Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs (24 page)

One of the scruffy Harley riders noticed that the young man in the wheelchair was riding on rubberless steel rims. Unable to ignore Jimmy’s indomitable spirit, the bikers decided to help—first, by repairing his wheelchair wheels, and later by making him an honorary member of their club. Blazened with his own vest and colors, encased in a sidecar, Jimmy joined the club members for his first-ever motorcycle ride.

As Jimmy and the bikers came to know each other better, Jimmy told his newfound friends what little he remembered about his past. His mother’s name, his grandpa’s name, and the name of a little town in Tennessee. He told them that his doctors had predicted that he had perhaps two more years to live, and that he wished to find his birth family and show them how much he’d learned—how far he’d come from his days of total dependency and noncommunication.

Two of the bikers decided to help. And so it was that I heard one day from my Michigan nephew, Tim. He told me about Jimmy, about his adoption, prognosis, and dream. Tim asked me if the wonders of computer database technology could find Jimmy’s birth family.

I tried a few tricks and got lucky. I found an address for the two people whom I believed were Jimmy’s grandma and grandpa Beckley. But adoption locates can be tricky, the results not always happy, so I penned a short letter to the elder Beckleys.

“I have reason to believe that you are the grandparents of Jimmy Beckley. If this is true, and you’d like to know more about your grandson, please call me at . . . ”

Soon thereafter the phone rang. “Mah name iss Walter Beckley,” said a heavy Appalachian voice. He was difficult to understand, not only because of his unfamiliar accent, but because he was crying. “My wife and I put our faith in the Lord,” he said, “and we’ve been praying every day and every night. We’re both in failing health, and the one thing we want more than anything else before we go to glory is to talk or see our grandson Jimmy.”

Following a flurry of long-distance telephone calls, culminating in the biker boys talking directly to the happy deacon, plans were made.

Next Sunday, the biker club will take Jimmy for another ride. They plan to share the good news at that time and make a videotape to send to Walter and Margaret. The next step will be to coordinate schedules and secure a motor-home that will accommodate Jimmy to Tennessee —and witness firsthand the miracle of a dream come true.

Cookie Bakke

[POSTSCRIPT:
The bikers did indeed outfit a van to hold the wheelchair—and then drove Jimmy down to the small town where he’d spent his earliest years. They arrived on Christmas Eve. I heard that when they pulled into the driveway of the ramshackle mountain home, that two young women (the two sisters that Jimmy still had vague memories of) came running out of the house and toward the van. They were yelling, “Bubba, Bubba, Bubba . . .,” tears streaming down their faces.

I suppose that we all have to judge for ourselves how and why these events unfolded the way they did. All I know for sure is that most of those involved in this Appalachian Miracle will remember the experience and their own parts in it for as long as they live.
]

Cookie Bakke is a writer and speaker who primarily covers insurance and financial fraud. She currently serves as the executive editor of the
John Cooke Fraud Report,
as the associate editor of
The Bulletin
(magazine of American Mensa, Ltd.), and as a director of Fight Fraud America, Inc. Please e-mail her at [email protected].

*Some names have been changed to protect their privacy.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I took my six-year-old son Nicholas, who has autism, to the doctor’s office for his flu shot. I didn’t want to tell him what the doctor was going to do for fear that he would refuse to go, so I told him it was going to be just a checkup. While I distracted him to prevent him from seeing the needle, the nurse gave him the shot. He never saw the needle, but, of course, he felt it.

But surprisingly, instead of crying, Nicholas was furious! All the way from the doctor’s room and through the crowded waiting room, he was shouting: “That woman right there
hurted
me! She took a sword and stab me! Right here in my arm! You are in
big
trouble, lady! Say you are sorry! Doctors are supposed to make children feel better, not
kill
them! You are in time-out until you say you are sorry!”

Nicholas ranted and raved all the way home. I think I’ll try a different approach next time. I hope the nurse isn’t still in time-out.

Rosita Ferro

Rosita Ferro
is the mother of three. The youngest, Nicholas, was diagnosed with autism at age four. He is now a tenth-grader, attending the Habour School in Maryland, and looking forward to college.

A Classy Kind of Love

N
o one ever exceeds their wildest expectations unless they first begin with wild expectations.

Source Unknown

Bud was the kind of kid that every teacher wants in her classroom—a kind, funny, gentle giant of a boy who had a talent for making people laugh out loud. At ten years old and five feet, six inches tall, he towered over many of the other students and staff in our elementary school. His heart was even bigger than his body, and Bud was always willing to lend a hand to anyone in our school who needed help. It mattered not that reading eluded him and he was only able to do very basic math. His capacity to love and assist others more than made up for his struggles with academics. Bud often encouraged his classmates, and his enthusiasm made even the smallest gain seem like a trip to the moon.

Whether it was cheering on Elliot as he painstakingly navigated the hall in his walker, or praising Rachel for remaining in her seat during reading, Bud was the glue that sometimes held our uniquely diverse class together. Bud had one habit that was sometimes annoying, but often endearing: when he became interested in a topic, he fixated on it. He would talk for days about the same issue, rehashing it over and over until something better to discuss came along. Over the course of his three years in my class, I worked on trying to fix this, but by and large, Bud had the
final word. Literally. He just kept on chatting away.

One day, Bud came to school and announced that one of his dreams in life was to be able to ride in a limousine. All week long, I heard about how wonderful it would be to cruise around town in a limo. But unlike many other topics before it, this one didn’t go away. Like a bad penny, the “riding in a limo conversation” kept coming back as Bud’s voice reiterated all of the wonderful, cool comforts that came with riding in a flashy black car with a soda bar. After a while, I got to thinking,
Why couldn’t Bud ride in a limo? In fact, why couldn’t we all?
Our little class of six was certainly small enough to fit into one.

I began thinking about each of my students. So many of their families struggled just to make ends meet. If we didn’t try to do it now, most of these kids would never get the chance to go again. This was an opportunity that we couldn’t pass up. After getting approval from the principal and making a few phone calls to limousine services, I hit the jackpot. One new company was willing to give us a discounted rate to take the class somewhere in town.

Excited, I couldn’t wait to share the news with Bud. “Wow, we really get to ride in a limo!” he shouted. “Where are we gonna go?”
Hmm . . . where are we gonna go?
A few more phone calls later, and we found a restaurant willing to foot the bill for drinks and dessert. A plan had been launched!

Excitement mounted as the date for the trip approached. We obtained copies of the dessert menu from the restaurant, and the kids pored over it to determine what they would order. We practiced table etiquette, and the children carefully planned what to wear to the special event. Since a few of the kids had never been in a restaurant either, this field trip was going to be doubly special. Overjoyed and exuberant, Bud exclaimed, “We should call the newspapers!”

Well, why not! Bud was thrilled as I placed a call to the local paper during recess, and he jumped for joy when the reporter agreed to cover our special event. By this time, the entire school knew of our trip. Children from the fourth and fifth grades were intrigued—and more than a little envious of their counterparts.

Almost overnight, my students, who so often struggled to maintain the most basic of social skills, were the stars of the school! Finally, the big day arrived. Bud was in the classroom early, chattering a mile a minute, and hopping up and down with excitement. Dressed in a suit and tie, complete with boutonniere, he was positively glowing. The other children soon followed, all dressed to the nines and anticipation showing on their faces. That electric energy that only children can produce was permeating the air!

We waited anxiously for 10:00, when we were to be called to the front of the building to leave. Minutes seemed like hours to the kids, who were having difficulty focusing on anything that didn’t tell time. Finally, over the intercom came the voice of the secretary. “Room 5, your limo has arrived!” Cheers went up, and the kids quickly fell into line to go out the door.

Since Elliot was the line leader, I opened the door for him so that he could maneuver his walker as we exited the room. It was eerily quiet as we traveled down the hall. It seemed odd that no one in our wing was in his or her classrooms. We slowly made our way down the corridor and past the front office, with Elliot setting the pace as he determinedly led the line. Finally, we turned the corner and headed out the door. As my eyes adjusted to the bright March sunshine, it took me a minute to realize what I was seeing.

We had opened the door to a sea of faces—602 of them, to be exact! The entire student body and staff had lined up along the parking lot to see us off! The clapping started quietly and quickly grew thunderous as six little bodies and two adults were escorted into the stretch limousine. A camera flashed and a reporter asked Bud to spell his name. It was glorious watching these children have their moment in the limelight! Rachel blew kisses to the crowd, and shy little Anton tried to hide his exuberantly smiling face. Elliot squealed in glee, Jonathon hugged all of his classmates, and Katrina flashed a peace sign to her friends. Once safely inside the limousine, the driver honked our good-byes to the onlookers while Bud exclaimed, “Wow, this is really amazing! I think this is the best day of my life!”

For a brief moment, time stood still, offering a generous helping of grace to these six children. Six hundred and two people gave back to Bud what he had so often given to them during his time at school. Six hundred and two special souls made six other special souls feel like a million bucks.

That electric energy that permeated the air earlier?
It was still there, but in such a short time it had grown and multiplied exponentially. And this time, we had a name for it. LOVE.

Patricia Gillule

Names of students have been changed to protect their privacy.

Patricia Gillule
has been teaching students with disabilities for the past twenty-one years. She enjoys spending time with her husband and four children, writing, and adoption advocacy. Currently, she and her family are in the process of adopting a child with special needs. Bud is now twenty-two years old and has just finished high school. He has a job working in the Piscataway High School cafeteria. Everyone there loves him, and people go out of their way to check in with him. Bud puts the same enthusiasm into lifting boxes and stocking shelves that he does into speaking, so we’re sure he’s a valued employee! Patricia can be reached at [email protected].

Swimming with John

S
uccess—To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Last year, I read that one of our local autism organizations was partnering up with a local swim program. They agreed to pay half the cost for a six-week trial of one-to-one swimming lessons. I thought about this for months. I was so nervous to hand my son over to a stranger in the pool, even though I’d be right on the other side of the wall watching.

Jackson can be tough to work with if you don’t understand him. He does not talk—he has never spoken a word—and so communication is definitely very limited. For a three-year-old, he can actually be pretty intimidating. I was reluctant to sign him up.