Preparation

My grandmother knew.  As I look back, I realize that she was preparing me for this path.  She was an amazing woman; even in her most human and sometimes flawed state, she was all about love and seeing with the heart.  That is what she worked so hard to teach me, to be willing to see others and love them just as they were. 

Nana had a friend, back in the ‘50s, who gave birth to a son with Down Syndrome.  Conventional “wisdom” at the time urged parents to place such babies in institutions because they weren’t expected to be able to learn or contribute to society.  So important that everyone contribute, you know.  My grandmother insisted that her friend keep Ronnie at home, and without any formal educational training, took it upon herself to teach him to speak, to read, to count.  Ronnie was much older than me, but he would come over to play. 

I knew that he was different, and I’m sure that I had questions, but what I remember was that my grandmother loved him.  Saw his beauty.  Expected me to see it, too, so I did.  He was presented to me as a friend, someone worthy of my respect and care.  Never pity, just love.  Years later, I happened to work at the same fast-food restaurant as Ronnie, and he was so excited to see me again, and even more excited that my grandmother could hear through me that he was doing so well, holding down a job and paying his bills.  He loved her because she believed in him. I was in my 20s by then, and I was glad to be able to be an ally to Ronnie in the workplace, modeling respect for him to my coworkers who were biased about folk with disabilities.  I could be a leader, because my Nana had prepared me for this.

She was always pointing out kids with disabilities to me, making sure I saw them; didn’t look away but instead saw their beauty through her eyes.  Yes, she probably made the mistake that many do of making disabled folk mythically perfect, but it came from a place of genuine love.  Even in my most self-absorbed phases, her message of respect got through.  She made sure that it did, through example and perhaps a bit of repetition that seemed like preaching at the time.  My grandmother preached love.

I got a job working in special education, and Nana couldn’t have been prouder.  She thought I was working with angels, and I was--even though some of them kicked and bit and could curse better than I!  I’ve got some great stories from that experience, but I’ll save those for another time.  The work was challenging, but when I look back all I can remember is our victories.  The times my heart overflowed with love and gratitude and laughter.  The small moments that forever changed my ideas of what success means; where the true value of a human being lies.  When I started letting go of expectations of Normal, and learned to breathe into Different.

My grandmother developed leukemia when I was in my 20s.  This was a devastating blow, but again, she provided me with a gift.  The doctor gave her 3 months to live, and she took him at his word.  Three months after her diagnosis, she began to hemorrhage.  This is the way that folks with leukemia die--their blood vessels break down and can no longer contain their blood.  Thing is, she didn’t die right away.  I rushed to her side, praying as I went that she would wait for me to get there.  She lived a couple of weeks more, and I was able to share the responsibility of caring for her with my mother.  I was able to give back to this woman who had nursed me through surgeries and pneumonias and chicken pox, who had held me and told me I would be okay.  I held her  in my arms and swabbed her with cool washcloths when her fever would jump up.  I cooked her meals that she was unable to find an appetite for.  I learned to administer her pain medicine, and to coax her to swallow when she wasn’t sure she wanted that stuff.  I learned patience when someone I loved was being unreasonable.  She was still teaching me in her last days on the planet. 

In my 30s, I started working with kids who had emotional and behavioral challenges in a residential treatment facility.  This eventually led to my becoming a treatment foster parent, specializing in loving kids with big issues.  I believe that my grandmother’s example of unconditional love paved the way for me to see my kids through her eyes.  To see their behaviors as opportunities to reach out, to find humor in the crazy moments, and to find reasons to celebrate victories that could be easily overlooked in the midst of chaos and conflict.  She had shown me patience and gentleness when no one else did, and I could hear her in my head reminding me of this when I needed to be brought back to center.  She would have loved my boys, just as I do.  I wish she’d lived to see that her lessons got through.

I especially wish she’d lived to meet Jack.  Jack had no behavioral issues when he came to me, because he was only 5 weeks old.  His entry into the world had been traumatic, born premature and robbed of oxygen in the process.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but the folks placing him with me were really just looking for a comfortable place for him to die.  When I got off the phone with my agency and jumped into the shower to get ready to meet him, I burst into tears.  No real idea why, I just knew that the arrival of this yet-unmet child was Important.  On the day I brought him home, he weighed just 6 pounds, and I slept on the couch that night with him on my chest for fear of him slipping away if I put him down.   The other folks at my foster agency were worried about me, afraid I’d grow too attached and be devastated if he died.  Thing is, Jack needed someone fearless to hold him to their heart.  He wouldn’t have survived if I held back.  I didn’t think twice about it; I’d been raised for this very thing, trained by the best, most loving person I’ve ever known. 


Jack’s 15 now, and has cerebral palsy.  Nothing is easy for him, but he has already overcome more than most folk I know with his incredibly strong and resilient spirit.  He inspires me daily to be the person worthy of helping him navigate his life.  I can’t count the times I’ve wished Nana were here to know him.  She would have spoiled the heck out of this kid, and she would have gone to the ends of the earth to get him anything he needed.  I wish he could have known her; gotten to have the experience of being wrapped up in the safety of her warm embrace, heard her brag about him to anyone who would listen.  I do my best, but I often fall short.  I disappoint myself, I get frustrated and impatient.  I catch myself being harsh, and I’m glad she can’t see me.  Thing is, I know she’d gentle me through my bad moments, and that’s what helps me change direction.  I imagine her voice, her kind smile, her gentleness, and I’m back on track, remembering what I’m here for and how fortunate I am to be having this experience. 

See, if it weren’t for my grandmother, I wouldn’t have been given this precious opportunity.  I wouldn’t know what it feels like to love someone in this way.  I may have had a child or two, but I don’t think I’d have been able to rise above the rest of my circumstances to have this experience.  I wouldn’t have been able to see beauty in difference, to let go of expectations and trust that my child’s path is exactly right even though he’ll never do the things most children do in the “normal” way.  I might have felt sorry for him, passing him on the street, rather than having the blessing of telling him how grateful I am to be his dad each night as I put him to bed.  I’d have missed his smiles, his forgiveness when I mess up, his wicked sense of humor, and the humbling strength and perseverance he shows each day when he braves a world that wasn’t built for him.  He is my teacher now, and I am so very honored to be here with him. 

So how do I thank someone who’s no longer here?  How I wish I could go back and thank her for the sermons, what seemed like nagging at the time.  She was doing her important work, preparing me for this opportunity to love.  I’m not much on God and heaven talk, but I have to trust that somewhere she knows what she’s done, and how grateful I am for her every day.