As Jimmy and the bikers came to know each other better, Jimmy told his newfound friends what little he remembered about his past. His mother’s name, his grandpa’s name, and the name of a little town in Tennessee. He told them that his doctors had predicted that he had perhaps two more years to live, and that he wished to find his birth family and show them how much he’d learned—how far he’d come from his days of total dependency and noncommunication.
Two of the bikers decided to help. And so it was that I heard one day from my Michigan nephew, Tim. He told me about Jimmy, about his adoption, prognosis, and dream. Tim asked me if the wonders of computer database technology could find Jimmy’s birth family.
I tried a few tricks and got lucky. I found an address for the two people whom I believed were Jimmy’s grandma and grandpa Beckley. But adoption locates can be tricky, the results not always happy, so I penned a short letter to the elder Beckleys.
“I have reason to believe that you are the grandparents of Jimmy Beckley. If this is true, and you’d like to know more about your grandson, please call me at . . . ”
Soon thereafter the phone rang. “Mah name iss Walter Beckley,” said a heavy Appalachian voice. He was difficult to understand, not only because of his unfamiliar accent, but because he was crying. “My wife and I put our faith in the Lord,” he said, “and we’ve been praying every day and every night. We’re both in failing health, and the one thing we want more than anything else before we go to glory is to talk or see our grandson Jimmy.”
Following a flurry of long-distance telephone calls, culminating in the biker boys talking directly to the happy deacon, plans were made.
Next Sunday, the biker club will take Jimmy for another ride. They plan to share the good news at that time and make a videotape to send to Walter and Margaret. The next step will be to coordinate schedules and secure a motor-home that will accommodate Jimmy to Tennessee —and witness firsthand the miracle of a dream come true.
Cookie Bakke
[POSTSCRIPT: The bikers did indeed outfit a van to hold the wheelchair—and then drove Jimmy down to the small town where he’d spent his earliest years. They arrived on Christmas Eve. I heard that when they pulled into the driveway of the ramshackle mountain home, that two young women (the two sisters that Jimmy still had vague memories of) came running out of the house and toward the van. They were yelling, “Bubba, Bubba, Bubba . . .,” tears streaming down their faces.
I suppose that we all have to judge for ourselves how and why these events unfolded the way they did. All I know for sure is that most of those involved in this Appalachian Miracle will remember the experience and their own parts in it for as long as they live. ]
Cookie Bakke is a writer and speaker who primarily covers insurance and financial fraud. She currently serves as the executive editor of the John Cooke Fraud Report, as the associate editor of The Bulletin (magazine of American Mensa, Ltd.), and as a director of Fight Fraud America, Inc. Please e-mail her at [email protected].
*Some names have been changed to protect their privacy.
Out of the Mouths of Babes
I took my six-year-old son Nicholas, who has autism, to the doctor’s office for his flu shot. I didn’t want to tell him what the doctor was going to do for fear that he would refuse to go, so I told him it was going to be just a checkup. While I distracted him to prevent him from seeing the needle, the nurse gave him the shot. He never saw the needle, but, of course, he felt it.
But surprisingly, instead of crying, Nicholas was furious! All the way from the doctor’s room and through the crowded waiting room, he was shouting: “That woman right there hurted me! She took a sword and stab me! Right here in my arm! You are in big trouble, lady! Say you are sorry! Doctors are supposed to make children feel better, not kill them! You are in time-out until you say you are sorry!”
Nicholas ranted and raved all the way home. I think I’ll try a different approach next time. I hope the nurse isn’t still in time-out.
Rosita Ferro
Rosita Ferro is the mother of three. The youngest, Nicholas, was diagnosed with autism at age four. He is now a tenth-grader, attending the Habour School in Maryland, and looking forward to college.
A Classy Kind of Love
No one ever exceeds their wildest expectations unless they first begin with wild expectations.
Source Unknown
Bud was the kind of kid that every teacher wants in her classroom—a kind, funny, gentle giant of a boy who had a talent for making people laugh out loud. At ten years old and five feet, six inches tall, he towered over many of the other students and staff in our elementary school. His heart was even bigger than his body, and Bud was always willing to lend a hand to anyone in our school who needed help. It mattered not that reading eluded him and he was only able to do very basic math. His capacity to love and assist others more than made up for his struggles with academics. Bud often encouraged his classmates, and his enthusiasm made even the smallest gain seem like a trip to the moon.
Whether it was cheering on Elliot as he painstakingly navigated the hall in his walker, or praising Rachel for remaining in her seat during reading, Bud was the glue that sometimes held our uniquely diverse class together. Bud had one habit that was sometimes annoying, but often endearing: when he became interested in a topic, he fixated on it. He would talk for days about the same issue, rehashing it over and over until something better to discuss came along. Over the course of his three years in my class, I worked on trying to fix this, but by and large, Bud had the final word. Literally. He just kept on chatting away.
One day, Bud came to school and announced that one of his dreams in life was to be able to ride in a limousine. All week long, I heard about how wonderful it would be to cruise around town in a limo. But unlike many other topics before it, this one didn’t go away. Like a bad penny, the “riding in a limo conversation” kept coming back as Bud’s voice reiterated all of the wonderful, cool comforts that came with riding in a flashy black car with a soda bar. After a while, I got to thinking, Why couldn’t Bud ride in a limo? In fact, why couldn’t we all? Our little class of six was certainly small enough to fit into one.
I began thinking about each of my students. So many of their families struggled just to make ends meet. If we didn’t try to do it now, most of these kids would never get the chance to go again. This was an opportunity that we couldn’t pass up. After getting approval from the principal and making a few phone calls to limousine services, I hit the jackpot. One new company was willing to give us a discounted rate to take the class somewhere in town.
Excited, I couldn’t wait to share the news with Bud. “Wow, we really get to ride in a limo!” he shouted. “Where are we gonna go?” Hmm . . . where are we gonna go? A few more phone calls later, and we found a restaurant willing to foot the bill for drinks and dessert. A plan had been launched!
Excitement mounted as the date for the trip approached. We obtained copies of the dessert menu from the restaurant, and the kids pored over it to determine what they would order. We practiced table etiquette, and the children carefully planned what to wear to the special event. Since a few of the kids had never been in a restaurant either, this field trip was going to be doubly special. Overjoyed and exuberant, Bud exclaimed, “We should call the newspapers!”
Well, why not! Bud was thrilled as I placed a call to the local paper during recess, and he jumped for joy when the reporter agreed to cover our special event. By this time, the entire school knew of our trip. Children from the fourth and fifth grades were intrigued—and more than a little envious of their counterparts.
Almost overnight, my students, who so often struggled to maintain the most basic of social skills, were the stars of the school! Finally, the big day arrived. Bud was in the classroom early, chattering a mile a minute, and hopping up and down with excitement. Dressed in a suit and tie, complete with boutonniere, he was positively glowing. The other children soon followed, all dressed to the nines and anticipation show
ing on their faces. That electric energy that only children can produce was permeating the air!
We waited anxiously for 10:00, when we were to be called to the front of the building to leave. Minutes seemed like hours to the kids, who were having difficulty focusing on anything that didn’t tell time. Finally, over the intercom came the voice of the secretary. “Room 5, your limo has arrived!” Cheers went up, and the kids quickly fell into line to go out the door.
Since Elliot was the line leader, I opened the door for him so that he could maneuver his walker as we exited the room. It was eerily quiet as we traveled down the hall. It seemed odd that no one in our wing was in his or her classrooms. We slowly made our way down the corridor and past the front office, with Elliot setting the pace as he determinedly led the line. Finally, we turned the corner and headed out the door. As my eyes adjusted to the bright March sunshine, it took me a minute to realize what I was seeing.
We had opened the door to a sea of faces—602 of them, to be exact! The entire student body and staff had lined up along the parking lot to see us off! The clapping started quietly and quickly grew thunderous as six little bodies and two adults were escorted into the stretch limousine. A camera flashed and a reporter asked Bud to spell his name. It was glorious watching these children have their moment in the limelight! Rachel blew kisses to the crowd, and shy little Anton tried to hide his exuberantly smiling face. Elliot squealed in glee, Jonathon hugged all of his classmates, and Katrina flashed a peace sign to her friends. Once safely inside the limousine, the driver honked our good-byes to the onlookers while Bud exclaimed, “Wow, this is really amazing! I think this is the best day of my life!”
For a brief moment, time stood still, offering a generous helping of grace to these six children. Six hundred and two people gave back to Bud what he had so often given to them during his time at school. Six hundred and two special souls made six other special souls feel like a million bucks.
That electric energy that permeated the air earlier? It was still there, but in such a short time it had grown and multiplied exponentially. And this time, we had a name for it. LOVE.
Patricia Gillule
Names of students have been changed to protect their privacy.
Patricia Gillule has been teaching students with disabilities for the past twenty-one years. She enjoys spending time with her husband and four children, writing, and adoption advocacy. Currently, she and her family are in the process of adopting a child with special needs. Bud is now twenty-two years old and has just finished high school. He has a job working in the Piscataway High School cafeteria. Everyone there loves him, and people go out of their way to check in with him. Bud puts the same enthusiasm into lifting boxes and stocking shelves that he does into speaking, so we’re sure he’s a valued employee! Patricia can be reached at [email protected].
Swimming with John
Success—To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Last year, I read that one of our local autism organizations was partnering up with a local swim program. They agreed to pay half the cost for a six-week trial of one-to-one swimming lessons. I thought about this for months. I was so nervous to hand my son over to a stranger in the pool, even though I’d be right on the other side of the wall watching.
Jackson can be tough to work with if you don’t understand him. He does not talk—he has never spoken a word—and so communication is definitely very limited. For a three-year-old, he can actually be pretty intimidating. I was reluctant to sign him up.
I’m not sure why, but one day last fall, I changed my mind and decided to do it. I called the swim program and explained our situation. I shared my concerns about Jackson, and what I hoped his instructor would be like. They suggested John, and so we set up our first six-week session with him.
When we arrived at the pool, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The instructor was a teenager! My heart started beating fast as I walked into the pool area. I blurted out, “He has autism, he doesn’t talk, he doesn’t really understand a lot,” and so on.
John just smiled and said, “Okay, don’t worry about it. I’ll take it easy, and we’ll be fine.” And then I had to walk out of the room to the other side of the one-way glass. I can’t believe we’re doing this, I thought.
I sat with the other parents who were watching their children swimming, and I sobbed for the first ten minutes. But I need not have worried. My son was having fun. For the first time in his life, he was just like every other kid in the room. Most new things in his life are very stressful. This, however,was not. He was just a boy in the pool having fun.
We really couldn’t afford one-to-one swim lessons, but Jackson kept swimming anyway. Month after month after month, we signed up—always with John. There were times when John would be out, and Jackson would have to swim with a covering instructor. It never worked out. Usually it was because the instructor was nervous or uncomfortable with Jackson. He didn’t know what to do with him, or what he liked, or what he was capable of. I would end up walking back and forth into the pool room to talk to them. It got to the point where, if John was out, they would call us and see if we wanted to cancel. For Jackson, the lessons were wasted if they weren’t with John.
In March 2005, after Jackson had been swimming with John for over six months, I wrote a letter to the owner, telling him what a wonderful experience swimming had been for us. It was all because of John and his natural way with Jackson. It amazed me how someone so young (John was only eighteen) could be so wise, so kind, just so good with my son. We were extremely lucky to have found such a good match. Jackson was very comfortable in the water. He was learning to kick, to dunk his head under, and to jump in the pool. His trunk strength increased from learning to climb out of the pool, and he was very interested in the other kids who were getting lessons around him. Swimming class was just so much more than we had hoped for.
And the benefits carried over into Jackson’s daily life. He seemed more confident and independent. He became very comfortable in the water, and we really started to enjoy swimming together. It was a nice way to end the week—innocent, easy, typical fun, which was hard to come by for our son.
On Memorial Day weekend 2005, everything changed. I was away at an autism conference. My husband took Jackson to swimming class at 7:30 PM on Friday. He decided to take a picture of Jackson and John and send it to me on the camera phone. Later, when we spoke about that night, he told me Jackson was John’s last student for the night, and that John’s friends were waiting for him to get off work. Jackson swam with John that night and had a great time.
That was the last time.
The next morning, John was driving with a friend and had a terrible accident. His friend died. John was taken to the hospital where he was put on life support. We found out about it on Tuesday morning. John was taken off life support Tuesday night.
I have cried a thousand tears.
I am devastated by the loss of this young man, not only for the obvious reason—a young life lost, a sweet, kind young man taken away. But also for the not-so-obvious reason. This young man changed my life and gave me a gift that no one else has been able to give.
Jackson’s three and a half years have been difficult, complete with both medical and developmental problems. He has had surgery three times. He has undergone countless medical procedures and evaluations. While I was pregnant with him, doctors told me that he might not survive the pregnancy. Jackson’s life was difficult even before he was born. Almost every aspect of Jackson’s life has been fraught with worry—except for thirty minutes, once a week, when I got to be just a mom watching her son sw
imming around and having fun. I got to see what life is like on the other side, thanks to John. And that won’t happen anymore.
After John passed away, I went back to the swim program to bring some pictures for a scrapbook that they were going to put together for his family. I knew when I walked in that door that Jackson could never go back. I could barely stand there and hand over the pictures. I hardly made it out the door, crying through the parking lot, sobbing into my car.
Life just isn’t fair.
A few weeks earlier, I had talked to John about stopping swimming lessons in August. At this point in Jackson’s development, we knew that he was not ready to really learn to swim independently. He had gotten a lot out of his swimming lessons already—confidence, strength, socialization, and fun. He had achieved more than I’d ever expected. But we just didn’t want to stop yet. Even though it was expensive for us, Jackson was just having too much fun.
When we went to the wake, we introduced ourselves to John’s family. How could I explain to them what an impact he had had on our lives? What a special person we thought he was? How could we express how our lives would never be the same? My sorrow was so great that I could not even begin to imagine theirs.
I learned from his parents that John had always been a compassionate person. He had worked with children and animals for years. When he passed away, they donated his organs, and he helped save four people.
You saved me, too, John. You gave me a glimpse into a window that I hadn’t seen before.
We keep a picture of John and Jackson in his room, from the last day they swam together. I will make sure that Jackson understands what John did for us. He gave us an amazing gift, and we will never forget him.
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs Page 16
