD staff pass through the cafeteria line and sit at round tables. I’m surprised to see older children, and then I remember some parents send their child to a local school before accepting their deaf child needs specialized education. Our NSD host, Jill Ramsey, introduces herself and signs her name to the three kids and four parents at our table.
“How do the little kids manage here?” A mother’s voice quavers. “I carried Robert’s tray to the table. He won’t be able to do this alone by fall without spilling half of his food.” Her pained expression tells me she’s afraid her son will starve to death if he can’t carry his tray, a thought that never crossed my mind. I’m anxious to hear Jill’s answer.
“Several high school students work in the cafeteria to earn spending money,” Jill says. “They carry trays for the younger children and supervise their eating. No one goes hungry.”
I’m glad Jill didn’t preface her response with “Don’t worry.” She knows we’re all worried.
After supper, George Thompson, the school superintendent, an older gentleman with well-groomed salt-and-pepper hair welcomes us. “This week will be educational and entertaining for the parents and kids. While the parents attend seminars on deaf education, tour our facility, and meet the staff, your kids will receive nonverbal intelligence assessments, an auditory exam, and speech assessment. Wednesday, we’ll all spend the day at the zoo. On Friday, parents will have individual conferences with the audiologist and the school counselor.”
The next day, our first seminar is a panel presentation: Choosing the Best School for My Child. After opening remarks, the moderator allows us to ask questions. Silence spreads over the room like thick blanket. If the other parents are like me, they have so many questions they don’t know what to ask first. How can you know which school is best? How will Amy cope without me? How will I cope without her? No, I don’t want to ask that question.
A cough breaks the silence. “My son is eight. He’s gone to public school for three years. He did all right in kindergarten, but he’s taken first grade twice and still isn’t ready for second grade. I don’t want him held back again, but I really don’t know …” Her voice fades away.
A woman panelist speaks. “Should you send your son to NSD? Is that what you want to know?” The mother nods. “Right now your son is struggling. He’s falling behind, which will only worsen as he gets older. You sound worried about him having social problems too, right?”
“Yes. It hurts me when kids say he’s stupid and make fun of his hearing aids.”
“I don’t know your child, but I know about deaf children. A deaf child in a regular public school may be able to keep up with other students for a few years with extra help, but despite all your effort, they will fall behind. The situation is progressive. If your child does poorly in third grade, he’ll do worse in fourth, and so on. Deaf children educated with hearing children will be lucky to have a fifth grade education when they graduate, but if that same deaf child attends a school for the deaf, I guarantee he’ll excel. Our teaching methods, in fact the entire NSD campus, are designed for deaf students. Why let your child struggle, when he can excel?”
”Yes, but I love my daughter too much to send her so far away,” another parent says. Several others nod in agreement.
“Is your love enough?” A panelist pauses, waiting for our reactions.
“What do you mean?” someone asks.
“Is the love you give your child enough to take away the pain they feel when hearing students make fun of them? How many of your hugs are needed to remove the pain your child feels when they aren’t invited to social events or selected for the sports team? Is the love and comfort you give your child at home enough to erase the hours of pain they feel at school?”
Her words confirm what I know, but don’t want to accept: Amy must attend NSD. “The thought of sending Amy here when she’s five is unimaginable. Do all the students live here or do some go home at night?”
“Most live here,” a male panelist replies. “About 20 percent of our students live in Omaha. The younger ones usually go home, but the teenagers would rather live in the dorm with their friends than go home to a neighborhood where they have no friends. I’m sure —”
So, it would be possible for Amy to come home every night if we lived in Omaha.
“—many of you are thinking, ‘great, we’ll move to Omaha.’ But, before you sell your house and uproot your family, remember, your deaf child is only a fraction of your family. Will moving to Omaha be good for the entire family? Will your other children like changing schools, losing their friends, moving to an unfamiliar neighborhood? Can you find employment here?”
He pauses. The room is silent, filled, I think, with suffocated dreams.
The speaker continues, “Don’t let your deaf child control your decision. You must do what is best for your entire family.”
The air seeps from my dream. I slump in my chair, realizing Jack will never leave his family-owned business and move to Omaha. The rest of my morning I wallow in self-pity.
That night, after the children are in bed, Karen and I talk in the hall outside of the dorm. While Amy has received speech and language therapy several times a week for two years, Kelli hasn’t been as fortunate. Norfolk has no preschool program, so Karen pays a therapist to see Kelli once a week.
On Tuesday, the seminars focus on methods to teach your deaf child sentence structure and language. Labeling items is not new to me, but using photos is. “Show your child a picture of the grocery store, church or library, as you say and sign, ‘We’re going to swim.’ This will help your child know what’s happening.” The speaker holds up a photo of a child under an umbrella. Underneath the photo is printed, “I have an umbrella.”
“Why are some of the words underlined?” one parent asks.
“Underlining the verb is one way we teach parts of speech,” Jill Ramsey replies. “You don’t have to do that, but since we use that method, you may want to. I suggest you install a bulletin board at your child’s level. Write ‘yesterday,’ ‘today,’ and ‘tomorrow’ on cards.” She writes the words on a whiteboard and tapes a photo of a child riding a bike by ‘today.’ “Tell your child what you will be doing today. Put a photo of something you will do tomorrow by that word.” She tapes another photo on the board. “The next day, move today’s photo to yesterday, and so forth. It helps kids learn the concept of time.”
“Whatever you do,” a deaf panelist signs, “talk to your child.” An interpreter speaks his signed comments. “My parents didn’t know sign and made no effort to learn it. I felt very alone. Include your child in everything you do.”
“I can’t stress that enough,” says the nurse on the panel. “The suicide rate among deaf people is higher than for most other disabilities, because a deaf person may feel isolated.”
A high suicide rate. Ye gods! What next?
“Many disabilities are visible,” the nurse continues. “If a person is blind or in a wheelchair, people will often offer assistance, but deafness isn’t visible. Someone trying to talk to a deaf person often assumes the deaf person is retarded or mentally disturbed, because they don’t answer. The helper may shy away, instead of realizing the person is deaf.”
As the nurse talks, the deaf panel member constantly waves in an effort to interrupt.
“Yes, that’s true, for some deaf people,” the deaf man signs, “but not for most Deaf. We are very independent.” He stands, his gestures become bolder. “Deaf can take care of ourselves. I do just fine. So do my friends. I’ve traveled all over the world.” His stance relaxes, he signs in my direction. “Don’t worry. Your child will be fine. Encourage them to be independent. Talk to them. Include them in everything you do.” He signs “fine” in my direction before sitting.
I watch him sign “fine” again. He smiles; I smile out of politeness. I hope he’s right. It’s almost four. Time to quit. The moderator stands. “If you don’t have a camera, take one of these disposable ones. You and your child will take pictures at the zoo tomorrow. We’ll have the film developed overnight, and on Thursday you’ll make a memory book.”
While others reach for cameras, I leave. My camera is in the dorm. Since arriving I’ve taken photos of the buildings (inside and out) and the NSD campus to show Jack and my parents. I’ll offer to show them to Esther, but I know what her answer will be: “No thanks.”
The Henry Doorly Zoo is huge. By mid-afternoon, exhaustion has changed the excited children into crabby kids who refuse to take another step. Although equally tired and sweaty, I have no choice but to carry Amy to the waiting buses.
Once again when the children are in bed, the mothers gather in the hall to chat. We agree the workshop and NSD are great, but our positive comments often conclude with “… but I wish the school wasn’t so far from where we live.”
Several parents have decided to send their child to NSD this fall. I’m glad Amy’s not eligible to enroll for two years. Hearing their worries and watching them hold back tears twists my intestines into a spasm. I hurry toward the bathroom.
“Stomach problems, I bet,” a mother says.
“For me it’s migraines,” another says.
After a few minutes in the bathroom, I return to the group, and am greeted by a chorus of voices. “Are you all right? Do you feel better?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I’ve got a nervous stomach.”
“What do you have to be nervous about?” Karen says.
We all laugh.
Thursday after assembling our photo journals, we all enjoy the NSD indoor swimming pool. The P.E. teacher explains that the children have swimming lessons, and most are excellent swimmers by age seven. That night as I lie awake in the mini-twin bed, I recall one of Mr. Thompson’s opening remarks. “When your child is on our campus, we’re responsible for them twenty-four hours a day. I think we’re the only school in the state that can boast none of our girls have ever become pregnant nor do any of our kids sneak a smoke. They’re always supervised.”
The main thrust of NSD is academic education. We’ve met the primary teachers and toured their classrooms. No class ever has more than eight students, so the teacher can have eye contact with each child. The rooms have a closed antenna system, like Connell, which amplifies sound into the auditory trainers (super magnifying hearing devices) the primary students wear. High school students take college prep courses as well as vocational classes. Drivers’ education, drama, competitive sports, cheerleading, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, and a variety of other clubs give the students a well-rounded education. The buildings have lights to warn of fire, and a closed circuit teletypewriter system allows the teenage boys and girls to stay in contact after hours. The dietician said the children receive balanced meals as well as instruction on proper table manners. The physical development of the children is encouraged through daily P.E. classes and school athletics. The infirmary has four private rooms. A nurse tends to minor aches and pains, and doctors and dentists make regular visits to the school. Nearby Catholic and Lutheran churches have services in sign language, and children will be taken to Sunday worship if the parents desire. The school has thought of everything.
Four feet away from me, in a bed that is just her size, Amy kicks off the sheet and rolls to face me. Her hands flutter, appearing to make a sign. Do deaf people sign or speak in their dreams? Will anyone check on Amy at night? Kathy’s wonderful, but she’s deaf. How will she know if Amy’s crying or sick? Who will hug Amy when she’s sad? Calm down, Rebecca. Amy can’t go to school here for two more years. Two years. Two years. Amy moans. I leap from my bed. She’s asleep. I place her pink cat pillow in her arms. She pops her fingers into her mouth. My throat becomes tight with the familiar lump. No matter how well-equipped NSD is, there’s one thing they can’t provide: a mother’s love.
Friday after breakfast, as we await our appointments, Karen and I pack our suitcases. “Will you and Amy be here for the workshop next year?” Karen asks. “We will.”
“I will if my mother can keep John,” I say.
“It’s nice your mom helps out.” Karen’s voice warns of a touchy subject.
“Yeah, it is.” I contemplate adding my mother-in-law doesn’t accept Amy is deaf and despite Esther’s belief that Amy is normal, she wanted to take her to a faith healer this spring. But, I’m not comfortable sharing this information. Thinking about it makes my temples twitch. Jack agreed that Amy should not be subjected to public scrutiny and possible embarrassment at a revival, but he refused to tell his mother this. I was left to deal with the sticky situation. I asked our pastor for guidance. Later I told my mother-in-law, “You can’t take Amy to a faith healer.” When pressed for a reason, I said, “If God wants to heal Amy, he can do it in the privacy of our home.” I did not add, “We like her just as she is. I feel blessed she’s my child.” Esther was not happy with my decision, but said no more.
Karen has an early appointment, so we say goodbye, with a promise to see each other next year. At five minutes to eleven, I leave to meet the audiologist.
“Mrs. Willman?” A slender man with dark hair extends his hand. “I’m Dr. Force.”
Dr. Force appears to be thirty-five, has a sincere smile, and a firm handshake. In a seminar we were told Dr. Force, who tests NASA astronauts, would test our children, so I expected an older man. “Nice to meet you,” Dr. Force says. “Amy’s quite a charmer.” He motions to a chair and waits for me to sit before returning to his desk.
Dr. Zimmer never offered me a seat or even called Amy by name.
“Amy was easy to test, very cooperative.” Dr. Force opens a folder.
“That’s good to hear. She screamed like a banshee during her first hearing test. Of course she was only thirteen months old.” I realize I’m babbling, but continue. “She’s spent hours with therapists and audiologists in the past two years, so she’s accustomed to people examining her. I’m sure your audiogram of Amy’s hearing won’t be much different from Dr. Zimmer’s.”
“I haven’t seen his tests, so I can’t comment on them, but here are my results.” He places a single sheet of paper in front of me.
I stare at three graphs; right ear, left ear, and acoustic immittance. Dr. Zimmer would not let me see Amy’s actual audiogram, keeping it in her file as if it were a secret document. He only gave me a sketch. Even though I do not understand the graphs, I ask, “May I keep this?”
“Of course.”
I rub my fingers over the graphs. Nothing will erase the downward pointing arrows that indicate Amy’s limited hearing is off the chart on most frequencies.
“Amy has a profound bilateral sensorineural hearing loss. In laymen’s language this means she has a very severe hearing loss in both ears due to the inability of her auditory nerve to process sound.” He picks up his copy of the audiogram. “Her right ear is slightly better than her left. I tested Amy with tones from 500 Hz, which is about one octave above middle C, up to 8,000 Hz, increasing the volume until she responded. All of Amy’s values are off the chart except in the 500 Hz range where she acknowledged sound at 90 to 100 decibels, which is quite loud. Similar to the volume of a chain saw.”
My palms are cool and dry; no surprises so far. “Yes, that’s what Dr. Zimmer told me.”
“The chart on the right details the acoustic immittance test, which measures the integrity of the eardrum and determines the anatomy of the middle ear. Amy’s results were normal.”
Dr. Force closes Amy’s folder. I expect him to usher me out the door; instead he leans forward. “Amy really amazed me. Her speech is quite good. Most children born profoundly deaf say few, if any, words. The volume, pitch, and tone of many deaf people are poor, but Amy’s speech is appropriate. A child with her loss shouldn’t say anything, and yet she does.” He shakes his head, as if trying to jar loose an explanation.
I swallow; the news is good. “I know another child who has a similar hearing loss and she doesn’t say anything. Why do you think Amy speaks, and that child doesn’t?”
“Well, first of all, Amy’s intelligent, that’s obvious. And second, she’s been motivated to speak, probably by you.”
“I have worked with her a lot.” I offer as an explanation.
“That’s good, but determining what motivates a person is difficult. I don’t know what you did to motivate Amy, but the same effort applied to another child might yield no results. Amy speaks as well as she does because she’s personally motivated to do it.”
We sit in silence. He offers no further explanation; I wish I knew what I had done.
“Do you have any other questions?” he asks.
“No. I can’t think of any.”
He opens the door. I wander into the hall. The old cliché “as different as night and day” springs to mind as I compare Dr. Force to Dr. Zimmer, but the phrase is inadequate. I felt hopeless and helpless after seeing Dr. Zimmer, but Dr. Force gave me praise and encouragement. This moment alone makes my week at the summer workshop worthwhile.
I think Amy is bright, quick to learn like her brother, and I hope Amy’s intelligence tests will confirm that. I knock on the door of Marian Phillips, the school counselor.
“Come in. Sit down.” Mrs. Phillips remains in her chair behind her desk. “You must be Amy’s mother; I see a resemblance. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Thank you.” I sit on the edge of my chair. Dr. Zimmer’s comment that Amy could be retarded screams in my head, muting Dr. Force’s positive comments.
“Ah, here it is.” She opens a folder and scans pages before speaking. “Amy was very cooperative. She actually seemed to enjoy the tests. We gave her two nonverbal tests, the Weschler and Hiskey. How old is she?” She shuffles papers in the folder.
“Three years and four months.”
“She’s right on target. Scored at the three-year level on one test, and at three years and six months on the other.”
“Great. A doctor we saw when Amy was younger said she might be retarded.”
“Amy’s intelligence is normal or a bit above normal.”
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Absolutely. The tests don’t lie. A child can score lower than their actual intelligence, but it’s not possible to do better than you are capable of doing.”
I hurry from her office, retrieve Amy from the playroom and drive to Beatrice. One of Dr. Zimmer’s curses was lifted today. Amy has normal intelligence.
Mother asks about the workshop and Daddy listens while I describe the events of the past week. My father is an excellent amateur photographer. On Saturday he takes many photos of John, Amy, my mother, and me and promises to send prints so I can make an album for Amy like we did at NSD. Before leaving, Mother hands me a heavy box. “For the albums.” Inside are 200 sheets of oak tag paper, glue, and several marking pens.
Once home, my camera becomes an extension of my body. I snap pictures everywhere we go. In September, I take photos of John’s first day of school. He attends morning kindergarten, which means he no longer has to go to Connell with Amy. I’ll miss his company, but I’m struggling to learn sign language, and can now devote myself to Kay’s sign instruction twice a week. I hope that will increase my vocabulary.
In what seems to be only a moment, John and Amy have finished another year of school. Knowing John will be in first grade in three months has a bittersweet effect on my thoughts. In September, Amy and I will have the day together while John is in school. She’ll have therapy in the morning, but in the afternoons Amy and I can do special things together. I know I must make the most of our time together next year, because the following fall she’ll go to NSD in Omaha.
I asked Jack about moving to Omaha, and he dismissed the idea as “impossible,” so I’ve decided to attend the NSD workshop again this June to learn more about the school. As for the other children at Connell, Teena and Bernice Eaton will be in the primary dorm with us. Kay Darnall and her two sons will be housed in the boys’ dorm. Kay’s familiar with the school since she and her husband graduated from it, but her boys have never been there. Norma Wruble doesn’t plan to attend with Jeannie until next year. I look forward to having my Grand Island friends with me, renewing friendships from last year, and meeting new people.
The workshop has the same format as last year. Even though Amy won’t be enrolled here for another year, I take pictures of the primary teachers, the house parents, and the dining room staff so Amy will recognize them. On Friday, Dr. Force and I have a nice chat. He tells me Amy’s hearing is unchanged and he’s impressed with her speech and growing vocabulary.
Since Amy’s intelligence was measured at normal or slightly above last year, apprehension does not accompany me to Mrs. Philips’ office. She scans several pages, and then she takes off her glasses. “Even though Amy’s only four, her IQ was measured well above the five-year level on both nonverbal tests. Here are the results.”
I take the folder she extends. The numbers mean little to me, but a section titled “recommendations” at the bottom of the page captures my attention. “Enrollment in Prep 1, September 1973.” That’s this fall, less than three months from now. This must be a mistake; Amy won’t be five by October 1 as the law requires. But no.
“The psychologists recommended Amy start school this fall. I agree. There’s no reason to wait until she’s five. She’s mature enough and ready to learn now.” She smiles, pleased to report good news.
My mouth would gape, but it’s so dry I can’t pry my lips apart. I’m sure Mrs. Phillips wonders how I have an intelligent daughter when I sit opposite her, staring and speechless. I close the folder, obscuring the recommendation. My thoughts and emotions tumble like clothes in a dryer. Next year was supposed to my year with Amy. I can’t send her to school this fall. I’m not ready. Wow! This is great. Since the kids at NSD attend two years of preparatory classes before first grade, Amy will be eighteen when she graduates from high school, just like hearing kids. I wonder what Jack will want to do? I suppose she ought to start next year, but …
“I spoke to Kathy Becker, the primary house parent,” Mrs. Phillips continues. “She said Amy’s toilet-trained and gets along well with other children. She believes Amy will adjust well to dorm life.”
How ironic. I worried I’d never have Amy toilet-trained by five, and she wouldn’t be able to go to school, and now they want her to start before she’s five.
“Mr. Thompson approved her admission for this fall.” Mrs. Phillips leans forward as if to impart a secret. “Amy would be the first child we’ve enrolled at NSD before they were five.”
I don’t need this kind of first. I pull my lips into my mouth and rub my tongue over them.
“We can’t force you to enroll Amy now. Nebraska law doesn’t require children to attend school until they’re six, but it would be in her best interest to start this fall. Do you want to begin the enrollment process?”
My mouth makes a dry click as I open it. “I suppose … I’m not really sure … I guess she ought to start, but I wasn’t expecting this. Can I think about it? Ask my husband?”
“Sure. Talk it over and let me know as soon as possible what you decide.”
When I stand, she hands me a large envelope. “Take this. It’s for parents of new students. Inside are forms and the school handbook, which covers everything from medical emergencies to what clothes the children are required to bring to school and where to buy clothing labels.”
I return to the primary dorm for Amy. When I see her, I hug her so tight she squirms to free herself. Oh Amy, don’t push me away. Let me hold you.
I drive to Beatrice dry-eyed, stunned, my mind racing. When I arrive at my parents, John rushes to greet me. “Mommy! Amy! I’m glad you’re here. I missed you.”
“I missed you too, John.”
“Are you all right?” Mother’s eyes narrow; her forehead wrinkles. “Do you feel okay? You looked tired or something.”
“‘Or something’ describes it. Guess what? You’ll never guess, so I might as well tell you. NSD wants Amy to start this fall.” Mother and Daddy listen as I tell about the past week. Their response is silence. They’re as surprised as I am. Jack has no comment that night either.
The next morning, Mother pulls me aside. “Your father asked me if you were sure about this school for Amy. He’s concerned they might mistreat the children.” Her hesitant speech tells me this is her concern also. “I told him I’m sure you checked the place out, and it wasn’t like those orphanages Dickens wrote about.”
“No, it’s not like that at all.” I have many concerns about sending Amy to NSD when she’s so young, but I’m not worried about her being abused and neglected. The school is perfect in every way but one: it’s too far away from our home.
Since Jack’s never been to NSD, he can’t offer much advice on whether Amy should begin this fall or wait another year. “Whatever you decide will be fine with me,” he says.
The phrases “caught between a rock and a hard place,” “between the devil and the deep blue sea,” and “damned if you do and damned if you don’t” all apply. The decision is mine. I consider my options. The Grand Island schools have no suitable education for Amy. The Omaha public schools offer a day program for deaf students, which would allow Amy to live at home if we moved to Omaha, but Jack refuses to move. The private schools I read about in other states are too far away, and they only use oral communication, which I know is not the best or easiest way for Amy to learn. I don’t want Amy any further away from me than necessary, so Dr. Zimmer was right: NSD is Amy’s only option.
Two weeks later, per the requirements of the NSD laundry, I order three hundred cloth nametags printed with “Amy Willman” to sew on all her clothes.