Hysterical mothers

My days were packed with fun and work.  It seemed every time I turned around, more bottles had to be cleaned, formula mixed, diapers changed, babies fed, babies burped, or clothes changed.  I didn’t worry about the house being messy, dishes undone, how I looked, or anything like that.  I was working on survival.  The little free time we did have, we would walk to the mall or spend with my best friend, Roseann. 

            Scotty remained happy-go-lucky.  He loved “Sissy” and would give her slobbery kisses on the head.  Sarah was not happy with the world.  She suffered with colic and would sleep only in 20-minute shifts.  She would pull up her little legs in pain and cry throughout the day.  We discovered chamomile tea gave her some relief, so in addition to having a milk bottle available for her, we always had a tea bottle at hand as well.  I don’t remember much at all about those first few months after giving birth.  I only remember longing for a block of time to sleep that was longer than 20 minutes.  We had a wind-up swing that would swing for approximately 15 minutes.  I would put Sarah in the swing when she was uncomfortable and she would sleep as long as the swing was moving.  But when the swing stopped, the crying started. I was exhausted most of the time but trying to keep it together. 

            Towards the end of August, I decided to take the kids and go to my mom and dad’s for a week.  I knew mom and dad would carry some of the load and maybe I could get caught up on my sleep.  Since they were a good seven hours away, Michael decided I could fly to Dayton from Chicago with the kids and I could be there in about half the travel time.

            The time on the plane was a nightmare.  Sarah screamed the entire 40-minute flight.  The air pressure changes were painful for her little ears.  The flight attendant was so kind to me, giving me the front row where I could have more space and trying to help with the kids.  At one point, Scott and Sarah were both crying.  I did my best to juggle them in my arms. It was the longest flight I have ever been on in my life. Finally, we landed.  I was never so happy to see my mom and dad!

            Time with mom and dad was relaxing for me.  I tried to continue to take care of the kids, but mom and dad were so much better at it than me.  It was so nice to be able to rest and sleep.  The kids slept in mom and dad’s room and I pretended I was a teenager again, sleeping late until my body felt rested.

            One morning, shortly after I had arrived, I went upstairs, used the bathroom and then picked up Sarah and sat in a chair to hold her.  Mom had already fed her and was feeding Scott.  I held Sarah in my arms supporting her head in the crook of my left arm.  Suddenly I couldn’t support her and her head relaxed over my sagging arm.

            “What’s wrong, Lori?” asked my mom.

            “Nothing,” I answered slurring my words.

            “Lori, there is something wrong, what’s wrong with you?”

            “What do we have here, a hysterical mother?” I answered her question with a question of my own in what appeared to be a drunken state.

            “Bob!” Mom called for my dad.  “There is something wrong with Lori.”

            “Mom, I’m fine.” I insisted, continuing to try to support Sarah.

            My dad ended up taking me to the Emergency Room.  They diagnosed it as possibly Bell’s Palsy and sent me back home.  Mom was livid.  She sent us back to the hospital when my symptoms worsened.  Eventually, I was admitted and seen by a neurologist who began to run some tests.

            Mom called Michael and told him I was in the hospital.  He had not planned to take time off from work and he had a really important meeting on Tuesday night.  He would be there after the meeting was over and he had taken care of some things pertaining to the church.  I remember lying in the hospital missing my babies.  I had a burp diaper of Sarah’s that I slept with to help with the loneliness.

            I don’t remember much of this time except a lot of tests and needles.  I also remember the constant sound of a life-support machine.  My roommate had been in a terrible car accident and they were not sure she was actually going to make it.  I have been told that I was quite uncooperative with the nurses throughout this hospital stay.  That alone should have told me something was wrong as I am not usually uncooperative especially when I am in a vulnerable position.

            A few days later, Michael arrived.  I remember I was eating when he walked in.“Hi, Honey.  I’m so sorry,” I sobbed as my food slid out the left side of my mouth.

 

The completed picture

Toward the end of our Lamaz class, they allowed us to tour the hospital.  The tour happened toward the dinner hour so we watched as couples walked to the special “candlelight dinner” room for their final meal before taking home their babies.  The mothers walked slowly, most of them carrying a pillow for comfort.  They all walked as if they had been sitting on bowling balls for the past two days and their eyes had a look of panic.  The husbands, on the other hand, looked dazed and confused.  In their brief moments of lucidity, they looked penitent.

            As we watched the couples walking to their final free meal, we laughed.  “I promise you,” I said, “when we get to this point, I will be laughing and making you chase me down the hall to that meal!”  If I could go back to any moment from that decade and change it, it would be this moment that I would return to and I would approach those couples with compassion and prayer.

            We had just left the doctor’s office and were on the way to the hospital.  My blood pressure had skyrocketed and the doctor insisted I get to the hospital immediately to be placed on monitors and medication.  My mom and grandma were on their way to stay with Scott but would not arrive until the next day.  My heart broke as we handed Scott over to one of our best friends for the night.  It was the first time I would be away from him since he arrived and I knew when I returned, all would be different.

            After lying in a hospital bed for a day, the doctor felt he needed to perform an emergency C-section.  At this point, I didn’t care if I had to give up natural childbirth—I just wanted to come through this whole pregnancy alive.  I felt fat, frumpy and all-around awful.  My head hurt, my legs hurts, my whole body hurt! 

            Finally, the time came.  I was given a general anesthetic and when I woke up, I had a beautiful baby girl added to my family.  Sarah Michelle became the fourth and final member of our immediate family on June 27, 1986—exactly four months after her brother Scott was born.  She was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed fireball—exactly opposite in every way to her brother at home.

            Two days later it was time for our final free meal—the candlelight dinner.  My mind went back to those couples I had laughed at when we were on our hospital tour and I knew the first thing I would eat were those words I said to Michael. 

            I was shuffling across the hospital floor with a pillow against my belly when all of the sudden for no reason at all I started sobbing.  Not a quiet, classy type of crying that a lot of women have mastered, but the all out, loud sobbing of a woman lost in helplessness. 

            “What’s wrong with you?” Michael asked incredulously.  At that moment, I have to admit what I was thinking—‘Oh my Gosh, Marcia is right—he isn’t nurturing at all!’ 

            “I don’t know,” I sobbed.  “I just feel so sad!”

            He put his arm around me gently.  “Here, let me help you, honey.  It’s going to be okay.”

            The next day, we took Sarah home.  It was a little different than bringing home a 3-month old from the airport.  She cried a lot!  The first night, she was in bed with us.  She was crying, I was crying and Michael was close.  Mom opened our door a crack, “Can I help?”  We gladly handed Sarah over to her.

            The puzzle picture was complete now.  It was a beautiful picture—but not the picture we expected.  It would take many years to understand the picture—but understanding is a process that happens with your family.  As I look back on my family, I see how only God could have brought it all together for good and I see how I am SO blessed!

Happy Routines

As Michael and I faced the possibility of losing our child again, we tried to be positive and have faith.  We felt we had handled the adoption in the best way possible and we had to believe that God was going to work this out. 

            Michael had been planning a bike trip up the shoreline of Lake Michigan with a good friend.  It was decided that Scotty and I would stay with his wife, who was also my best friend.  I waited for Marcia’s call all week and received no word from her.  My imagination played enormous tricks on me and the fear of losing Scott did nothing to lower my already high blood pressure.  After a week of silence, I finally worked up my nerve to call Marcia.

            “Marcia, this is Lori.  I’ve been waiting for your call all week regarding whether or not the agency is planning to take Scott out of our home.”

            She hesitated.  “I talked to the agency about the situation and they have decided that it would not be in the best interest of Scott to be moved to another home.”

            “Thank you.” I said, quickly hanging up before she changed her words.  My friend, Roseann, stood beside me waiting for confirmation of what she wanted to hear.  Instead of a happy Lori; however, she saw a spitfire with angry eyes.

            “I don’t think she intended to call back at all!” I concluded.  “I think she was going to just let us wonder and lay in our own fear indefinitely!”

            “They aren’t not taking him back, right?”

            “No, they aren’t taking him back.  Thank God.”  I held Scotty close and said a prayer of Thanksgiving.  Now it was time to let it go and turn some of our attention to baby #2 who was demanding increasingly more of my body.

            The doctor was unhappy with my blood pressure and the swelling in my legs and  ankles at my weekly appointment.  It had been a little over two weeks since Scotty had arrived.

            “I want you in the hospital  next week.  I think this baby is becoming stressed and your body is certainly stressed.”  Michael was back from his trip and had gone to my appointment with me.  I noticed the circles under his eyes.  He was tired.  I wondered if I had circles under my eyes. 

            We had moved Scotty’s crib into our room to try to get him used to sleeping in the crib, but all night long he would raise his legs high in the air and then let them drop with a loud thump.  We started calling him “Thumper” and would try different strategies to try to get him to stop, but it was too fun for him, I guess and he continued thumping randomly through the night.

            He continued his happy routines.  He seldom cried and engaged everyone around him to entertain him.  He was irresistible.  I walked to the mall, about 8 blocks away, several times a week.  I was shocked on one of these occasions when a teenage boy, after getting a glimpse of Scott, said, “Look, a little chink.”  I didn’t know what a ‘chink’ was and when Michael explained to me, I felt anger at the young man for his prejudice, but I also realized at that moment that I had a bi-racial family.  I decided to do my best to protect Scott from the ignorance of those around us and I pledged to honor his heritage the best I could.  I had nicknamed him “bear,” because he reminded me of a little brown bear when he cuddled in to our arms.      How I loved him!  I knew it was going to be hard to go to the hospital the next week and leave him behind, but I also knew the rest of the puzzle would soon be revealed and the second half of a double blessing was soon on its way!!

Love at first Sight

It was love at first sight.  I didn’t believe in that until Scotty came.    He laughed, he cooed, he ate, and he laughed some more.  He was born on February 27, 1986 so he was 3 months and 1 week old when we got him.  He was fat.  He had at least five little fat rolls on each arm and sumo-type legs.  But he was adorable and he was very happy.  Scott had spent the first three months of his life with a foster family.  You could tell they had loved him very much just because of his comfort level with the world.  The agency had shared with us how the foster mothers would bring the babies to a bus on the day they were to be transported to their adoptive homes.  The agency escorts would watch out the back of the bus as it pulled away from the foster mothers who would follow the bus, running in the road, waving hankerchiefs while tears streamed down their cheeks.  I cry every time I think of this picture and I say a prayer of thanks for that wonderful woman and her family who loved my baby so much those important first months of his life. 

            I also thank God for Scotty’s biological mother who loved him enough to give him life.  At that particular time in South Korea, if you were born out of wedlock, you were basically denied all rights—educational, political, and social rights.  Scott’s biological mother chose to give him life by agreeing to let him be adopted.  Every year on Scott’s birthday, I spend the day saying prayers of blessings on these two women who gave my son such a great start in life.

            Because Scott had his days and nights mixed up, we spent a lot of that first week with him in our bed at night babbling on about his great experiences in his life.  He blubbered on constantly and was especially partial to blowing raspberries with his sweet little mouth.

            Our church had thrown us a beautiful baby shower, furnishing our nursery for two.  So, even though Scott had his own baby bed, he preferred to be close to us and we preferred it too.  It amazed me how quickly we felt bonded to him.  I knew this was the feeling all mothers craved and clung to.  We played and walked and visited and hosted a lot of visitors as well.  However, there was one visit we were not necessarily looking forward to.  Marcia was due for a home visit a week after we picked Scott up at the airport…and it was way too hot to wear a trench coat.

            The day arrived.  We had the house looking spotless and the nursery was perfect in every way.  I was sitting on the couch holding Scott when she arrived.  She immediately got down to business.  We covered the questions she had for us (basic assurances that we had a doctor, plans for immunizations, etc.).  She asked some questions about his sleeping habits and disposition.

            “Here, come see the nursery,” Michael invited proudly.  Marcia followed him to Scott’s room.

            She looked at it carefully.  “Very nice,” she commented, “but why do you have two cribs?”

            My heart fell.  She really had no idea.  Even though my belly was as big as a barn, she had no idea.

            “Well, Lori is expecting a baby any day now.  She actually isn’t due until July but the doctor thinks it may be much earlier.”

            It was like watching a dark sky give way to thunder and lightning.

            “No, way.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “Well, we really didn’t think she would carry it full term and we didn’t want to have to stop the adoption process again.”

            “There is no way the agency is going to allow this.  They will take Scott back and give him to another couple.”

            My world disappeared.

            “NO!”  I cried.  “They can’t do that!!  He is our baby!  We love him so much already!”

            “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you have deceived us and there is no way they are going to allow you to have two children so close in age.  I will check with them, but I’m sure they will not allow you to keep him.”

            “Please, Marcia,” I begged “we just wanted a baby, but now he is ours.  Please don’t let them take him away.”

            “I’ll talk to them and let them know what is going on.  You should hear from me within a week.”  Then she turned to walk out the door and ended with “Be prepared.”

            I held Scotty close.  There was no way I was going to allow anyone to take him from us now.  I would flee the country, change my name, go into hiding, and disguise us all.  How could I lose him now when it was love at first sight?

Another Journey Begins

We landed at O’Hare airport in our 15-passenger van loaded with an empty car seat and our best friends.  Each of us donned a nametag reading the personal name with …”for Tupper baby” written beneath it.  Vanessa, one of our “short” friends carried the “It’s a boy” sign.  When I think now of how our little parade must have looked, it coaxes a smile.  When someone asked us what a “Tupper baby” was, we laughed and joked, “why, it’s a baby with a lid!”  There were so many well-wishers, I likened it to giving birth in front of a huge audience.

            When we caught up with the other “parents-to-be,” the nervousness set in.  There  were at least four of us there to pick up our children.  The babies themselves were to be escorted by Korean businessmen who agreed to take care of the little ones on the long flight from Korea to the United States.

            When the agency representative caught up with us, she eyed my big belly suspiciously but didn’t mention it.  She gave us instructions on the papers we needed to sign and then assigned us the task of deciding which one of us would go down the chute to pick up our son.

            I was so nervous.  The butterflies in my stomach were more than just Scotty’s sibling being excited.  “I can’t do it,” I said.  Michael put his arms around me.  “Are you okay?”  “Yes, I’m fine, but I don’t think I can be the one to go down the chute to pick up Scotty.  Will you do it?” I asked.  “Of course,” Michael agreed.

            We waited for what seemed like hours.  I felt fat, frumpy, and excited.  The entire experience was surreal.  I couldn’t believe it was finally going to happen.  Our friends kept our minds busy with talking, singing, and anticipation.  With these friends there was always a lot of fun and laughing. 

            Finally, the plane arrived.    My baby was just a few hundred feet away from my arms.  Questions overwhelmed me.   Were we good enough?  Was I up for this?  Did we make the right choices?  Would we be good parents?  What if Marcia was right and we weren’t nurturing enough?  Would I be able to bond with this baby even though I hadn’t carried him?  Would we like him?  Would he like us?

            It was time.  My tall, lanky husband walked confidently into the chute.  I stood at the opening, ready to meet my son.  Our friends stood behind me.  I could feel their spirits giving me encouragement and strength.  I waited.  It seemed like an eternity as I watched the other babies emerge.  One was screaming.  Another was fussing.  One little girl baby had hair sticking straight up about two inches, but she was taking everything in stride.  So sweet! I thought and then I saw the man I love coming toward me awkwardly carrying a bundle in his arms.  I braced myself.

            “Scotty, meet your mom,” Michael whispered.  I looked down and saw the chubbiest and cutest little baby package I could possibly imagine.

            “Hi baby” I said quietly, not sure of what my script should be.  Scott’s eyes met mine and at that moment he smiled the biggest smile I have ever seen come from a three month old.  One of our friends caught the moment on film and the picture has graced Michael’s office for almost 25 years.  You can see Scott’s big smile, my big belly, and tears streaming down my cheeks.  It was one of the happiest moments of my life.  I felt like the final piece of a puzzles edge had been put into place.  I knew the picture was far from complete, but it was such a satisfactory moment in the journey.  I felt I was literally being showered with God’s blessings in the being of this beautiful baby boy dressed in a blue-green outfit, a pacifier hanging from the zipper, and a missing bottle.

            We were informed that Scotty was an easy traveler.  Even when his bottle came up missing, he didn’t cry.  We were stocked for any emergency and we took a few minutes to let him enjoy a few ounces of soy milk before we headed to the van.

            Michael and I sat on either side of our son as we made the 50-mile journey home.  We hardly noticed the large painted sign church members had attached to the house as we floated into the house ready to start our new exciting journey as mom, dad, and baby.    

Saved by the soccerball!

As the Scott story progressed in our lives, other stories progressed as well.  Michael was in the midst of becoming an ordained minister in the United Methodist Church, I continued to teach special education until I became toxemic in May.  My doctor recommended I quit teaching two weeks early due to high blood pressure and toxemia.  To be honest, even though I knew I would miss my students, I was glad for the rest.  I was not a person who handled pregnancy well.  I enjoyed very few moments of it and I was impatient to “get on with it!”  The adoption process seemed to drag on for so long that I had a difficult time putting my pregnancy into perspective.  But then, the phone rang…

            “Hello.”  I answered

            “Lori, this is Marcia.”  My heart fluttered and my knees were weak. 

            “Hi, Marcia.  What’s up?”

            “Are you busy on June 4^th?” she teased.

            “I don’t know, am I?”

            “Well, if you can be there, your son will arrive at O’Hare airport at 7:48 p.m.”

            “We’ll be there.” I said, writing down the flight and gate numbers.

            As the conversation drew to a close, she spoke again.

            “Lori, there is only one problem.” she began.  My heart stopped.

            “What’s that?” I asked.

            “My son has a soccer game that night.  Do you and Mike mind too much if I’m not able to come?”

            I looked down at my protruding tummy.  I had been having nightmares about her refusing to give us Scott because I had the audacity to show up at O’Hare airport obviously pregnant.  She had not seen us since the first part of May when it was still cool enough to wear my oversized trench coat.

            “I think we can handle it.” I said, smiling at the prospect.

            “But I will see you a week later at your home,” she promised.

            “Okay.” I agreed dancing around the house as well as a happy, fat woman can dance on swollen legs.

            I hung up.  Michael was gone when the call came but would be home soon for supper.

            Finally, he came through the door. 

            “It’s about time, Daddy!” I teased.

            “Marcia called?” he asked.

            “Yep.  Baby #1 will be delivered on June 4^th, O’Hare airport.”

            “Yes!” he yelled.  It seemed things were finally happening.  “I’ll get the van rented, and we just need to let everyone know.”

            We had decided to invite 14 of our best friends to join us in our “pickup” adventure.  One family of three would meet us at the airport.  The other three families would ride in a van with us.

            “Oh, but there is only one problem.” I said seriously.

            “What’s that?” Michael asked.

            “Marcia’s son has a soccer game that night and she won’t be able to meet us at the airport.”  I smile.

            Michael looked at my big belly, whispered “Praise the Lord,” and then turned to the phone starting to call our friends to share our news.

            Our son was finally coming home.  The baby I longed for would soon be in my arms followed shortly thereafter by his little brother or sister who would enter the world whenever he/she chose.

            Needless to say, there wasn’t much sleeping in the Tupper household that night!  Our dreams were within reach—so close we could almost feel them brushing the tips of our fingertips.   

            I laid on the bed, elevating my feet, and then proceeded to dream about my baby boy who would soon be home.

Moving on

I  realize my blog has digressed from teaching into more personal matters, but this is just a side journey.  I feel it is necessary to share the personal journeys because they so much affect who I am as a teacher.

            I was devastated with Marcia’s critique of Michael’s nurturing ability.  I could acknowledge Michael was very task-oriented, but to say he could not be nurturing toward a child was blasphemy in my mind.  My mind traveled back to the early days of our marriage when kids would knock on our door and ask if “Mike could come out and play.”  I felt like every marriage could use improvement, including ours, but I also felt we were at a good place in our marriage, dependent on God in our daily lives, and ready to move on to parenting.

            Of course, I was six months pregnant, so I guess we could have just given up and accepted the fact that adoption was not going to work out for us, but there was no way I was going to give up my son that easily.  So, Michael and I made our appointment to meet with the counselor that Marcia recommended.  We arrived at his office after deciding to approach it as just another “adventure.”   We were determined to be as honest about our relationship as possible. 

            After our initial meeting, which he spent gathering background information, he asked more pointed questions and then ended with a statement like this:

            “I’m not really sure exactly why Marcia has any reservations regarding your abilities to parent a child.  I will absolutely recommend the adoption proceed and I really don’t think another session is necessary.”

            We were elated!  Our boy would be with us soon.  We just had to survive our last meeting with Marcia.  A week later, she handed us a copy of the positive recommendation she would turn into the agency.

            “I will be in touch when travel arrangements have been made for Scott.  I know the meetings with the counselor set us back a bit, but I would say you should be getting a flight confirmation within the next three weeks.  Then I will follow up with a home visit one week after he arrives.”

            “Will you be at the airport when he arrives?”  I asked.

            “Absolutely.”  She promised.

            As we were celebrating that night with dinner at our favorite restaurant, we sat next to each other in a booth.  This was so Michael could put his arm around me while we both gazed at the picture of our son, Scott.

Big wraps and tears

               Eight weeks after I found myself in the classroom with Fannie and her vial of oil, I discovered I was pregnant again.  It was with mixed emotions that I continued to teach.  My job was very physically taxing and of course I was concerned that I might miscarry again.  We had been involved in the adoption process for about six months and I was afraid that if I miscarried, it would have been six months of wasted time.  Also if we told our social worker I was pregnant, she would have demanded that we stop the process again altogether.  The agency did not approve of adopting a child and then having one biologically too close in age.  Michael and I prayed about our decision and then chose to keep the pregnancy under wraps (by spring, REALLY BIG wraps!).  Surprisingly, the pregnancy went off without a hitch until late spring.  I was due in July to give birth, but in February, our social worker, Marcia, gave us a picture of the baby boy from Korea that was to be our son—Sang Kyoo Lee.  He had been born on Feb. 27, 1986 and his estimated arrival to the U.S. was sometime between April and June. Michael and I went round and round on names, finally deciding to keep the “Lee,” renaming our son Scott Lee.

            Meanwhile, I continued to go to work each day, except now I had adopted a new morning ritual—throwing up in my classroom trash can several days a week.  Mr. Kurt, who was so kind and easygoing about unstopping the toilets Joe occasionally plugged up, was even more compassionate about cleaning my trash cans.  Everyone at school knew what Michael and I had been through to try to start a family, so there was excitement and acceptance surrounding me everyday as I went to work. 

            When I took the picture of our beautiful Korean baby to work, Colleen insisted on making copies on the copy machine to post throughout the school.  Mr. Kurt would check with me every morning to make sure I was feeling okay. When my student Michael kicked me in the stomach, there was help and concern from all the special education teachers and aides.  Our friends at our church were planning a huge baby shower and I continued to wear really baggy clothes to our meetings with Marcia.

            We were down to our final meeting with Marcia.  Michael and I had planned to go out and celebrate that night.  Marcia was not the warmest person to talk with and she did not seem happy in her personal life or in her professional life.  But we had completed the required meetings with her and at this final meeting, she would hand us her “recommendation.”

            We muddled through the small talk and reviewed what we had discussed in our last session.

            “Before I give you my recommendation,” she began toward the end of the hour, “I would like for you both to share with me one more time what you believe to be the most important aspects of parenting.”

            We both spoke freely on the subject.  If there was one thing we were confident about, it was our philosophies regarding parenting.  We both ended our monologues with just a tinge of defensiveness.  We had been through so much discussion with Marcia, we felt as though we were covering territory that had already been covered over and over. 

            “Well, today is the big day,” she summarized.  “After all the meetings we have had and the many discussions on parenting and looking at your relationship with each other, I have come to the conclusion that I can NOT recommend you for this adoption.”

            “WHAT?”  Our mouths dropped.  This script was terribly messed up!

            “I just do not feel like your marriage is mature enough and Mike, I don’t think you will be a nurturing parent at all.”

            I took the picture of our baby that was always on me and held it in my hands, gazing down at this boy who had been my “emotional baby” for almost a year and a reality since we received this picture of him in Februrary.  A tear slipped down my cheek.

            “I don’t feel like you are being fair,” I cried.  “How can you meet with us for so many sessions, never mentioning any concerns and then suddenly yank this baby out of our reach?”

            “Is there a way to change your mind about this recommendation?” Michael asked quietly.  “What do we need to do to convince you we will be good parents?”

            “I’ll tell you what,” she held out a speck of hope, “we have a marriage counselor we use in situations like this.  If you agree to let him evaluate you for 2-3 sessions and he has no concerns, I can give you the green light to continue with the adoption.”

            We walked out of the office, hand in hand.   Sitting in the car, the shock and stress of the situation permeated the air.  Michael rubbed my shoulders for a minute and then we sadly drove home.

The small vial of oil

Unfortunately for me, Delores only stayed at our school for one year.  We remained friends even after she left, but I always had the feeling that she was constantly trying to identify who she was in our world.  Her brother had been declared MIA during the Korean war and that seemed to be one of many pieces of her history that seemed to weigh heavily on her mind and kept her from staying in one place for very long.

                As with any good book, movie, or life, several “story lines” were developing during this time of my life.  Along with my teaching and deciding to make education my career, Michael and I were continuing to try to have children and were actually looking into foreign adoption.  And then there was Fannie White.  Fannie came to our school to take Delores’ position.  She was a big black woman with the gentlest approach to life.  Fannie was older than Delores and had true “mammy” appeal.  She seemed to have missed the Civil Rights Movement and held herself in constant submission.  Her sole purpose in life seemed to be to serve others (especially our students who she referred to as ‘God’s precious angels.’) 

                Fannie and I became fast friends.  She and Pat worked with Joan and I everyday, interconnecting our programs and our students.  We experimented with teaching larger groups together, smaller groups, ability groups, gender groups, and whole groups.  Everyday seemed to be filled with new ideas and my job became a college campus—a place for me to learn through experimentation.  The administration basically let us do what we wanted as long as we:  a)  didn’t require extra funds and b) didn’t bother them.

                As I said, Michael and I were still trying to have children and had lived through much of the “infertility” testing.  I had suffered at least two miscarriages and the doctor thought there had possibly been four or five.  We had started the foreign adoption process in January of my second year of teaching, but I had been confirmed pregnant the next month, so we had to stop the process.  Then I miscarried in March so we started the process all over in May.  In the four years we had been trying to have children, I went through the gamut of “God, GIVE ME CHILDREN, PLEASE!” to “God, help me to accept NOT having children.”  I was astounded that I couldn’t seem to get pregnant.  Of course, we had also tolerated the amazing amount of advice received when people found out we were struggling with infertility.  And yes, I have to admit we tried a lot of the advice—boxers, not briefs (let the sperm breathe), hold your legs in the air for 20 min. after sex, and a lot of other “interesting” remedies.

My favorite remedy was when a girl about my age brought a bluegreen jacket to church and told me to wear it.  “My mom wore it right before she got pregnant the first time and she had four kids, I wore it  when I wanted to have kids and I have three—I really think it might work for you, Lori.”  I graciously said “thank you” and tossed the jacket on my bed.  When I came home from church, my cat was laying on the jacket sleeping.  I angrily tossed her off the jacket fearing the possibility of having kittens to deal with and then I stuffed the jacket in the garbage.   So, when Fannie found out we were trying to have children, I was naturally apprehensive when she showed up one day at school and wanted to talk with me privately.

                Our classes were combined in Pat’s classroom, so Fannie and I went next door.

                “Miss Lori,” she said, “I know you and yore sweet husban’ wan to have kids, so I brought sumpin to help.  Let me see your belly.”

                I lifted my shirt, barely exposing my belly not daring to disrespect this wonderful woman by expressing any doubt in her beliefs.  She took a small vial of oil and put some on a Kleenex and laid the tissue on my belly.

                “Oh sweet Lord,” she prayed, “You knows Miss Lori and her husban’ wan to have babies and we pray, Oh sweet Lord, you would look upon them and give em’ sum babies to love.  Amen, Amen, and Amen.”

                Goosebumps ran down my arms as I opened my eyes and saw sincere tears streaming down Miss Fannie’s face.

                “Thank you, Miss Fannie.” I said, hugging her tightly.

                “Thas okay, Miss Lori.  Our sweet Lord, he work in mysterious ways.”

                We went back to our students and I said a short breathe prayer of thanks for this wonderful, gentle woman and her small vial of oil.

Aha moments

My second year of teaching special education passed quickly.  Darryl did a repeat performance of the first year when attempting to learn how to make a D.  Although he eventually reached this goal, I noticed a cynicism settling in that I was not happy with.   Yes, he could now write D-a, but did he understand the purpose of these letters at all?  No, I didn’t believe he did.  I began to really struggle with the whole concept of “teaching” students with severe handicaps.  Was it a good use of our educational resources?  Would anything I teach really make a difference in Darryl’s life?  I wasn’t sure, but I was attached to my students and I would do my best.  Joan and I continued to get along well and were always trying new things with our class.  Some of them were very successful, some of them not. 

 I was enjoying the “social” aspect of friendships with other staff members.  Delores, the aide in the classroom next to us, and I began to spend time together outside the classroom. She visited our church once and I was thrilled to have her there.  She was a much older black woman (probably close to the age I am now).  When she came to church for a special program, I sat with her near the front of the church. 

                “Oh no,” she said holding the bulletin out in front of her, “I forgot my reading glasses.”

                I leaned closer to her and began to read the bulletin in whispers.

                “Don’t do that!” she snapped, “people will think I can’t read!”

                I was stunned, but realized at that moment that she came from a different world than I did.  Of course, she would worry about people thinking that she was less than them.  She was in her 20’s--30’s during the civil rights movement and had seen far more change in the world than I had.

                I share this as part of my teaching experience because it was a huge learning moment for me.  I think everyone as they go through life experience those “Aha” moments and this was one of those moments for me.  I suddenly realized that while I was a young middle schooler experiencing the “integration of schools” through busing, Delores was a young mother trying to find her way in a society that was making huge changes.  And even though the Civil Rights Movement was a huge success for her race, it was a time when she had to “redefine” who she was in the world.  Taking in her reaction to my attempt to read the bulletin to her sent me on my own “redefinition” journey.  I suddenly realized everyone was not on the same journey as me.  I also realized Delores had not necessarily had “equal opportunities” just because the law said she should have.  I thought back to the staff at our school.  None of our teachers were black, none of our aides were white. 

                Because I lived on the “wrong side of town” in 1971, I was bused along with the blacks in our neighborhood to integrate the white schools on the north side of the north Indiana city where I grew up.  I had been exposed to discrimination (against whites) at the elementary school I attended where I was in the minority.   Many days when I arrived at my new middle school, there were talks of “rumbles” and “riots” to take place throughout the day.  I always felt confused at the extreme anger I saw on the face of my black peers.  I could never understand what they had against me or the other white kids at the school.  I realize now that a lot of what was happening each day was set up in the homes by parents throughout that city.  Prejudice invaded my being as a teenager because I was constantly afraid.  I would get on the bus in the mornings to go to school and kids would stick pins in me as I walked down the aisle of the bus because I was white.  I was called “honky” instead of by my name and my own prejudice grew.  I tried to be invisible as much as possible, walking with my head down and wearing clothes that would not call attention to myself.  Even though prejudice was not pervasive in the home which I grew up, my own prejudice grew at this time when I was struggling to find my identity.

                I am so thankful for my husband, Michael, who grew up on the north side of the city and survived that time with his innocence intact.  When we started dating in high school, he taught me through his example the uselessness of fear and the power of acceptance.   It was because of Michael’s example that I was sitting in this special worship service next to my good friend, Delores, who happened to be black. 

                Special education teachers receive a lot of recognition and accolades for their “patience” and how giving they are to kids with special needs, but what about the Joans and the Deloreses who are imperative to the programs?  As I sat there embracing my “Aha” moment, I realized how blessed I was not only to have Joan and Delores as helpers to implement important programs, but especially blessed to have them as friends to this girl from the south side of the city.

From a pitfall to the ride of her life

               In our school, we did not have a gymnasium, but we had a large cafeteria with a small stage in the corner.  In front of the stage was a “pit” with stairs gradually becoming level with the floor.  This space was used for seating for very small assemblies.  It was probably a good three and half feet from the floor to the bottom of the pit.

                My second year of teaching was so much easier to face at the beginning than my first year.  I knew the students, we had a great routine and I knew I was a “sure thing” for the entire school year.  As a bonus, a new teacher was teaching next to me.  She had the younger students with the severely handicapped label.  Her name was Pat and her aide, Delores, was another wonderful person.  Since I felt more comfortable with my students, I was able to look around a bit more and start to develop friendships with the staff around me. 

                As part of our schedule this year, we were invited to participate in a music class once a week.  We had played a lot of music with our students, so when we were able to go to another part of the school to “sing,” it added an element of excitement.  Joe and Eric were especially excited when it was time to go sing with Miss Jayne.  Jayne was very good with the students allowing them to dance and move as they could.    It was just plain fun!!

                One Tuesday (music day), we came back from lunch and washed up.  We had been allowing Joe to push Dawn’s wheelchair in the classroom for several weeks.  He took the job very seriously and puffed up with importance if we asked him to help out.  Pat, an experienced special education teacher, had suggested that if the kids feel the jobs they had to do were important, it would build responsibility.  I totally agreed with her and Joan and I worked on a “chore chart” so all the students that could would have a job of some sort.  Joe’s job was to help push Dawn’s wheelchair.  On this particular day, he was allowed to push Dawn to music class.  He did a beautiful job, watching out for those around him and carefully maneuvering her into place once we arrived at the music room.

                “Good job, Joe,” he affirmed himself somewhat hesitantly.

                “Great job, Joe!” I said as he Tigger-jumped to his seat.

                It was an exceptionally fun music class that day.  The kids were pumped, the staff was pumped and we all felt significant in this great universe of ours.  Joe did such a great job pushing Dawn to music class, I told him he could push her back to our class.  We exited the door near the back of the cafeteria.  I don’t know what happened to Joe to cause what happened next.  I just know that he started running with Dawn’s wheelchair.  She had her arms up in the air and the biggest grin on her face…until he came to the pit.  I wish I could say he came to a sudden stop, but he didn’t.  Right off the side of the pit went the wheelchair.  Laying at the bottom of the pit was Dawn. 

                “Goddammit Joe, don’t you cuss!” Joe immediately retreated to his old comfort statement.

                Joan and I ran to Dawn.  She was laughing hysterically, still strapped into her wheelchair.  Carefully, we got the chair upright and checked her out.  There was a small knot on her head, but otherwise she looked fine.  We (nervously) called her mom who immediately came to check her out.  It was decided she was fine and we all continued with our day.  Needless to say, Joe was banned from pushing the wheelchair from that moment on.  However, I think Dawn was very disappointed with this decision as what we considered a “pitfall,” she considered the “ride of her life!”

Back in the saddle again

              The next year when I went back to the classroom, it was following a summer of intense educational courses to renew my emergency certificate.  I felt much more “official” as I went to the required inservices prior to the beginning of school.  I had a much clearer picture of what my days would entail and my dreams of being a writer were but a distant memory. 

                Joan was my aide again and since we had made so many changes the first year, we had to really stretch to figure out what else we could do to make it a better year for the kids.   But it was good to be "back in the saddle again."  In addition to Joe, Michael, Kathy, Cate, David, Eric, Shyna, Patrick, and Deena, two new students were added to my roster.  Dawn was a 14-year-old wheelchair bound nonverbal student.  The tray on her wheelchair contained a “yes” and a “no” side such that every question posed to her had to be formatted to be answered with one of those two options.  Dawn was a pleasant girl—full of laughter and smiles.  Although the constant drool nauseated me at times, I was looking forward to working with her.  The other student, Naim, was not as pleasant.  He was an extremely small 10-year-old who happened to be the brother of Eric.  Naim was nonverbal as well, but constantly walked around the room, holding his hands at shoulder level, opening and closing his hands while chanting a high-pitched “mimi, mimi, mimi” over and over. 

                The first day of the second year found us waiting for the buses to arrive while reliving past moments.  “Goddammit Joe, don’t you swear,” Joe greeted us.

                “Joe, you know you can’t talk like that at school!” I said confidently, worlds away from that girl who the first year stood back and timidly watched her prized bulletin board being eaten.

                “Hi Eric!” I was happy to see my blues lovin buddy again after three months.

                “BB King, Stevie Wonder?” He said, testing the waters.

                “Did you listen to music this summer?”  I asked.

                “Yes.” He said, laying his head on my shoulder.

                Mr. Brock walked by. 

                “Good morning, Eric” he said.

                “Mr. Brock, Mr. Brock” called Eric.  I held my breath.  Mr. Brock stopped and looked at Eric sternly.

                “Eric listen to m-m-music this summer.” Eric replied proudly pointing to himself.  Mr. Brock stiffly walked away.

                I looked at Eric and said, “So tell me what kind of music you listened to Eric.”

                “BB King, Stevie Wonder, M-M-Michael Jackson.”  Eric did a jerky moon walk dance step followed by a loud peal of laughter.

                “Joe smash cans,” said Joe jumping across the cafeteria.

                “Not now, Joe” I answered, “right now you need to come sit while we wait for the rest of our friends.  Joe, come and meet Dawn.  She is going to be in our class this year.”

                Joe put his hand on Dawns tray covering up a decorative sticker in the center.  “Dawn ride wheelchair?  Joe push.”

I was floored that Joe knew the word wheelchair and knew it had  to be pushed!  “No, don’t push the wheelchair right now, Joe.  Maybe another time.  We still have more kids to wait for.” 

                My train of thought was broken by yet another familiar voice, “Lodi, time for lunch?” Michael asked.   I looked at Joan and together we rolled our eyes.  “The school year has begun!” she announced with a laugh.  I joined her in the happiness of the moment and I knew she was right when I heard Darryl announce his presence with, “Lonna, Look!”