“You think Blaze is mentally retarded?” I said when she finished speaking.
“Well, his test scores do indicate functioning within the mentally retarded range,” the psych said.
My immediate impulse was to lean over the table and shove the nine-page report down her throat, but I just stared at her in horror. I felt completely blindsided. My face grew hot and my throat constricted. I looked over at my father, who was reading the report and shaking his head. I’d never seen my father look so sad and this affected me more than my own indignation. I felt a huge chasm of hurt open inside me. I couldn’t stand to witness my father’s pain so I turned away and my eyes met Mr. Davidson’s. Mr. Davidson was not reading the report, but was watching me. I saw concern in his face and I saw real, unfettered empathy. This undid me more than anything else and my eyes filled with hot, angry tears. I couldn’t respond to the psych, couldn’t speak a single word because, once again, I was crying in an IEP meeting and struggling mightily not to let it show.
Mr. Davidson took over, presenting his own evaluations, which were decidedly more positive than those of the psychologist. Had I not been so completely unsettled by the psychologist’s report, I would have been pleased that Mr. Davidson had noted Blaze’s academic strengths and had accurately pinpointed the areas where he needed the most help. As it was, though, I was unable to muster much enthusiasm for the rest of the meeting.
It was dark outside by the time Helen began writing her summary. Once again, the psychologist’s report raised its ugly head.
“Based on what we have here,” Helen said, “we can consider changing Blaze’s handicapping condition to either mentally retarded or severely emotionally disturbed.”
“There’s no way—” I began, but Helen cut me off.
“Now, hear me out,” she said. “If you decide to go with mentally retarded, Blaze could qualify for services through the regional center.”
“What kind of services?” my father asked.
“Respite care, and that kind of thing.”
“You mean, like, baby-sitting?” my father said.
“In a sense, yes,” Helen said. “They provide trained aides who relieve parents and provide support.”
“We don’t need that,” my father spit out. “We’ve got plenty of qualified baby-sitters in our family.”
“But that’s not even the point,” I broke in, finally finding my voice. “Blaze is not retarded. Why would I say that he is?”
“It’s just a matter of qualification,” Helen said.
“No, it isn’t,” I said. “I would never give Blaze a false label just to get services that I don’t even need. What happens when he reads these reports down the line and finds out that his mother thought he was retarded? And he isn’t retarded.” I shot a searing look at the psychologist. “And he is not disturbed in any way.”
“Fine,” Helen said, irritated, “we’ll keep the handicapping condition as speech and language impaired. Transition to Mr. Davidson’s class full time after the holidays? Does that work for everybody?”
Nothing was working for me at that point, but I agreed, signed the forms, and walked out with my father. I felt like I’d aged twenty years.
“What do you think?” I asked my father. This was the obligatory question after every IEP meeting. My father was usually steady and could be counted on to give me an objective summary of the meeting to counterbalance my own roiling emotions. But this time he was fresh out of optimism.
“The shrink thinks he’s retarded,” my father said. “What else is there to say?”
“But Mr. Davidson—”
“Yes,” my father said. “He’s Blaze’s best bet. You’re not going to get anywhere with those women. Nowhere.”
February 1999
They call this boat a “floating marine lab.” On board, there is what seems to be an inordinate amount of rope, several buckets filled with various sea creatures, and a tiny galley, which I look to lovingly every time I pass it on our endless loops around the boat. Inside is warmth and possibly a cup of coffee. At this point, I could easily be convinced to trade some of my teeth for a cup of hot coffee, even bad coffee.
I can’t imagine—no, don’t want to imagine—what’s below deck. It wouldn’t matter anyway; the upper deck is all that concerns me. I glance ruefully at the rows of life vests around us. I can visualize strapping one on and diving into the bay. I’m not at all sure that I’d be less comfortable than I am now. This is the first time I’ve been on a boat since I was a kid and too young to remember now (the SS France, the ship my family sailed from London to New York in 1972 on one of our many moves across continents, doesn’t count, because that was the size of the Titanic). And now here I am on a swaying vessel (the fishing boat from Jaws comes to mind) in the middle of the San Diego Bay, on what must surely be the coldest day in the history of this fair city. I am in no way dressed appropriately and as a result I’ve more or less lost feeling in my freezing hands, but my sad state of attire is only one of the ways in which I am inadequately prepared for this adventure.
It strikes me that I’ve taken quite a chance coming out here today. What if I got seasick? How embarrassing would it be to have to puke over the side rail? I don’t see any kind of bathroom, although surely there must be one somewhere. Surprisingly, the pitching and rolling doesn’t bother me, just the cold. This is because of Blaze, I am convinced. I have no time to be concerned about my own discomforts because I am too busy worrying about him. He’s having a meltdown and this is a state of emergency.
To be even more specific: this boat effort is actually a field trip and I am a tagalong parent helper with Blaze and his class. Actually, there are two classes here—a “regular” fifth-grade class and Blaze’s class of special-ed fifth-graders, helmed by the highly capable Mr. Davidson. Blaze has now been in his class full-time for two months. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to watch my son in his new classroom environment, although I am aware that a field trip on a pitching boat hardly counts as an average situation.
I haven’t paid much attention to the other class here. For all I’m concerned, they might not even be here at all. I can focus only my own son, who is redefining bad behavior, even by special-ed standards. In fact, the other special-ed kids are remarkably quiet and well behaved, making Blaze’s antics stand out even more.
Blaze won’t sit quietly on the deck when instructed. He won’t even stand where he’s supposed to. He insists on drifting around to the side of the boat, perilously close to the railing. He’s not even making an attempt at pretending that he’s listening to the captain (or skipper, or whatever she’s called) describe marine life and the wonders of the ocean. He’s whining that he wants to buy chips and soda in the galley. He’s hungry. I couldn’t get him to eat his lunch in the classroom before we left and now his blood sugar is low and he’s flipping out. He’d been looking forward to this trip, but he’s been out of synch all day.
First it was, “When are we leaving? Why aren’t the buses here yet?”
Then it was, “Why can’t we get on the bus yet?”
Once we were on the bus it was, “When are we going to get there?”
“Why can’t we get on the boat yet?”
“When are we going to get a soda?”
He’s been stuck on the last one like the proverbial broken record. Of course, as soon as we are allowed into the galley, if that blessed moment should ever come, he will attach immediately to the next thing, whatever that is. But Blaze is not just whining, he’s whining loudly. He’s running off. Before we even boarded, I had a moment on the dock when I thought we were going to have to turn around altogether and go home. There were a couple of large dogs roaming around and Blaze did an enhanced version of his usual dog freak-out by running willy-nilly down the dock, screaming wildly. None of my threats or enticements could reel him back in. It was Mr. Davidson, speaking in measured but rumbling bass tones, who finally got through to him. This brought a simultaneous sense of relief and
inadequacy. Can’t even control my own child, I thought.
Things only got worse once we were on board. It’s taken both me and Mr. Davidson (a former marine, I might add) to hold Blaze to one spot on this rocking boat. When my son is finally silent for a few torturously short minutes, I am conscious only of the bitter wind and cold.
“Not really one of the nicest days to come out here, weather-wise,” Mr. Davidson says, reading my thoughts.
“It’s not too bad,” I say, smiling, trying to be the perky parent helper I’m pretending to be as opposed to the wretched mother I am. “A little chilly, maybe.”
Mr. Davidson laughs. I’m not fooling him, even slightly. “They’ll let us in to the snack bar pretty soon,” he says.
“Well, there’s always that to look forward to,” I answer stiffly. I have a feeling that my lips are blue, but I can’t be sure.
“You know, he’s going to be okay,” Mr. Davidson says, nodding his head toward Blaze, who looks like he’s getting ready to start up the chorus of “when are we going to get a soda?” any second now.
“I’m not so sure,” I say. “I’ve never seen him quite this bad before. I don’t know if it’s because I’m here. But what if I wasn’t? He might have been even worse.”
Mr. Davidson ponders this for a moment. “I am a little surprised,” he says slowly. “I thought he was looking forward to this trip.”
“He was,” I say. “Only it took so long. The anticipation…Now he’s in a spin and it’s hard for him to get out of it.”
“We usually leave earlier, but there was another class ahead of us today,” Mr. Davidson says. “It makes for a real long day. I’m sorry about that.”
“Not your fault.”
Blaze is up again and is leaning over the railing, a cardinal sin on this boat.
“Excuse me, young man,” calls the captain. “You need to be sitting down here please. Young man?”
“I’ll get him,” Mr. Davidson says. “Keep an eye on the other kiddies, will you?”
Nobody else needs monitoring, as it turns out. They’re all sitting there, docile as cold little lambs. I watch Mr. Davidson grasp Blaze’s arm gently but firmly and steer him back to the fold while speaking into his ear, and turn my head back out to face the gray, choppy water. I sense that this is going to be one of those days without end.
At last, the snack bar break comes. I get my coffee and Blaze eats a bag of chips and drinks a soda. These items are barely past his gullet when he queries, “When are we going home?”
“Listen,” I say sotto voce, through gritted teeth, “I don’t want to hear one more demand out of you, do you hear me? You’ve already shown me your worst behavior today as it is. You wanted to come on this damn boat and you’ve done nothing but complain all day. I’ve seen better behavior from two-year-olds. You are embarrassing me and you are embarrassing yourself. This is a nightmare!”
“I want to go home,” Blaze says. “I’ve had enough.”
“We’ll go home when it’s time to go home.”
“I want to go home now.”
I hiss at him and grab his arm in a grip much less gentle than Mr. Davidson’s. “Quiet!”
“I won’t be silent.”
“Just wait until I tell Papa about this.” I don’t like to bring my father in as the bad guy, but this is an emergency situation. It works too. For a few moments, Blaze stops complaining. He refuses, however, to participate in the planned activities aboard the boat.
If I were less miserable, I think I would admire this field trip. The kids form groups and rotate along a series of stations on deck, learning a variety of ocean facts, from how to tell a sea star from a starfish to examining the water for algae. I follow along helplessly, stopping periodically to pull Blaze aside and tell him to cooperate. Mr. Davidson watches my machinations with bemused interest and remains entirely unruffled.
“I don’t know how you do this every year,” I tell Mr. Davidson.
“Just lucky, I guess,” Mr. Davidson answers. “I’ve got the sixth-graders too, so I get to go on this boat trip and go away to sixth-grade camp every year.” He follows this statement with a chuckle.
“I don’t…” I trail off for a moment, unsure how to finish my sentence. “I don’t think Blaze will be able to go to sixth-grade camp,” I say, finally. “I know it’s not until next year, but if this is any indication…I just can’t see him going away by himself for a whole week.”
Mr. Davidson eyes me carefully. I don’t know him very well, but I can already tell that he’s not a man who admits defeat easily. If he were, he couldn’t possibly have spent twenty years teaching special education. He looks at me now a little sadly and says, “Maybe not. It doesn’t seem like something he’d enjoy. It’s pointless to force camp on a kid who isn’t ready. But we’ll see.”
It’s after five P.M. when we arrive back at the dock. My gratitude at being on terra firma once more is matched only by a sense of penetrating exhaustion. Blaze seems to have gotten some sort of bizarre second wind and he sits opposite me on the bus that will take us back to school, chattering and annoying his seatmate, a small boy who just wants to pass out peacefully where he sits. I’m too pissed off at Blaze’s shocking behavior today even to talk to him.
It’s dark when we arrive back at the school. My father is waiting in the parking lot to give us a ride home.
“Well, how was it?” my father asks as we climb into the car.
“Aside from the hypothermia?” I ask and shake my head. I spout my litany of complaints about Blaze’s behavior. How he was out of control. How he wouldn’t listen to me. How embarrassed I felt for both of us. How he didn’t deserve to go on any more field trips. My father’s face grows stormy and he turns around to look at Blaze.
“How could you do that to your mother?” he asks. Blaze says nothing.
Once we are home, I tell Blaze, “I want you to take a shower, get into your pajamas, and go to bed. I’m finished talking to you today.”
“I’m sorry about my behavior, Mom,” Blaze says.
“Why be sorry now?” I say. “What’s the good of that?” I choose my words carefully, consciously trying to elicit true remorse from my son. He has to understand the consequences of his actions. I don’t want him to be sorry because my disappointment in him makes him feel uncomfortable. I want him to be sorry because he doesn’t want me, or anyone else, to feel sad, disappointed, or pained.
I collapse into the darkness of my own bed shortly after Blaze, but despite my fatigue, I can’t sleep. The day spins itself around and around in my head. I keep seeing Blaze run away, out of control, listening to nobody. My thoughts are black. Is this the way it’s going to be forever? Blaze is growing. In height, he has almost caught up with me. He is no longer a small boy to be lifted up and away from trouble by his mother. What will happen if he continues on in this way? I can barely control him physically now. I have more faith in Mr. Davidson than I’ve had in any of Blaze’s teachers, but I wonder now if that will be enough. And if it isn’t? Where do we go from here?
[ Chapter 11 ]
MAGIC AND APPROPRIATE LAUGHTER
June 1999
There are two days left until the end of the school year. In my classroom, as well as in all the others, the kids seem to sense the anticipation of the exhausted adults around them. We’re all tired for good reason. This has been a tough year in the preschool. One of our kids stopped showing up in February, her emotionally unstable mother claiming that “she’s sick.” Another child barely made it through surgery in March and spent several weeks on life support. Still another was in a major car accident that severely injured her sister. The school nurse asked the child’s father for a medical release, but he hasn’t produced one. She hasn’t been back to school since then. Our teacher went to their house, but the doors were all locked, shades drawn, and weeks’ worth of mail was crammed in the mailbox.
The “light toileting” Dr. Roberts had so euphemistically described when she offered me this
job turned out to be a vast understatement. There have been between eight and ten children in our classroom this year and, at any given time, only one or two are able to use the bathroom by themselves. Some children arrive every morning with a full diaper. “He did it on the way over here,” the mothers always say. “So sorry.”
Our children often come to school sick. “He was fine this morning,” the mothers say when we point out fevers, coughing, streaming noses. As a result, our classroom has become a veritable petri dish of infectious diseases. We had an outbreak of strep throat in April, which sent three adults in the classroom (myself included) to urgent-care facilities. We’ve battled pinkeye, bronchitis, and pneumonia. I’ve already had all three this spring.
Of course, there have been high notes as well. Most of the kids have made good progress. Little things, like successfully potty training a child who, mere months ago, shrieked in terror at the very thought of the bathroom, send us into a state of euphoria. I started a rudimentary, but very successful, yoga program with the kids a few months ago. The sight of eight severely handicapped preschoolers in perfect “downward dog” position, alone, was worth the price of admission. Still, I understand now, like never before, why teachers start looking so very happy come June. In the staff lounge, there is a calendar with a running countdown of the days left (complete with a red X through the days we’ve survived). It’s as if we’re all soon to be paroled.
Today, one of our parents has scheduled a magician to come by the class and perform his act. We speculate: Will it freak the kids out—rabbits jumping out of hats and the like? Loud noises? Crowds? These are all things that are way out of the comfort zone for our kids and we are nervous. What’s more, we’ve invited the two other special-ed classes to join us, so the room will be full of special-needs kids from the ages of three to eight years old.
At the appointed time, we gather on the floor: kids, teachers, and aides. I’ve got one child on my lap and one directly in front of me within arm’s reach. The little one in front of me is a sweet towhead from another class named Jill who I’ve worked with a few times over the course of the year.
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