Doah on Mom's Cooking

My cooking is well known -- for how bad it is. In fact, the topic figured prominently in Doah's book, Mommy Poisoned Our House Guest.

My mother gave up on teaching me to cook years ago, saying that it was too expensive because I ruined so much of what I touched. My kids quickly learned that it was better to have Donnie do the cooking, and I could almost always get them to do whatever I asked by threatening to cook.

There is, however, one thing I can cook well: ham. So, for this new year's New Year dinner, I made a ham. Now, we usually go out to dinner on special occasions since it really is only Donnie, Doah, and I. However, this year, it was rainy and cold and seemed perfect for a ham dinner and fire in the fireplace. Doah was not so certain, however. Right after that, he ran hollering to Donnie, "Come quick! Mom's cooking!" Then, begged him not to let me do it.

I captured Doah's concern right before shutting the oven door.

PS. The ham turned out excellent, by the way!

Doah's Baptism, Another Picture Story

Looks like I am into picture stories lately. This one is of Doah's recent baptism, first communion, and confirmation. (Put off far too long!) It was a beautiful Mass; everyone said so -- moving to the point of tears at times. In his homily Fr. Rudy said that individuals like Doah are put into our lives to teach us how to love each other and God for in their very simplicity they know how better to fulfill the New Testament commandments than the rest of us and therefore we are to learn from them. The best way to show you the beauty of the Mass is with pictures.

Beth does first reading.

Sr. Maria does second reading.

Fr. Rudy reads the Gospel.

Fr. Rudy blesses the water.

A tearful Doah is baptized by Fr. Rudy; godfather Benito is right there.

Doah, Benito, Beth, & Donnie listen to Fr. Rudy.

With altar-server Jeanmarie's help, Fr. Rudy annoints Doah.

Doah's pal, Deputy Rich, arrives just in time!

And then it's time to say goodbye!

Thank you for joining us!

"Take Him Home"

I picked up Doah at his group home yesterday evening for the Easter vigil at Old Mission Church here in San Ignatio. It is always a beautiful service with the lighting of the paschal candle from the fire pit by the garden and then the lighting of everyone's candles from the paschal candle. It is an evening of hope and expectation, a movement from dark into light. So much symbolism in one Mass!

Doah looked forward to it because his friend, Bennie, would be there. Bennie is one of my friends who has adopted a mentor/father attitude toward Doah, always ready to talk to him, taking him fishing, and hanging out with him at times. Doah adores Bennie and loves sitting with him at the mission. Doah could hardly wait for the evening to arrive.

So, decked out appropriate, Doah and I arrived promptly at the mission at the starting hour. The church was quite filled, but Doah easily found Bennie and slipped in beside him. Then we all exited for the beginning of the Mass around the fire pit. After our candles were lit, we paraded back inside and listened to the opening music and readings.

As I sat, listening and enjoying this once-a-year-only Mass, Doah slid into the pew beside me. His eyes were watery.

"Mom," he said, "I can't stay. I am allergic to the church."

We had experienced this before. The mission is 200+ years old, and Doah is allergic to mold. There are times that it seems that mold must be getting into the air. At the end of a week that had seen some rain in our normally near-drought, could-easily-become-desert area it was not surprising that perhaps more mold than usual was breaking out into the air.

"Shh," I told Doah. "Wait a few minutes and see if it the problem passes. Don't rub your eyes; just wait and see if they clear up." I did not have much hope that he would get better, but it was worth a little wait, anyway, or so I thought.

No sooner had Doah disappeared toward the front of the church -- I was farther back -- to rejoin Bennie than I heard that Voice I have come to trust and obey say, "Take him home."

When Doah popped up beside me just a few minutes later, still with red, watery eyes, and complained that he was not getting any better, I did as I had been told. I took him home.

Once we were in the outside cooler air, Doah's eyes cleared up. I could have called Donnie to pick us up, but the night was clear, cool (but not cold), and just the right place to spend some time walking together with Doah in the presence of God. (One immediately feels God's presence anywhere in San Ignatio.) And so Doah and I walked all the way home, about a mile or less (never have measured the distance from our home on the hill to the mission in the valley), mostly in silence, mostly in worship, our own little worship service.

How kind is God, I thought! He gave us an alternative way of spending Easter vigil and one in which we were as close to Him as we would have been had we stayed for the entire Mass. Clearly, worship is not about ritual, it is about relationship. And that was made clear in the words, "Take him home." Taking Doah home was not about walking away from God but rather about walking with God. It was a very good Easter vigil yesterday after all.

God's Trust and My Children/Grandchildren

Recently in our prayer group, one of our members talked about some difficult times she and her family were facing, and she called it a "test" from God. We moved from there to similar kinds of issues in other members' families and then on to a discussion about my children, especially the three (two of my own and one who came and lived with us) who must deal with one or more birth defects (Noelle, Doah, Shura), along with my grandchildren who have also been affected by these family "gifts" (Nathaniel having been born with hydronephrosis and Nikolina with that, too, as well as OEIS Complex). It surprised me to learn that these people of God looked at my children and my family situation so differently from the way I look at it.

First, my children are not burdens. They are blessings.

Second, life with these children is not difficult although it is challenging. It is a constant opportunity to learn and to grow, including learning how to lean on God and others God sends, which, I believe, is something that God wants us to do.

Most important, in no way do I think that God is testing me or my family. Rather, I feel favored that God would trust me (of all people) with something so special. Likewise, I don't believe that my friends are experiencing a test from God. I believe that they are experiencing God's trusting them not only to cope with the difficult situations that they face but also to learn from them and to grow in faith (and yes, trust).

May God continue to bless all of us in this extraordinary way, and may we learn and grow and live up to His trust in us!

Spiritual Sunday #38: Doah Went to Court, or God Knew Best

On Sundays, I usually participate in the Spiritual Sunday meme on my main blog, 100th Lamb. The post I chose this weekend, however, is about my youngest son, Doah, and so I thought it would be of interest to readers of Clan of Mahlou. For more Spiritual Sunday posts, I recommend that you wander over to the website of Charlotte and Ginger, who host the Spiritual Sunday meme.

Because I do not blog on Sundays -- keeping it as the sabbath, a practice started by Fr. Christian Mathis (Blessed Is the Kingdom) -- I use older posts (forgotten perhaps but hopefully still interesting) from one or another of my blogs that seem appropriate for this meme. It seems to work to bring out the older posts that many have not read before or ones from other blogs I maintain that readers of 100th Lamb may not know about.

This week I decided to change pace a little and share a post related to one of my children, now grown, and a difficult period (oh, there were so many): Doah Went to Court, Or God Knew Best.

And here is the post-reprinted:

With another interesting comment coming in early this morning on the topic of God (not) answering prayer, I am thinking again about the post about my catechism classes and the teenagers' frustration when God does not give them exactly what they want -- and, in reaction, they declare that God is dead or does not exist. (Of course, much of that is for the dramatic effect on us teachers, and the rest of it is to keep up the "cool" image of the cheerleaders and ball players in the class.) What I tell them is to look beyond their own agenda and see what God might know that is better than what they want.

A highly troubling personal example bubbles to mind when I think about prayer and God knowing best. When I first returned from Jordan three years ago, I learned that my mentally challenged son Doah had gotten into some serious trouble at the local mall. At the time, he was living in a group home for disabled adults and working at a sheltered workshop, as he does now. He was in his mid-twenties, but because he never surpassed 4'7", he never seemed to be older than 8-10 years old, which is the outside limits on his mental development as well. A very affectionate person, he had seen a young girl he knew at the mall. She was with her parents. He went over to her and hugged her. At that point, all manner of chaos broke loose. Although Doah's size was the same as the girl's, the girl was only 13. The parents freaked; Doah does look "different." Mall security seized Doah, and off he went to jail. The group home director got him out of jail, but the district attorney wanted to prosecute even after the parents, who had finally figured out what was happening, dropped the charges. The DA had a goal: Get retarded people off the streets of Salts, the city where Doah lived.

Lizzie, my oldest daughter, was visiting at the time that Doah's first appearance in court took place. We had only about a day's notice. I had just returned from a long time out of the country, and the group home was not used to my being around to inform about such things and had somehow also missed informing Shane, who looks out for Doah when Donnie and I are not around. Donnie was still in Jordan. So, Lizzie and I went to court with Doah. However, because Doah is not conserved and is of age, neither of us was allowed to appear with him. We had to sit in the back of the courtroom.

When the judge called Doah, he read him the charges: sexual molestation. (For a hug!??!) The judge then asked Doah if he understood the charges. Of course, he did not. He appeared quite confused, and the judge repeated, "Please answer me. Do you understand the charges?"

Doah responded, "You give me credit card? I buy something?" Now the judge was confused! He looked around the courtroom, somewhat desperately, and saw Doah's social work leaning over the barrier.

"Are you with this young man?" he asked.

The social worker identified his name and position and was allowed to approach the bench. He told them that there was family in the area and that the family wanted a private attorney. (The judge had been about to assign a court-appointed attorney, and, I fear, that would have been a railroad job. The DA would have had his highly visible case that could have turned into sanctioned discrimination against an entire class of people.)

We have a friend who is considered one of the best defense attorneys in Salts. I had actually been instrumental at one point in putting him on the fast track to practicing law in California so he helps us out from time to time. He took Doah's case gratis. He thought it would be open-and-shut, but it turned out that the DA would not budge. He had a chance to make a name for himself and get his agenda implemented, and he planned to do it. Our lawyer was temporarily stymied, and Doah was definitely going to be put on trial. There were only two possible outcomes of such a trial: (1) jail for a year, or (2) probation and identification for life as a sex offender.

So, if Doah were your son, which outcome would you pray for? Being in jail would have taught my little imitator how to do many bad things that would have followed him the rest of his life to his detriment. Probation was fine, but being labeled as a sex offender would also have followed him all his life to his detriment. So, I asked God for the only thing I thought could possibly work: for God to make the decision on what would happen to Doah.

The morning after that prayer, our lawyer called me excitedly. He said he had turned the case over and over in his mind and saw no way to win; he had spent a couple of days trying to convince the DA that what he was doing was wrong-headed and not appropriate in this case and still saw no way to win, given the DA's stubbornness. Then, when he got out of bed that morning, a thought from nowhere had tumbled into his head: the DA has a supervisor. So, he went to the DA's supervisor, explained the whole case, told him that he had known Doah since Doah was 9 years old, and that what had happened was only a result of Doah's generally friendly nature. The supervisor agreed that there was more than met the eye, requested a psychological examination, and said that a third option would be added: If the psychological examination confirmed the lawyer's analysis, then Doah would be put on probation for a year and if there were no further incidents all court records would be expunged as if nothing had ever occurred.

And, so, that is exactly what happened. The psychologist said that Doah had the mental acuity only to determine whether a behavior was good or bad but not the ability to understand that a good behavior becomes a bad behavior depending upon circumstance. That would be too fine a distinction for him to make. In other words, hugging is good at home, school, church, parties where you know everyone, but it is bad at the mall. Doah could not possibly draw that kind of conclusion, given his mental capacity. So, option three was taken by the court, and a year later the DA himself requested that the case be withdrawn and the records removed.

How blessed we were that God had a third answer. How happy I am that I did not ask for one of the only two options that I knew about. (I suspect, though, that if I had asked for one of those options, God would still have introduced the third, better, one.)

So, yes, I say to my catechism students, God does say "no," and we should be grateful that God knows best!

The Value of Flattery

The below text is one I just posted on Mahlou Musings, an excerpt from a book I wrote several years ago. I thought, since Noelle and Doah, occupy front and center in the text, it might also be worth sharing on The Clan of Mahlou.

Lewis Lapham (Lapham's Rules of Influence) advises the profuse use of flattery. He writes that "flattery is comparable to suntan lotion or ski wax. It cannot be too often or too recklessly applied."

My two handicapped children, Noelle and Doah, know this. As children and adults, unlike what one might expect, they have been quite popular, among others reasons, because they routinely use flattery.

For example, Doah, when needing help, will often address a nearby woman, "Excuse me, pretty lady. You help me, please?" What woman does not like to be called pretty?

And who would not feel good about helping someone clearly disabled who shows appreciation through more flattery by saying, for example, "Thank you. You're a nice person. I like you."

Likewise, Noelle once got me out of a traffic ticket when I accidentally drove through a stop sign. A four-year-old at the time, she was clearly thrilled at the sight of the police officer who pulled me over. While I searched for the car registration, she gushed flattery at him, telling him how wonderful she thought policemen were, how kind, and how helpful. He told me to forget the registration, that he would give me only a warning because he did not want my daughter not to like policemen.

Although she became more sophisticated about how she words things, Noelle has continued to use flattery and to be treated with warmth by people with whom she interacts. For example, she had a series of negative experiences at what I shall call Hospital A in Washington and ultimately we transferred her to Georgetown University Hospital, where she had a series of positive experiences. Near the beginning of her treatment there, she had to be hospitalized. Unfortunately, no beds were immediately available, so the staff spread out a blanket on the floor of her room. The clinic director, embarrassed by this situation, stayed with Noelle two hours until a bed was found. She apologized to Noelle several times.

Noelle's response was, "Hey, I'd rather be on the floor here than in the softest bed at Hospital A." Obviously, that piece of flattery made Noelle a favorite patient for the entire time she was at Georgetown University Hospital.

We all like to hear other people say good things about us. They, too, like to hear good things said about them. Flattery often works where other means of motivation fail.

My sister, Danielle, points out that when flattery is sincere, there are many ways to get the good intentions to multiply. She cites the example of her husband, Bill, who has often elicited support and astounding service by first complimenting the employee sincerely with supporting details and then going on to report the employee's exceptional service and performance to the employee's supervisor, attributing the employee's attitude and performance to the supervisor's skill in management.

"By the end of the conversation," she wrote to me, "the supervisor and supervisee are dancing around Bill to see that everything goes smoothly."

So, slather the flattery wherever it is deserved!



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Excerpted and adapted from a collection of vignettes I published, copyright 2003.

Doah's Birthday Party

Saturday we had birthday celebration #32 for Doah. As usual, we all crowded into our local Pizza Factory, and they were ready for us with lots of pizza, drinks, and an open tab. It was a bit sad, though, because our priest, who has not been with us for several months now (see the sad, frustrating story here -- almost over, though, because the diocese has now established his innocence), was missing for the first time in four years. The mood, nonetheless, was festive and raucous. Everyone in the place knew that Doah was having a party, and he himself acted as master of ceremonies.

Did I think to take pictures? Nope! I had to have been quite dense about it all because I had my iPhone with me and was showing pictures from the past on it to everyone there. Oh, well, I will leave it to everyone's imagination to picture how it all went down.

Donnie ordered a cake from a local bakery. I think he must have been hungry because he showed up with a gigantic box. I asked him how many it would serve, and he said 60. Needless to say, after feeding all the party-goers, all the pizza makers, and all the other customers who wanted a piece of cake, we had quite a bit of leftover. Everyone took some cake home, and we still had leftovers. So, I will take a pan of cake over to the parish office later today. Someone has to help us devour all this icing-covered chocolate!

As we were sitting in the car after all the festivities had ended, getting ready to pull out of the parking lot, Noelle commented, "Do you think it would be a good idea to take the leftover cake off the hood of the car before we leave?" Ah, yeah! Really good idea!

Shades of Arlington cookies! Many years ago, when Professor Lizzie was a high school student, I made some cookies for a band booster fundraiser for Washington-Lee High School in Arlington, Virginia. (I believe they were edible although I have grave doubts as to whether they were tasty, considering the reputation of the cook.) I wrapped them in saran wrap, and we all dashed to the car for the short ride to the high school. That morning everyone waved at us along the way -- it was a real friendly morning. When we got to the high school parking lot, though, we found out that it was not actually a friendly morning, just a matter of kind folks trying to get our attention as we dashed from intersection to intersection, hoping that we would realize that they were pointing out the plate of saran-wrapped cookies, bouncing along with us on the roof of the car.

11111

Now, that may be a strange title for a post, but it is actually meaningful. Quite meaningful, really. Today is the first day of the 11th month of the 11th year (11/1/11). More important, though, today is Donnie's birthday. Double special.

Now, how we are celebrating is a story that might be unexpected. We are watching the Chronicles of Narnia on television, eating raspberries, and regaining energy after two unplanned days of Doah at home!

How that came about is a long story. Here is the synopsis, as I related on FaceBook:

Sunday evening FB:

It's going to be a long night. Doah is staying over. AFTER we got home, he announced that tomorrow, which he will be taking off from work, is his last day at that job, and he wants to say good-bye. We have one car; that one is taking me to work in the morning in the opposite direction of Doah's work. Then, a half hour later, he announced that his cat allergy had kicked into high gear. We have one air filter -- I just moved it into the guest room for him, with fingers crossed it will do the trick. Then he announced that he was too tired to sleep (gotta think about that one..) and came into the living room, announcing after a few minutes that he was too bored not to sleep and meandered back to the bedroom. (I am going to go pull him out of there in a minute and take him for a LONG walk!) I kinda remember now what it was like having an adult Doah at home full time. As I said, it will be a LONG night. (Did we have more energy or more patience 10 years ago? Or, maybe more entertaining toys since clearly we are not considered entertaining!) Well, where it all ends is . . . Halloween -- the purpose of bringing him home for a day. (That is TOO LONG a story to even start here, so just take it on faith that this was the only way to make Halloween happen this year.) Now, I am feeling too tired to sleep... (just kidding -- off for that walk...)

We did take that walk! And it helped Doah to sleep as late as 5:00 a.am. The story continues below.

Monday evening FB:

We survived Doah's visit -- well, mostly. Doah was up at 5 a.m., asking if it was time to get up for the day. No, Doah, not really. Then, again at 6:00, which got a positive answer since I had to get up for work. Then, Donnie called me twice at work -- Doah'd out the first time; needed Doah, who wanted to take an unaccompanied stroll about town, reined in the second. I ended up leaving work an hour early to rescue my husband from my son. Took Doah to the USPO and store for milk. Hey, it's diverting. Coming home, the sheriff had stopped his car in the left lane on Fifth Street and rolled down his window, waiting for us. Wondering why, I drove up to him and rolled down my window. He leaned over, looked at Doah, and said, "Hi, pal. How you doing?" Yep, everyone knows Doah! After that, Doah and I went to All Saints' Mass at the mission. More diversion. Then it was Halloween time. I decided to take Doah only to homes of people we know. The first person was out. The second one was out. The third one was out. Not scoring very well initially. Then, we dropped by the convent, where, because the convent is behind the parish office, few people realize that they can walk back in there for trick-or-treat. So, Doah was the first (and perhaps the only). We went into the living room, where the nuns had quite a store of candy and homemade treats. We tasted everything and talked for about ten minutes. Before leaving, we took pictures of everyone with Sr. D's camera. (Donnie tells me that where he grew up in Niagara Falls, this was typical behavior. Not so for where I grew up in northern New England.) Then Sr. M decided to come trick-or-treating with us. She knew more people, so we went to a bunch of fun houses. Along the way, our friend Silvia from Hollister drove by to drop her husband off at a meeting, then decided to join us for trick-or-treating. So, now we had gathered three adults to supervise one Doah. Yeah, that would be just about the right ratio! ;) Meanwhile, Donnie held down the fort at home -- in vain; no one wanted to trek our hill for a little Halloween candy. So day finally over, Donnie drove Doah and our leftover candy back to Hollister, and I curled with my cat Murjan at my feet. (Make that, puppy dog Murjan -- he insists on having his belly rubbed and likes to lick my face -- not much like a cat at all.) No sooner had we settled in than the doorbell rang -- a bunch of trick-or-treaters had traipsed our hill, but now I had no candy! All in all, though, it was a diverting day, from which we are definitely going to need tomorrow to recover.

Happy (belated) Halloween!

Doah Has a Bed

Doah comes to visit us each weekend. Generally, he comes on Saturday, and we take him back to his nearby group home one town away so that he can sleep overnight. From time to time, in spite of his allergies to cats, of which we have three, he has expressed the desire to stay overnight. Until now, though, we have not had a bed for him to sleep in. He has used a tent and sleeping bag and slept under the stars -- that actually has worked well for avoiding cat fur. Once we moved into our new house last February, he developed great hopes of being able to use our new guest room. However, until two days ago, all we have had in it is a table and a window with a great view overlooking the town and valley, like all the other windows in the house.

Then, we got a new bed for Donnie and me because Donnie now needs something more like a hospital bed to deal with his sleep apnea and gout. The movers carried our bed into the guest room. The room is still quite sparse, but at least it has a bed. When Doah came for his Saturday visit, I told him to open the guest room door (we keep it closed to keep the cat fur off the carpet -- the only carpeted room we have). He shot out into the living room with the comment, "I stay tonight? I no be 'lergic to cats no more." With the cats off-limits to that room, he may be able to sleep there. So, we have some new kinds of overnight adventures to look forward to!

Amazing, isn't it, how it is the littlest things in life that bring us the greatest pleasure?

House Blessing

I have been planning for some time to post some pictures of our house blessing a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, the only person who thought to took pictures had his camera on video. So, while I have a very nice recording of the ceremony, I do not have any stills. (Perhaps if I were more technologically astute, I could clip out some stills from the video, but I don't know how to do that if indeed it is possible.)

Lack of pictures aside, the blessing was beautiful. Padre (Fr.) Julio, about whom I have blogged from time to time, came up from San Diego, where he is currently assigned, and scooped up his brother, P. Mario, in Stockton and spent the day wihttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifth Donnie and me. We had lunch at a local restaurant that is a favorite of Padre's, then the blessing, and then P. Julio came to the catechism class I taught and talked to the kids (high school sophomores) about social justice, a particularly compelling topic for him since he founded a school and self-sustaining farm for children in a rural and impoverished area of Colombia (see his website, which Donnie and I designed, Por Amor a Los Ninos de Colombia -- there is a Spanish and an English version).

P. Julio tends to be very imaginative, and the way in which he conducted the blessing was very much in keeping with this tradition. He and P. Mario took turns reading Scripture and homilizing in English and Spanish. We also sang in English and Spanish -- most of the people in my community know both languages, and we were divided pretty much 50/50 among those whose first language was English and those whose first language was Spanish. Padre then blessed the house and the people at the blessing with holy water I had brought back from Jesus's baptismal site in the Jordan River, using a deep red rose that a friend brought for the housewarming/blessing.

About three dozen people filled our house, and I was glad that we had lots of open space so that everyone would fit. After the sprinkling of one and all, P. Julio asked each person to talk about our family, why they came to the blessing, what they wished for us, etc., etc. It was very touching. Then he asked me to say something about each there, which was not difficult, in spite of quite a variety among those who came -- neighbors, co-workers, family, parish members.

Afterward, we enjoyed a pot luck with an international flavor. We had chairs and tables set up outside, hoping the weather would cooperate. It did. The sun streamed down lightly all afternoon. One could tell that people were enjoying themselves and not just saying that to be polite.

The best part of our house blessing, at least for me, is that Padre Julio really enjoyed doing it. And he got a chance to see his brother, which, I understand, does not happen often. As far as my family is concerned, Padre Julio is a member of the clan of Mahlou, and when the clan gathers, there is much laughter and warmth. I had wondered whether it would be worth the effort to pull everyone together for such a brief event.

PS. We were able to find some stills among the video. So, below are pictures of the event:

(1) View from the window
(2) Padre Julio steps away from the blessing circle to gather holy water onto a rose.

(3) Padre Julio begins blessing the house with a rose.

(4) Padre Julio and Padre Mario in conversation after the blessing with Beth and a friend.

(5) Padre Julio in conversation with a fellow Colombian, the adopted daughter of one of our friends.

(6)The food.

(7) People eating inside.

(8) People eating outside.

(9) Donnie and one of our friends picking lemons afterward.

Match the Words to the Situation

Finding an effective treatment or cure for a problem means identifying the right medicine. My grandmother used "pink pills" (wintermint drops) as a disciplinary measure (bribe) for kids with imaginary illnesses. Therefore, we would all develop an imaginary illness from time to time. My mother used sulfur and molasses any time any one of her children developed a cough. That stuff tasted horrible, but it was a magic cure. None of us would dare cough within hearing distance of her.

Using the appropriate medicine for an illness has a parallel in human relations. It is called matching the words to the situation. Sometimes they need to be soft, and other times they need to be direct. They always need to be in a language that can be understood.

My youngest son, Doah, whom we stole from a Pennsylvania hospital (we shall call that place Renboro Hospital) where he was dying from a subglottic stenosis, treated with a tracheotomy, and where the doctors angered us with their arrogance, was finally cured in Cincinnati. However, we were warned that while his airway would grow quickly, for several months it would be marginal and that Donnie (husband), Lizzie (oldest daughter), and I should keep our CPR skills current for those times when Doah might stop breathing. So, although we expected periods of apnea and knew that getting through these few months was the only way to get get Doah to the point where he could consistently breathe without a tube in his trachea, the apneic episodes were always unwelcome occurrences.

The first apneic episode after our return from Cincinnati resulted in my doing 15 minutes of CPR before Doah began to breathe again. While we were en route to the hospital, Donnie driving and I doing CPR (faster than waiting 20 minutes for a volunteer ambulance crew to be assembled), the local small-hospital staff contacted the Life Flight helicopter to fly Doah to, sigh!, Renboro Hospital. Even though Doah was breathing on his own by the time we reached the local hospital, he was whisked to Renboro.

Of course, we were not allowed on the helicopter with Doah, so we arrived somewhat later than he did. When I walked in, an ENT resident was sitting beside Doah and reading the ten-inch file on him. When he learned who I was, the doctor lectured, asserting that all the Renboro Hospital procedures had been correct, that I was an impatient parent who had erringly taken my child to another hospital, and that clearly Doah had needed a tracheotomy and still needed one because he had scar tissue in his larynx. He told me that an operating room was being readied as we were speaking. I explained the opinion of the doctor in Cincinnati, who had not replaced the tracheotomy when Doah had accidentally removed his breathing tube in his sleep: The problem was not the old scar tissue in the larynx but the new scar tissue caused by the tracheotomy that was now interfering with Doah's breathing and that if everyone were just to leave him alone, he would outgrow the problem. (We sure loved that doctor in Cincinnati! Dr. Robin Cotton is his real name, and he has a large fan club, formed of the parents of all the children whose lives he has saved.)

The Renboro Hospital resident patronizingly pointed to the laryngeal area. In condescending tones so typically used with parents, he said, "Right here is where the scar tissue is, and we must put in the tracheotomy again."

I was very tired from the CPR, the 45-minute drive to the hospital, and the late hour. Further, Donnie was still parking the car so I was alone with this insolent, obtuse (my opinion), and impolite doctor-in-training. At that point, I chose to talk to the resident in a language that he could understand quietly and calmly and, therefore, effectively.

"Doctor," I said firmly, "this baby does have subglottic anomalies, but the area of gravest concern is the site of the tracheotomy itself where there has been a significant build-up of granulation tissue." (Comfort with that language comes from my study of Greek and Latin--and much time spent reading medical journals.

The doctor looked at me for a minute or so silently. Then, he picked up Doah's chart and walked off with a monosyllabic comment, "Oh."

I fell asleep beside Doah, not waking up until morning. At that time, Doah was released without further discussion of another tracheotomy. We finally got Renboro Hospital to do it our way!

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Excerpted and adapted from a collection of vignettes I published about real-life events, copyright 2003.
Note: Also posted on Mahlou Musings and 100th Lamb.

Leave It To Beaver Training Camp

Apologies for the dearth of posts. Keeping blogs going when having to use a borrowed computer is difficult. So, I have been concentrating mainly on 100th Lamb. Even that has been a challenge. (Yes, my computer is still in the shop, going on almost two months, but I don't complain; the mother board, it turns out, was fried by an unnoticed power surge that, at any rate, should not have fried it -- the power adaptor should have been fried, too, but was not. The fine print exempted it from warranty coverage, but the local shop is trying to persuade the national shop to fix it for free, so I am waiting patiently. Waiting is better than having to pay hundreds of dollars for repair.)

I am still finishing my latest book (almost done), A Believer in Waiting's First Encounters with God (BIW), which continues where Blest Atheist leaves off. From time to time, I have been pecking away (well, until my computer died) at Raising God's Rainbow Makers (RGRM). By the time my computer comes back, I should have a BIW off for publication; the final edition is almost done, following feedback from ten readers of the pre-publication manuscript. My grand plan is to be all done this week. I will then be able to concentrate on RGRM, sharing some of those promised pre-publication pieces. In the interim, here is a short piece, which I may include, about Doah.

Most people's children learn from Sesame Street. Doah learned from Leave It To Beaver. That created some moments of havoc in the Mahlou household. Take, for example, the following event.

Doah, one early evening, clutched his stomach and started screaming in pain. When I tried to touch him, he would push my hands away and say, "hothpital, hothpital." He had no fever. He had no odd coloration or behavior or any other indication of illness other than the pain.

Since I don't generally try to cover up pain for myself or my children, preferring to root out the cause instead, I was forced to take Doah to the emergency room of the local hospital although I had little to go on except the unexplained pain, about which he continued to wail. The doctor, too, was baffled.

Trying to determine the cause of the pain, the doctor ran Doah through a series of tests. They took x-rays. They took blood. Doah continued to cry. None of the tests showed anything, but later I learned that the cost was nearly $1000 for all of them.

The doctor finally shook his head in consternation and said, "Look, we have no idea what is wrong here. There are no real symptoms that we can use for diagnosis. There are no signs of infection or injury. I just don't know. Admitting him for observation is probably not going to give us anything more than you can get at home. I would suggest that you give him something for the pain and observe him. If he develops any kind of symptoms, bring him back."

I agreed, and Doah and I walked out. As soon as we were outside, Doah stopped crying. He looked up at me with a wide smile. In a bright voice, he asked, "We get ice cream now?"

"Ice cream? What are you talking about?" I asked.

Doah explained, "Beaver get sick. Beaver go hothpital. Beaver get ice cream."

That ice cream cost me $1,002.59. I decided to ban the Leave It To Beaver Show!

Finding Doah

My continuing apologies for not being able to deal with graphics on this old computer--my laptop is STILL in computer repair land on the East Coast, and I am told that those experts have not yet figured out the problem nor made a decision what to do. In the interim, Word does work, and so I am hard at work on my next book, in and around travels and real work. I have completed six of nine chapters, and chapter seven is nearly done. As promised, here is an excerpt. It is a just-finished section of chapter 7, which I will post on all my blogs for which the topic is pertinent.

As a child and through his teenage years, Doah had a habit of slinking off, mainly from curiosity or because he wanted to go somewhere and there was no one to take him at precisely the time he wanted to go. It was not the kind of disappearance that a fully mentally competent child of the same age would make. Rather, it was a matter of marrying “want” with “immediate fulfillment” prompted by naivete and complete trust in the safety and kindness of the surrounding environment associated with the simplicity of mental retardation. Usually, we would find Doah a couple of aisles away in the grocery store, in the backyard on the swings, or at a neighbor’s house. Scarier disappearances, however, did occur, like the time he decided to walk down the middle of Lee Highway, the main thoroughfare in Arlington, Virginiua.

One Sunday morning when Doah was twelve years old but the size of a seven-year-old and with the mental age of a seven year old, I emerged from the shower and could not find him. I checked the entire house. No Doah. I checked the backyard. Empty swings. I checked with the all the neighbors. No visit to their homes that day. Frantic panic set up, and I began walking the streets in our subdivision, calling his name. Neighbors I had never before met told me that they knew Doah. Really? He had been wandering farther afield than I had known. When? I suppose I will never know the answer to that question. At the time, though, I was more interested in how far his wandering might have taken him. I returned home to Donnie empty-handed.

“Why are you losing time by walking all over the neighborhood?” he asked me. “Just think where he is.”

“Thinking” actually referred to what I often knew about my children from unexplainable sources. For example, I occasionally “knew” in advance that one or another would get hurt at school that day, creating a dilemma in that I had no way to tell a teacher to be careful and try to prevent the accident. No teacher would believe me, yet each time the child in question in woulds indeed return home with some minor injury. If I were sitting quietly, thinking about nothing at all, sometimes an image would appear of the child, either where the child was at the moment or what would happen to the child in the immediate future.

“Nothing comes to mind about Doah,” I told Donnie.

“Just calm down and think for a minute,” Donnie advised.

I emptied my mind and, blast!, in came an image of Doah, clothed in white with a blue belt. He was standing, surrounded by white. White everywhere. Well, one can imagine the worst possible scenario from that.

“I think he’s dead,” I told Donnie. “Everything around him is white.”

“What else?” Donnie pressed, knowing that I am one to miss details. “There has to be more. What is he doing? Is he saying anything? Is there anyone else there?”

Ah! I could not see whether or not there was anyone else there, but he was standing and clapping! Clapping? Church!

Although Donnie was agnostic and I atheist, we did allow our children to attend church services if they wished. Doah had taken up recently with a church downtown, about a mile from where we lived. He would get there by bus, or someone would pick him up. If the latter, the van driver would always come to our door, and that had not happened this time. Still, I knew Doah was at the church.

Donnie and I drove to the church apprehensively. What if he were not there? Then what?

I walked in the door and immediately knew I was in the right place. The inside of the church had been painted—all white. I wandered through one of the rooms, heard some singing, and moved in that direction. As I turned the corner, I saw another white-walled room, and there in the front row was Doah, standing and clapping, dressed in white clothes, with his blue money belt around his waist. Thank God!

I do not know how to interpret these out-of-the-ordinary experiences in my past. I find it hard to believe that such “help” would come from something demonic. Yet, clearly most parents do not find their missing children by emptying their minds and allowing an image of the location of their children to enter. In some ways, these images presaged how nowadays I approach contemplative prayer. Perhaps back then they reflected God’s way of dealing with an atheist in the only way she would (or could) accept.

Find the Angel

In nearly every situation, there is an angel who could help. They are often easier to find than one thinks.

Probably the most literal example was at a Christmas party held a number of years ago by a group of Czech immigrants who taught in one of the foreign language education programs I supervised at the time. They invited Doah, who has made a lifetime habit of asking people for help, to attend.

Doah did not know Bohemian traditions, but he quickly figured things out. All the children sat in a circle while Mikolaz (St. Nicholas) read a list of their bad behaviors during the year (prepared, of course, by each parent). The, for each, Mikulaz decided whether the devil, who was dancing up and down in gleeful anticipation near the child in question, could throw him or her into his sack for transport away from this world, or whether the child's behavior had been good enough or contrition deep enough for an angel, also standing nearby, to give a present. Each child quaked. Some cried.

When it was Doah's turn, he must have thought that there was no hope for forgiveness for him. Partway through Mikulaz's reading of Doah's "sins," Doah got out of his child, walked over to the angel, took her hand, and said, "I in trouble. You help me? It your job help people in trouble."

To this day, some people cannot stop laughing at what they perceived as the difference between the "American approach" and the "Czech approach" to a problem. Actually, I don't think Doah's behavior had as much to do with cross-cultural
differences as with his own skill at finding angels. Of course, the angel helped him.

----

Excerpted and adapted from a collection of vignettes I published, copyright 2003.
Note: Also posted on Mahlou Musings and 100th Lamb.

Our Friend, Bennie

Bennie called me today, trying to reach Doah. Now, he rarely has trouble reaching Doah. Doah calls him every morning very early and says, "Good morning, Bennie, this is your wake-up call." While most people would be annoyed since Doah is not very good at telling time and often calls when he wakes up, which can be as early as 5:00 a.m., Bennie (shown in the photo above with Donnie, Doah, and Noelle) at the Mission Thanksgiving dinner) loves it and worries if he does not get his wake-up call.

Bennie has been Doah's special friend since the two met. When Doah was living in Santa Clara, Bennie would drive up sometimes to have lunch with him. He also introduced him to Phil, a local police officer, who kept an eye on Doah and even took him to his house for Thanksgiving one year. Bennie has taken Doah fishing and camping, and Doah often hangs out at the Mission gift shop where Bennie works. After Doah's rape, Bennie took Doah under his wing, and for a few hours every day, Doah would spend time at the gift shop with Bennie. It did much to help Doah recover.

In addition to helping Doah, Bennie helps a whole host of people and even creatures of nature. A Secular Franciscan, Bennie takes very seriously St. Francis's commitment to animals and to poor people. With his brother, he has undertaken a project to clean up a stream in a nearby city so that the salmon, which had nearly disappeared, can come home to spawn. How did he do it? By enlisting the help of the homeless people living along the banks of the river. In return, he provided clothing, toiletries, and warm blankets to those people, no questions asked as to why they chose to live outdoors rather than indoors. (Some of them have alcohol and drug dependencies; some have other reasons for staying outside while shelters are, in general, available.)

Bennie asks no questions because he has been where these people are now. For many years, Bennie was known as a local drunkard. He is the first to admit the depths to which his life sank. However, thanks to the help of God and a decision to allow God to help, using the 12 Steps program, Bennie pulled himself out of that morass and commits his free time to helping others also climb back up to the dry heights of a normal life (however one might define normal).

Bennie is not wealthy. He makes a living by piecing together income from two different jobs. Although sometimes he does not have all that one might consider necessary even to "get by," he never complains, and whatever he has, he shares. Maybe because of this level of generosity and humility, Bennie has a special relationship with God. He assumes that his prayers will be answered, and they always are. He has shared with me understandings of what God might want in one or another spiritually significant situations. When I listen, often magic happens. Many people say the same thing.

How lucky we are to have Bennie as a member of our extended family! Or, just perhaps it is not luck but an intentional blessing.

From Bad Experience to Blessed Existence

I think I have blogged enough in September about Doah's rape experience that everyone is aware of what happened then. (If not, see Time to Quander.) What has happened since, though, I have mentioned less frequently and in less depth because things rolled out slowly, over time, to the point where they are now.

Initially, we brought Doah back to our home. Because he is severely allergic to our cats and cannot sleep where they are present, we made him a guest room outside -- in a backyard tent. He loved it, especially since he was the one who had talked a store manager into selling it to us at considerable discount a few weeks earlier. San Ignatio is a perfectly safe and always warm little town, so, except on checking on him occasionally throughout the evening and night and hearing his comfortable snoring, we had a temporary solution that worked for everyone.

In San Ignatio, everyone rallied to Doah's defense and support. Fr. E spent time talking to him. The Sisters of Atonement whose convent is located in San Ignatio showered him with love and kindness. (The picture above is of Sr. Delores and Doah at the recent Old Mission Thanksgiving dinner for the entire town of San Ignatio where Doah has helped with cleanup in the past -- as well as for the Old Mission fiesta days in the summer.) Bennie, who works at the Old Mission gift shop had Doah helping him there for a few hours a day to keep him busy while we were looking for a group home for him. Everyone in town seemed to adopt him and take care of him, distracting him from too much dysfunctional reflection on his bad experience.

Then, with the help of the state of California, likely the best state to be in if one has any kind of disability, we found him a wonderful group home in the nearby town where Shane and his family live. In fact, he is about a ten-minute walk from Shane, Lemony, Nathaniel, and Nikolina and a one-minute car hop from them. It seemed ideal. Then, we learned that the owner of the group home was from Russia, and his daughter managed the home. Lizzie visited shortly thereafter. She is about the age of Alex, Evgeny's daughter. So, the four of us and Doah went to lunch. Lizzie and Alex were instant friends, sisters even, lost from us in the excited comparison of the K-12 days in the schools of Moscow. They each knew the locations, behaviors, and customs that the other was talking about. Evgeny, it turned out, has a degree in my field although he is now working in a different field, so we, too, had a great conversation. It is so wonderful having Doah in a place that is just minutes away from us, safe, and where we can speak the language (Russian or English) of the owner. The relationship is entirely different from homes of the post where Doah has lived. Soon, thanks to the intervention and active support of Evgeny, Doah was back to work at Hope in another nearby city, where he had worked as a janitor and order fulfiller (Is there such a word?) when he first went into a group home at the age of 21 and is doing the same now. (In California and perhaps elsewhere, it is very difficult to get the full range of services, including employment, if one is living at home. More important, however, living with other young people has helped Doah feel and be more important and given us the comfort of seeing while we are still alive how Doah will manage when we are not.)

Another added benefit is that Doah can come visit far more often. Every day if he wants to. He can stay overnight if it gets late, but since his home is only 10-15 minutes away, there is rarely a need for that. He comes to Mass with me on Saturday and Sunday. In some ways, he owns this town. Everyone watches out for him, talks to him, treats him kindly, relates to him as another "townie." I mentioned this to the owner of a local gift shop, the former mayor, yesterday, and she replied, "Well, of course, he is a town son. That is just the way this town is." Thank God for places like San Ignatio. Small, humble, kind.

Good from bad. From bad to blessed. Isn't that the way God so often works in our lives? So much gratitude!! How does one express it all??

Doahisms

Today, after Mass, Doah and I went to lunch. During lunch, Doah caught me up to date on what has gone on while I have been out of town and what plans he would like to make. I realized after the conversation that I really have a 19th language almost under control: Doahan, the language of Doah. Not everyone is proficient in Doahan. Complication matters, Doah is nearly alingual in English, Russian, Spanish, and sign language and therefore Doahan often include parts of other languages as well, making it more complex. So, Doah's communication in general tends to take effort on both sides (listener and speaker). The gist of our conversation today was as follows:

1. He wanted to mind me to do something.
2. His boss was tired while I was gone.
3. He had been being have, or so he considered.
4. He plans to help out at the mission on Turkey Day.
5. He would like to go to see his Uncle Honk on either Ho Ho Day or Count Down Day.
6. Because it has been raining, he needs to find his rainbrella.
7. Because it has been raining, they don't need any cold heat at his group home -- not that they use it very much, anyway.
8. The crazy doctor is too far away now.

And now here is the translation.

1. He wanted to REmind me to do something. (Minding does not come easy to him, so I know that he does not mean the word he chose.)

2. His boss REtired while I was gone.

3. He has been BEHAVING, or so he considered.

4. He plans to help out at the mission on Thanksgiving.

5. He would like to go see his Uncle Rollie (dunno where Honk comes from, but it took and everyone in the family calls Rollie that) on Christmas (Ho Ho = Santa Claus) or New Year's.

6. Because it has been raining, he wants to find his UMbrella.

7. Because it has been raining, they have not needed air conditioning at his group home -- not that they use it much, anyway.

8. The psychologist he sees is far away (now that he has moved = he needs to find a new psychologist.)


How did you do? We are thinking of writing a dictionary with Doah, called Cold Heat and Crazy Doctor. Today's conversation was about par: I understood about 40% before analyzing and questioning and over 90% after doing so. Doah is usually patient about these communication gaps, but sometimes that patience runs thin. We might have to start teaching a course for friends of the family (family members, too, it sometimes seems) in Doahan.

Nonetheless, hamburger's at our local JJ's Burgers is a universal language. So, Doah had a good day, and so did I.

Saturdays with Doah

Today being Doah's birthday (#31), it seems the perfect day to blog about him. It will be a simple day, like Doah. Donnie and I plan to take care of home tasks until mid-afternoon. Then we will go pick up the ordered-from-Safeway birthday cake, take Doah on board, and wend our way back to San Ignatio for Doah to spend a few minutes with a pal who takes him fishing and works in the mission gift shop. (He cannot come to Doah's party tonight because he has to work a second job, so he wants to say happy birthday to Doah before Mass.) After Mass, Doah and I will join others from church and elsewhere, about twenty in all, at the local pizza factory to celebrate not only Doah's birthday but also Donnie's, which was November 1, and that of Evgeny, the owner of Doah's new group home, which was two days ago. Prediction? Lots of fun will be had by all!

For some time now, Saturdays have been our day with Doah. Of course, it makes sense, since Saturdays fall on the weekend. Now that Doah is nearby, we do such things as go to the Monterey bay Aquarium together. We are members there, and when we were living in Salts, a bus ride from the aquarium, Doah would frequently hop the bus to visit the aquarium. He liked watching the fish, but he especially liked eating the fish at the aquarium's cafe. His idea of how best to observe fish is not to look at them in the tanks (except for the otter tank which fascinates him) but to go outside and looks out over the ocean where they live. There is a special connection between Doah and nature. One feels this watching him in his natural environment: the outdoors.

We also drag him along on any shopping trip. Unlike me, Doah loves to shop, and he always has great ideas about how to spend my money.

Spending Saturdays with Doah made even more sense during those years that Doah lived in a group home in Santa Clara. Every other Saturday we would make the long trek north to have a few hours with him. I guess that is what is called quality time. It was always his choice, and his choice was always simple. Perhaps the simplicity is why we enjoyed those Saturdays so much. Mainly, we would go somewhere to eat and talk, both being equally important to Doah. Then, generally, we would stop into CVS, and he would pick out something to take to his group home, and I would purchase it for him. He would always pop out his CVS card, of which he is as proud as most young people his age are of their driver's licenses, so that he could get credit for the purchase. (I have never known what CVS does with the "credit" that goes onto those cards, but I figure if I lose my wallet, a good citizen will be able to turn it into a CVS store which should be able to contact me -- or is that delusional thinking?)

And those made up the majority of our Saturdays with Doah. The last Saturday in Santa Clara was spent at Subway. Doah and I finished our lunch early, so while we waited for Donnie we took a walk around the two-storey building in which Subway is located -- and around it again and then again and again. It was a nice walk albeit a tad directionless. At the end, we climbed up onto the second floor and took some pictures. Little did we know at the time that this would be Doah's last Saturday in Santa Clara. It was the following three nights that he was raped at his group home, immediately after which we brought him back to San Ignatio until we were able to find him a new group home, lucking out in finding one in a small city nearby.

That last Saturday was full of hope. The staff at the group home had been planning a fishing trip, and Doah wanted to pick out a fishing pole. So, we went to a camping goods store near Subway where Donnie, an experienced fisherman from many years of both spinner fishing and fly fishing (used to tie his own flies when we lived in Montana), helped Doah pick out an appropriate fishing rod. As we were leaving, Doah's eye settled momentarily upon a tent that was set up in front of the store, then settled there. "I want a tent," he declared.

"What would you do with a tent, Doah?" we asked.

"Sleep in it," he replied.

"Really? Where?"

"In my back yard." He as already beside the tent and starting to crawl into it.

"I want this tent," he declared. "Look. Cheap." He pointed to the sale sign.

He was right. It really was cheap. $45 for a $90 tent. While we considered it, Doah settled inside and declared himself at home in "his" tent.

Entrapped by Doah's enthusiasm, we headed inside to find the tent, although we were certain that the tent would never be used. Inside there were all kinds of tents, mostly rather expensive ones, but none were the model or price that Doah had seen on the front lawn of the store. We asked a salesman for help, and he determined that this particular model was entirely sold out.

"Sorry, Doah, they are all gone," we said, but Doah was not listening. He was not there with us any more. That kid can slip away faster than a greased pig at a pig-handling contest! We looked around and found him in deep discussion at the front of the store with the store manager. Now what? We hurried over to find out what was going on.

Amazingly, Doah had talked the store manager into selling us the tent that was on display -- and into giving us an additional deep discount on it since it had been on display. We paid, in all, $30. "Cheap!" Doah pronounced, and he was right.

We brought the tent home and put it in storage. After all, we did not believe that there would be any need for that tent. Ironically, we needed that tent only a week later when Doah came home to stay with us. While we were baffled as to how to balance Doah's sleeping arrangements and his allergy to our cats, Doah had an answer: "I sleep my tent back yard." And so we pitched Doah's tent in our back yard, and there he slept comfortably and peacefully every night until he moved into his new group home.

This is so like Doah. We make plans that we think will contribute to his continued development and integration into the greater world. We try to excite him with our sophisticated ideas and all that he could be involved with were he to develop some additional skills. Instead, he comes up with something simple, something we never anticipated, and something that turns out to be more meaningful than any of our plans for him. I have no idea how he knew he would be sleeping in a tent in his back yard, but he was convinced of it, and, lo, it happened.

With time as he has grown from infant struggling to live through years of special education to supported adulthood, we have learned to give up our dreams for him in order to live in his reality. It is a simple reality, and it brings him happiness. I have rarely known Doah not to be happy. He wrote a book once (of course, with my help), and it is a happy book (you can find excerpts on Mahlou Musings from time to time). Doah could not write something serious. He views life as a good place; he sees people as good no matter how they treat him; he "needs" only one thing -- to know that God is with him.

When we first moved to San Ignatio, which has been called by a friend of mine "a place drenched in prayer," Doah came to visit. On his first trip, he stood in our front yard, turned around a few times, then suddenly stopped and remained quiet for about as long as he ever can -- a second or two. He looked at me and announced solemnly and with obvious satisfaction, "God here."

The sacred simplicity of Doah is something greater than all the secular sophistication of our plans for him. I wonder who is really learning from whom?

My Children Are Unnumbered

I suppose you could take the title of this post in more than one way, and it would be accurate. I have four birth children, three others who moved in as teenagers, and four more young adults from the Middle East who call me Mom (and treat me like their mother) but never lived with me. And the number of them grows...

What I am referring to in this post, however, is the tendency that was rampant in my children's growing-up years to put a number to each child. That number, his or her IQ, then let him or her enter programs or denied him or her entry into programs. Control by number was the game of the 1970s and 1980s. It continues today, but at least is disappearing in many parts of the country. More and more educators and parents are beginning to realize that our children are more than numbers. Take my children, for example, who, by the way, for the most part, were never numbered by school systems or anyone else who might use the number to their disadvantage or to their advantaging over their peers. I would permit neither the use of IQ for program selection with them nor even testing them for IQ by the schools, but I did have insights into what their levels were and in three cases actually know the number the schools would have attached to them had they had the same information I had.

Lizzie, the oldest, learned much about life very early because of two multiple-handicapped siblings. She probably is gifted. She skipped two grades in school, and by the time she was in fourth grade was studying genetics as a hobby, sat through my university classes when babysitting was unavailable, and was taken into the university honors biology program (the only non-university student there). I could trust her with anything. The Red Cross trained her in CPR at age nine (four years younger than their 13-year-old prerequisitebecause she convinced them that she needed to be able to save Doah, who had a trach at that time, if he stopped breathing while I was in the bathroom); she was their best student (that had a lot to do with real-life, immediate applications of knowledge, I am sure). In fourth grade, her teacher, who had been reading Tennyson with her, proposed her for the gifted program, but that required an IQ test. I demurred because the gifted program was only part-time, would not stretch Lizzie enough, and would serve only to mark her as different from the other kids. I did take her on my own to a psychologist to satisfy my own suspicions that her learning styles (especially reflectivity instead of impulsivity -- we in the USA equate speed with intelligence, erroneously, in my opinion) would result in an inaccurate representation of her potential. It did. At least, it did to the extent that the test could even be scored. Lizzie, in pure Lizzie fashion, refused to give in to those parts of the test that required her to respond in a way inconsistent with her learning style. She is concrete by nature and needs to work from within context. When she was asked to define a list of words, she refused, commenting "words do not exist out of context; give me a context, and I will define them." Keep in mind that this comment from a 7-year-old, whose ultimate score turned out to be high average (probably inaccurately so). In high school, based upon performance and given the fortunate lack of an IQ score in the files which would have held her out of advanced courses, Lizzie was placed in the gifted group, working a year ahead of grade level (on top of skipping two grades), and by the age of 15 had taken two college courses and seven Advanced Placement courses in foreign language, math, and science. Today, she holds a doctorate as a professor of cognitive neuroscience. Not bad for high average IQ!

Noelle, of course, experienced some of the traditional difficulties that spina bifida children with hydrocephalus and Arnold Chiari malformation encounter: specific brain damage from placement of the shunt that destroys the part of the brain that deals with higher mathematical functioning. Nonetheless, Georgetown University Hospital at one point decided that it would be helpful to have an IQ test for her. Her IQ at that time was flat average: 100, just a few points behind Lizzie. However, because she was physically handicapped, she was denied placement in all but special education programs. We sometimes fought successfully to keep her mainstreamed; other times we lost that battle. In fourth grade, because she was in special education, she was excluded from the school's spelling bee. The next year, I began the fight early, she was allowed to participate, and she won first place. Nonetheless, during her years in special education, her IQ slipped down into low average levels; the hospitals, not the schools, tracked it for us, mainly out of curiosity as to how good and poor education and availability and lack of educational opportunities can affect IQ. Clearly, it can, when one compares Lizzie and Noelle, who started out so close. Noelle did complete two years of college, then dropped out to be with her significant other, Ray, who died earlier this year. Now that nine months of mourning have passed, she is working on returning to college. I suspect that in spite of being flat average, she will do fine, as she did in her first two years.

Shane began life very inconspicuously. Situated in birth order between two multiple-handicapped siblings, he pretty much raised himself due to our lack of time to spend with him. I usually found out after the fact what he could do. For example, at 23 months he could read books -- he read one to me; it was the first time I heard him talk (and he was not yet walking because Noelle, who could not walk, would pull him down whenever he stood up, afraid that he would hurt himself). At age 3, when we put him in the university nursery school, the administration moved him the next day to first grade since he was not only reading but also understood science and was able to do math calculations at fourth grade level. By the time he was seven and in the fifth grade, he dropped out of school. We took him to a school clinic for diagnosing educational problems. The answer: too gifted to be educated by public schools. Although we asked that the total IQ score not be added up and our wishes were observed, we were told that no one had ever before achieved a perfect score on the Wechsler math section. So, after money ran out for an ungraded private school, Shane grew up in homeschooling at a time when homeschooling did not yet exist. He studied with college professors, went off to college at 14, and is clearly my best-educated albeit least educated child. IQ unknown.

Contrary to my wishes, Doah's IQ was tested: 52. Two points above the category of "moron." We paid little attention to that. He was fortunate that our push to make sure he had only good teachers saw results. Our "near-moron" lives in a nearly unrestricted group home, was voted "class flirt" in high school (he was the most popular graduate that year -- no one will deny that assertion since his popularity made the front page of the local paper), is semi-lingual in five languages, can take care of all his personal needs independently, travels independently by bus throughout the county, and wrote a book that was exhibited at the National Book Exhibit in Los Angeles in 2003. He loved autographing copies! When his HOPE helper left, I overheard the departing helper say to the incoming helper, "This is a case of the greatest delta between potential and performance that you may ever see." That is probably because we chose not to react to Doah's number.

Blaine had obviously been numbered before he arrived to live with us because he attended the gifted program at the local high school. We know he is also dyslexic, but he manages to keep that under control as head of IT at one of the branch campuses of the University of South Carolina.

Ksenya and Shura have no numbers. Raised in the USSR, where all children were taught with equal expectations of full performance, they never encountered the need to be numbered.

So far, my grandchildren have not been numbered. Their school district appears more enlightened than ones of the past.

Now, I mean no offense meant to educators. After all, I am one myself (my organization is one that hires teachers and focuses on education). I understand why teachers, educational administrators, and school districts like to be able to label, categorize, and "file" students. It is easier and less messy than having to deal with each student individually in accordance with his or her learning strengths and needs. The latter, though, is the only way that every child will reach his or her full potential. Not leaving any child behind is not really the point. The point is for all children to enjoy learning and experience success in learning, and even special education children, taught in accordance with their learning styles and needs, can do that.

Even more important, though, are the traits that go beyond number: trust, resilience, kindness, problem-solving (rather than problem-creating), forgiveness, compassion, insight, faith -- those things that come from the grace of God. I don't care what number my children have. I care that they possess these other traits. I care that they are Good Samaritans. While I have been proud of their better school moments, I am prouder as I watch them sometimes literally go 200 miles out of their way to help friends and classmates. I have watched them accept foreign children into the family as brothers and sister, not complaining about the significant amount that they had to personally give up in order to accommodate their additional "siblings." These things are enough for me. I don't feel any need to know their number because God's graces come without number, innumerably.