Every morning during the week is mayhem. There's all the waking and motivating and packing that any family with young children experiences, and often one or more grumpy face complaining about breakfast/bed making/tooth-brushing, and "why do we have to go to school today anyway" is a common refrain. But go we do, and once they're all packed into their seats in the car things tend to smooth out. Ellie listens to Raffi and sometimes even sings along, and the other two wait patiently for it to be their turn for music.
Our first stop is at the local elementary school where Ellie is enrolled in developmental preschool. They've graciously offered to meet us a little early at the doors so that I can get Spencer to his school *almost* on-time afterwards. As we arrive, there are often other special needs kids arriving, too. Some come with their parents, their communication books in hand, sticker charts and schedules waiting for them to complete the obstacle course that is getting to school each day. Others arrive in groups on the "special" busses and are ushered in by a veritable platoon of teachers and aides. And for all of us, some days are better than others.
As we were waiting for Ellie's teachers today, we watched two teachers escort an older autistic girl from the bus. This was clearly a bad day. The girl was seven or eight, I'd guess, but she was screaming and jelly-kneed like a toddler who doesn't want to be picked-up. The two teachers, one on each side, were holding her upright and trying to coax her to walk towards the school doors. She jerked and thrashed every so often, trying to get out of their grasp while plugging both ears with her fingers. I could only imagine the amount of effort it was taking to move her forward through all this, but they were quietly talking and coaxing as they inched towards the entry.
Once inside, she buckled to the floor and the teachers let her be for a minute as they shook it off and tried to settle her. But she was in that other place--that place an autistic person can disappear in when the tantrum takes over. It's a place beyond reason, and I have no doubt that it was a long process before they got her to her classroom. Even after Ellie had kissed me good-bye and trotted off to class with her teacher, the older girl was still in the entryway, now seated in a chair and flanked by teachers while she screamed, eyes squeezed shut and ears plugged, trying to blot out the world.
Six hours later I was standing by the back door of the school waiting for Ellie’s class to be dismissed when the door opened a little early, and a teacher waved pointedly at one of the special busses. As the bus moved forward to park closer to the doors, a second teacher came forward with the same girl. She was screaming –still? again? – and this time the teacher held her upright from behind, arms under the girl’s armpits, hands clasped in front for security as the girl alternately thrashed and went limp. Again, the process was slow and the girl’s fingers never left her ears as she shrieked and cried. Her cries continued and for a few minutes intensified as the two climbed into the waiting bus.
A moment later another little girl came out, this one holding her teacher’s hand and looking slightly alarmed as they moved towards the screaming bus. “It’s ok,” the teacher was saying to the second girl, “Sarah* is sad and we’re going to go see if we can make her smile, okay? Would you like to help Sarah smile?” The little girl didn’t answer but she nodded a little and the rest of their conversation was lost to me as they moved away.
As Ellie’s smiling little face pressed up against the glass doors, backpack trailing behind her, I felt such a mixture of joy and sadness at once: such joy in the amazing little girl I’ve been blessed with, and such sadness for the torment of the other little girl for whom the movements of daily life were so excruciating. Such sadness for that other mother and father somewhere whose baby suffered so in spite of the hard work and gentle hands of so many people.
It’s easy sometimes to wonder why we’ve been given the challenges we’ve been given, but once in a while I am reminded of just how much harder life could be. In truth, we are the lucky ones and it isn’t fair, or just, or reasonable. No child should live through any day as that girl lived through today, and no parent should have to face that kind of pain on their child’s face without the hope or promise of relief. I felt the guilt of one spared for no reason, of a survivor in a war that is taking children wholesale. My children have received glancing blows, but their outlook is good. For some, tomorrow holds much less promise.
There but for the grace of God go any one of our children.
I scooped up Ellie and smothered her giggling face with kisses, thrilling to the sound of her little voice saying my name and pointing at the car to go home. “She made it to the last 3 in musical chairs with the big kids today,” her teacher told me proudly. “Right, Ellie, girl? You’re running with the big dogs now!”
She surely is.
*Not really the little girl’s name, of course.
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