One of the women I work with had the idea to pair students in need of a mentor, for varied reasons, with teachers in our school. I had just finished reading about Don Miller’s The Mentoring Project ( www.thementoringproject.org ) and enthusiastically signed up. A few weeks rolled by, I hadn’t really even thought about the mentoring program to tell the truth, but my memory was jogged as I opened up an email with my mentee’s name and grade, nothing else. I have worked in my school for almost 8 years, so I know the majority of the kids in the building, if not them personally, at least an older brother or sister. So off I went to find out what I had gotten myself into. I plopped unceremoniously on top of an empty desk and proceeded to ask about the little boy who had been matched with me.
My mom mentioned a class she had read about in her local paper the other day. It had a weird name, Doga, but sounded interesting offering ” massage, meditation, stress reduction, gentle stretching to improve digestion and heart function, and total overall well-being.” Sign me up! I imagine she was giggling when she heard about my enthusiasm and she went on to explain that it wasn’t a class for people, it was yoga for dogs (hence “doga”).
It started innocently enough. I was working with one of my students, a sweet boy with autism who was having a fantastic therapy session with me. He was talking and working, completely focused and smiling for the first twenty minutes of our session. He had gone through some rough months, so it was a joy to see him happy again. I was looking at him and noticed he had a piece of hair across his lip. As I told him I was going to move something off of his face, I reached to pull the wayward strand, but it wouldn’t budge. So stupid me pulled again.
Spring in the South is a sight to behold. It is why I giddily dig holes in the semi-frozen ground in blustery November, dropping in bits of spring that the ugly tulip bulbs promise me in March. The world goes from gray and browns to chartreuse and magenta seemingly overnight. Lavendar wisteria drapes the telephone poles like a stripper’s boa and the forsythia seems to explode like earthbound fireworks everywhere you look in Atlanta. The gloom of winter departs and leaves behind soft blue skies and sunny days that we look forward to around here. But there is a dark side to all this beauty. Oh yes.
I can hear the bass thumping through the ceiling of my garage and I sigh. Adam has hooked up the speakers his dad so generously let him take back to my house and he is listening to his favorite “music” again. I use the term music loosely because what he loves, more than chocolate eclairs or even life itself, is a staccato drum beat and some lead singer apparently in extreme pain about a girl or the unfairness of life causing him to squeal like a stuck pig. This genre is aptly called “screamo” and has quite a following among teenage boys. It makes my ears bleed but Adam says I just don’t get it. Oh I get it alright. What better way to annoy your mother than to play something that sounds like nails on a chalkboard 24/7? It’s brilliant!
This past week was spring break for the boys and I. Their dad had made mention of a trip to the beach for them, so I began to make the most of my time off and fill my calendar with appointments and dinners with friends I get to see far too infrequently. The original plan was for them to leave on Monday, but Monday turned into Tuesday, possibly some time in the afternoon. This vague timeline used to drive me crazy when I was married (and to be honest, in the early years after the divorce) because I am a planner and I make no apologies for it. When you are juggling 2 kids, school, sports, a slightly nutty dog, and working full-time, I don’t have the luxury of flying by the seat of my pants when it comes to life. Although sometimes I get a little crazy and don’t decide what we are having for dinner until that same day. I’m a free spirit, I know.
I was in a terrible car accident in February 2008. I was one exit away from Auburn when I crossed the median and hit a truck. I think I fainted; I did twice at Auburn before, and I was anemic. I was supposed to graduate a semester early in December 2008. Not anymore. I still really want to graduate, so I’m going to school online. Also, I want to walk without assistive devices and live on my own. Right now I use a cane full-time and a walker when I’m tired. The biggest thing I want is more independence. I’m aware that it is scary, but I also want to drive again. How can I live a normal life without driving?
Eileen’s story begins on Monday- Nov 17, 2008.
Eileen is a young, vibrant, healthy wife, mother, daughter and friend. After her normal Monday workout, Eileen noticed slight discomfort in her right thigh. On that Tuesday morning, she and Jason noticed a small bump on her right thigh and the pain was becoming intense. They went to the ER and doctors believed it was a strained muscle, gave her a prescription and was sent home. By Wednesday 11-19, the pain was increasing and her right leg began to swell, they went back to the hospital and more tests were initiated. She was admitted for test and spent the night with high doses of pain medication, her leg continued to swell. By Thursday afternoon, her condition was getting worse, and she was flown to the Emory main campus in Atlanta. The diagnosis is necrotizing faciitis.
My daughter Madeline was given the unfortunate diagnosis of autism at age two. I was scared but also confused. Madeline did not seem to fit the label. I believed the therapists and I waited for the worst. The worst did not come. I took Madeline to doctors, therapists and to a special school. Although the label was not removed immediately, Madeline made progress, lots of it and quickly. By second grade Madeline no longer needed therapy or special ed. It seemed odd that she should be considered special needs when no one who met her thought there was anything wrong with her. Today we don’t tell friends about the diagnosis she was given years ago. It just doesn’t fit. I’m not sure it ever did. It wasn’t dramatic. It just happened over time-no special diet or supplement, the waters didn’t part and no clap of thunder. It was a miracle-a great one.
When Madeline was nine I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. Since the day he was born Keenan has been adored by the whole family. I never dreamed anything would be wrong with my son. I had already lived through the scare of a child with a special need, so I foolishly believed I would be spared anymore hardships in life-sounds silly now. As Keenan grew older he did not develop as his peers did. It became evident that Keenan had autism. I hoped and prayed that things would turn out the way they had with Madeline. That this was just a scare or that Keenan was just a slow starter. I waited and worried. Keenan got older and the issues became greater. We took Keenan to therapists. We tried diets and supplements. We prayed and prayed. Each day that my miracle was delayed I became a little more discouraged. It became impossible to pretend that he would be fine. We arranged our lives around keeping Keenan happy. Despite our best efforts most days still ended up with Keenan having more than one meltdown -similar to tantrums but scarier. How could God withhold what my son needed or what I needed? We needed a miracle and it wasn’t coming.
Keenan has autism. I wish I could say that he doesn’t. So if I can’t tell you that the miracle I longed for came, I can tell you about the miracle I did not see coming. In the dark days when we weren’t sure if Keenan would ever communicate I never considered that maybe I needed a heart change. Actually, I would have told you that it would be impossible for me to want anything other than for my precious son to be healed. My desire for Keenan to get better woke me up nights begging, pleading, weeping. I am and at that time, a believer. However, my happiness weighed only on how Keenan was doing every moment. If the present was good, I was good. If he was in the middle of a meltdown, well, so was I. My joy was not in my Lord. I did not give much thought about my salvation. I chose heaven over hell for obvious reasons.
But here is where my miracle came. My mind kept going over the term ‘hope of heaven’. What does that mean? That is when I began to really understand that the healing of my son may not be in my time. My happiness, my joy, could no longer be dependent upon that. I took a moment to realize God is perfect and he has perfect hearing. Since I had been praying 24/7 for healing for Keenan, I could trust that my Heavenly Father had heard me. So for experiment sake, I changed my prayer life from begging, pleading weeping to listening. I didn’t want to and I wasn’t very good at it. But my Awesome God honored my effort and responded with an undeniable answer of ‘Rest in Me’, ‘Trust Me’. Oh, I didn’t want to. It was the first answer I had received but it wasn’t’ the one I had wanted. Over time I did begin to Rest in Him and Trust Him. I do consider this to be a miracle. I had become so self absorbed about the pain and heartbreak I was facing. I had begun to think that God’s goodness relied only on whether he would take care of me and my hurting child. I am still a pretty selfish person and thinking of others still takes discipline. My miracle was when My Sovereign Lord reminded me of His Greatness. Although Keenan still holds the key to my heart, my eyes are where they should be, on Heaven. Hope of Heaven-Keenan will be made perfect, as will I-which in all actuality is a bigger stretch!!
I grew up in Florida-West Palm Beach, New Smyrna, and finally landing on the Space coast in third grade. We also lived in California for a few years, but I don’t remember the beaches there, just the San Diego zoo and a small earthquake I saw through my three year old eyes. I love the beach, specifically the warmth, the briny smell that clings to your skin after swimming all day and splashing through the occasional tide pools that form, exposing the coquina rock. When I drive over the last bridge to the barrier island my parents live on, and the salt spray mixes in with the scent of cut grass and the occasional ”fragrance” of the brackish water of the Banana River, I know I am almost home.
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