Read Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
The game got off to a good start, but soon Verden was behind. Even after a rally in the second half, I knew the Lady Tigers were destined to lose. I gazed at Lauren’s profile from her seat on the bench. She intently followed the movement on the court and reacted to every play. By far the most animated on the team, she slapped her knee when the opponents scored. Her arms flailed in the air each time Verden shot. I even recognized her voice shout “No way!” when a referee made a call against a teammate. Even though she wasn’t playing, she looked as if she were having the time of her life.
As the father of a child with special needs, I’d experienced many emotions. But now, I felt admiration for my daughter. Some players might sulk or react negatively to sitting on the sidelines, but not Lauren. Plus, her team was getting beat, yet she still enjoyed the action.
Just less than two minutes were left, and Verden was down by seventeen points. Coach called a time-out. I bent over to ask if the kids wanted anything from the concessions. The announcer’s voice boomed over the public-address system. “Number thirty-three, Lauren Wray, in for the Lady Tigers.”
I quickly looked to the last seat on the bench. Lauren wasn’t there. She stood next to Coach Forsythe at the scorer’s table. With a slap on her back, he sent Lauren running onto the court. My heart quadrupled its beat, and I watched wide-eyed. Lauren was in the game.
My wife tugged at my sleeve. “Get up, Johnny.”
As I stood, I noticed what was happening. All across the stands, fans were on their feet clapping for Lauren. Our Lauren!
Play resumed. Lauren kept pace with the others fairly well. The visitors scored again. With less than a minute left, the Lady Tigers were near their goal. I saw the point guard shout and flash a signal to her teammates. Then something I consider sacred happened on the hardwood. They passed Lauren the ball. She caught it and dribbled toward the goal. Lauren went in for a layup. Amazingly, the opposing team did not block her. She shot. She scored!
Applause exploded, and the thunderous sounds reverberated off the metal walls of the building. “Lauren, Lauren, Lauren,” chanted the cheerleaders.
Instead of reacting to the noisy crowd, my daughter kept her head in the game. The final buzzer sounded. Verden lost by seventeen points.
A few minutes later, Lauren joined us in the stands.
“Did you see? I scored!” Her brown eyes shone as she wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “I made a basket!”
For sixteen years, I’d tried hard to shield Lauren and prevent her from feeling like she was different. But watching Lauren in the game, I saw that she really was different— not physically or emotionally, but spiritually. I, nor probably anyone else in that gymnasium, had ever seen a player with so much heart.
My daughter wasn’t like everyone else. I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her tight. Lauren was different. And I was glad.
Reverend Johnny Wray
As told to Stephanie Welcher Thompson
Stephanie Welcher Thompson
is a wife and stay-at-home mom who writes when she is apart from daughter, Micah, age four, and husband, Michael. Her stories have appeared in
Guideposts, Angels on Earth, Positive Thinking, Sweet 16,
and ten Chicken Soup books. Reach Stephanie at P.O. Box 1502, Edmond, OK 73083 or [email protected].
I
f you judge people, you have no time to love them.
Mother Teresa
Early in my career as a social worker, my boss came into my office and said, “Jo, I have a student who wants to do a rotation with you in the substance-abuse program. He’s quadriplegic, but very capable and eager to learn.” My first reaction was to say no. This student’s disability was one of my greatest fears. I fought off the impulse to protest, however, and replied, “Send him over for an interview so we can get acquainted.” John rolled into my office about twenty minutes later.
John and I began our conversation with the usual exchange of information about past experiences and career goals. Then I took a risk. I said, “John, my greatest fear in life is being in an accident that leaves me a quadriplegic. I’m ready for some personal growth if you are willing to teach me. In exchange, I can teach you a lot about working with addicts and alcoholics.” John thought about my comment and replied, “No sweat! Most people are very uncomfortable with my physical condition until they get to know me. That’s part of what comes with having a physical challenge.”
John began his rotation on my unit one week after our initial interview. He amazed me with his creative adaptation to his disability. He typed up assessments and progress notes with a mouth stick, and was active and engaging in group therapy sessions. One day, a new member appeared for his first therapy session. He had paraplegia and was still very angry about his disability. He looked around the room for a scapegoat and quickly targeted John. He began with disparaging comments about John’s “obvious” challenges. He taunted John by stating, “You’re only half a man. What business do you have leading therapy groups?”
John remained calm during this verbal assault. When the new patient finally fell silent, John said, “When I was first injured, I was very angry, too. I was mad at God, my parents, and myself. Becoming a quadriplegic cost me a football scholarship, my girlfriend, and my ability to meet my own needs without help. As I adjusted to my challenges and worked through my grief and anger, I began to realize I still have a lot going for me . . . if I have the courage to take risks. I’m a pretty good therapist, and I hope you will give me a chance to help you.” The patient remained sullen, but stayed for the remainder of the session without making any further negative comments.
This angry new patient returned to group week after week, and with John’s encouragement and guidance, he began to share his fear, pain, and frustration. John was a powerful role model for this patient. He extended hope and encouragement that he, too, might move forward with life plans by learning to live with his disability.
John was on my rotation for eight weeks. During that time, we worked closely together and began to develop what would later become a lasting friendship. He told me that, at age seventeen, he and a group of friends went swimming at a local rock quarry. He dove in and hit the bottom, breaking his neck. John talked about his struggles to cope with his family’s reactions and the drastic changes this single event made in his young life.
When I voiced my own fears about becoming disabled, he made a profound comment. He said, “Jo, a person can be more disabled by their fears than I will ever be by my physical challenges. The most important lesson I learned during my recovery is the difference between a disability and a handicap. A disability means the loss of part or all functional ability of certain parts of one’s body. Handicaps are the roadblocks other people, and in some cases our own minds, put in the way of people with disabilities who are trying to live normal lives.”
John went on to say, “I can’t get out of bed or even roll over without the help of my attendant. Once I am in my chair, I can do almost everything for myself. My life is more challenging, and I have to be creative in solving life’s problems. But, as long as I remain hopeful, anything is possible.”
John went on to receive a master’s degree in social work. He used his talents by working at the Center for Independent Living, counseling others with significant physical disabilities.
John taught me a lot during the course of our affiliation. The true significance of his gift was not realized until the birth of my youngest son, born thirteen weeks premature. Soon after his birth, Vincent was diagnosed with an eye condition called retinopathy of prematurity. This condition can result in total blindness. Four eye surgeries later, the doctor told us, “We were able to save some of Vincent’s central vision, but he is still legally blind.” This was a devastating blow to our family.
When Vincent was two, we noticed that he didn’t seem to respond when we spoke to him. A trip to the audiologist revealed that he had severe hearing loss in both ears. Vincent also has a chronic lung disease, a reflux disorder, and several other physical conditions that greatly delayed his development. With the discovery of each disability, I grieved as any parent would. Then I thought about John and what he taught me about the difference between being disabled and handicapped. I vowed not to become a handicap to my son.
Vincent has limitations, but compensates well. He can run, ride a bicycle, and swim like a fish. He is a high-spirited child with a wonderful sense of humor. His love of life gives him the determination to laugh at himself and keep on trying. The hope John instilled in me the day he shared his own experience has been a source of strength for me each time Vincent faces new challenges. This hope keeps me focused on Vincent’s “other abilities” rather than his disabilities. I am constantly amazed by his tenacity and determination, but, then, I had John for a teacher, and he taught me well.
Jo Clancy
Jo Clancy, LCSW,
received a bachelor’s degree in psychology in 1985. She completed a master’s degree in social work in 1987. Jo is employed full-time in the Trauma Recovery Program at the Houston Veterans Affairs Medical Center. Her specialty areas include anger management, relapse prevention, and psychiatric trauma. She dedicates her story to the memory of John Parker, her teacher and friend.
A
ge does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age.
Jeanne Moreau
“He doesn’t look like the other boys,” Grandpa said as he viewed the blanketed bundle I held in my arms. He was right. James Ryan, whom we called Jay-Jay, with his skinny little legs, almost bald head, and tiny, slanted eyes, bore little resemblance to my other chubby babies with their full heads of hair. But I knew the comment went far beyond looks. Grandpa couldn’t accept the fact that Jay-Jay had Down syndrome and mental retardation.
On subsequent visits, Pa-Pa, the name the other children used for their grandpa, ignored Jay-Jay. He picked him up once at a family reunion when it seemed to be expected for a family picture. Other than that, he never touched him, and looked upon him with something between pity and displeasure.
Then, one day, a miracle began. We were once again at a family reunion, and Jay-Jay, being the outgoing little boy he was at three years old, walked over to his grandpa and crawled onto his lap. Pa-Pa was a little shocked, but what could he do in front of all these people? This was his grandson. How could they understand that he hardly knew Jay-Jay?
Jay-Jay took his grandpa’s glasses out of his shirt pocket and placed them on his own face, upside down, precariously perched on his short, pudgy nose. He looked at Pa-Pa and giggled, making Pa-Pa laugh, too. Soon they were walking around the room, Jay-Jay leading Pa-Pa, a little smile on the older one’s face.
Their next encounter came months later when Pa-Pa decided to visit. Jay-Jay played the clown, making his grandpa laugh and pick him up and throw him into the air.
Pa-Pa turned to my husband and said, “Why, he’s just like any other kid.”
We had tried to tell him, but Pa-Pa’s preconceived ideas and fears of the disabled had kept him out of his grandson’s life. But Jay-Jay, being an effervescent little boy, would not let him remain in darkness. With his love and actions, he showed Pa-Pa and others that they were missing out on some of God’s greatest blessings by not loving and caring for him.
After that day, a strong bond began to form. Pa-Pa found that Jay-Jay loved balloons and would have one waiting for him each time we came to visit—visits he now welcomed. Then he discovered that Jay-Jay was not only sweet, but ornery, and he loved pillow fights. So each visit would end up with pillows flying across the room. I never figured out which of the two enjoyed it most. Soon Pa-Pa began to telephone—supposedly to talk to my husband, who was now glowing in the new relationship between his father and son—but always insisting on speaking to his youngest grandson.
Although Jay-Jay has a severe speech articulation disorder, he can understand most of what is said to him. Yet he finds it difficult to form the words he wants to say, making communication difficult. Nevertheless, Pa-Pa always wanted to speak to him by phone, and Jay-Jay would laugh and talk in words that neither his dad nor I understood. Pa-Pa swore he understood every word.
The phone chats became a weekly ritual. Every Saturday morning, Jay-Jay knew it was the day to talk to Pa-Pa. Since it was long distance, they took turns calling. One week, Pa-Pa would call. The next week, all excited, Jay-Jay would make the call and talk until we made him hang up.