I didn't cry when I learned
that I was the parent of a mentally handicapped child. I
just sat still and didn't say anything while my husband
and I were informed that two-year-old Kristi was - as we
suspected - retarded.
"Go ahead and cry," the doctor advised kindly.
"Helps prevent serious emotional difficulties."
Serious difficulties not withstanding, I couldn't cry
then nor during the months that followed. When Kristi was
old enough to attend school, we enrolled her in our
neighborhood kindergarten at age seven.
It would have been comforting to cry that day I left her
in that room full of self-assured, eager, alert
five-year-olds. Kristi had spent hours upon hours playing
by herself, but this moment, when she was the different
child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had
ever known.
However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her
school and to her schoolmates too. When boasting of their
own accomplishments, Kristi's classmates always took
pains to praise her as well: "Kristi got all her
spelling words right today." No one bothered to add
that her spelling list was easier then anyone else's.
During Kristi's second year in school, she faced a very
traumatic experience. The big public event of the term
was a competition based on a culmination of the year's
music and physical education activities. Kristi was way
behind in both music and motor coordination. My husband
and I dreaded the day as well.
On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to be sick.
Desperately, I wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi
fail in a gymnasium filled with parents, students, and
teachers? What a simple solution it would be just to let
my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn't
matter. But my conscience wouldn't let me off that
easily. So I practically shoved a pale, reluctant Kristi
onto the school bus and proceeded to be sick myself.
Just as I had forced my daughter to go to school, now I
forced myself to go to the program. It seemed that it
would never be time for Kristi's group to perform. When
at last they did, I knew why Kristi had been worried. Her
class was divided into relay teams. With her limp and
slow, clumsy reactions, she would surely hold up her
team.
The performance went surprising well, though, until it
was time for the gunnysack race. Now each child had to
climb into the sack from a standing position, hop to a
goal line, return and climb out of the sack. I watched
Kristi standing near the end of her line of players,
looking frantic.
But as Kristi's turn to practice neared, a change took
place in her team. The tallest boy in the line stepped
behind Kristi and placed his hands on her waist. Two
other boys stood a little ahead of her. The moment the
player in front of Kristi stepped from the sack, those
two boys grabbed the sack and held it open while the tall
boy lifted Kristi and dropped her neatly into it. A girl
in front of Kristi took her hand and supported her
briefly until Kristi gained her balance. Then off she
hopped, smiling and proud.
Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and parents, I
crept off by myself to thank God for the warm,
understanding people in life who make it possible for my
disabled daughter to be like her fellow human beings.
Then I finally cried.
~ Author Unknown
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