Workshop Feedback
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"The representation of the branches intertwining expresses how we are all intertwined with the earth and with one another. Between the trees, each of us painted our own expressions and our different ideas.
"Life is a process. This work reflects the joyful and sometimes sad experiences of our lives.
"The process we went through was interesting. First, we all drew drawings. A fascinating thing we learned is that some people draw and paint other ways. Harriet uses a device called a headwand that fits onto her head like a bicycle helmet. Markers and brushes are attached to the wand with Velcro that allows her to draw. It was challenging for Michael to figure out how to paint with a headwand as he had never used one before. It was hot on his head, but he figured it out and painted wonderfully. Alan King uses foot adaptive equipment witch was made special for him.
"After sharing our drawings with the group we talked about them and decided what to do. Our process was slow, too slow for some. Yet. for others, the experiences was good because they got to interact and learn a new way of being and different points of view. Taking this time to interact and learn about others is part of being connected.
"For us as a whole, its been fun and spectacular since we've had a lot of change in our lives.
"If you have and questions or comments please contact Very Special Arts Washington at (206) 443-1843.
"To contact a specific artist, you can do so through VSA office."
Through the workshop process the group decided on the goal on showing the interconnectedness of all of us; disABLED, not diSABLED, with the earth and with nature. The six panels display connection in the trees and individuality between the trees. As you look at each panel, notice personal writings and individual paintings.
My responses to my words, life is short, and fed up, is my way of telling someone that, I do not have any clue what to do with my life. Like, I know I need to work but I have no idea how to do anything, to make a living or otherwise. That way I feel like my life is stuck in a black hole. I am kind of stuck, when it comes to having the know-how, to do some kind of work to do to make a good living. I am in need of help, in that way. I don't remember how to do sqat!
For several hours, the classroom had an opportunity to speak the word had asked of MD. Different is the word first listed, and the first given by me. Different is how I feel in this new world. Difference is my experience today. When I was originally injured, I had less than six months. I was still in a wheelchair, a walker, or just using a cane. That is, showing improvement wasn't good enough, moving without a wheelchair began five months after being injured. Two weeks later, I gave up the walker for using two canes. Two weeks I gave up using a cane to move around. So, less than six months after injury, I could walk! After the automobile induced injury, the first two months I was unconscious. The next most important difference to me was accurate and vital memory. My memory continues to improve greatly with time. I can call upon greatly improved memory, which improves greatly. Thank you God.
My ability to understand what I'm doing is better accepted by me. I try my best in memory recall. My ability impresses me, recall is greater different weeks. Thank you God.
Angels are real. Angels are not just for bad moments. I still recall the vision I had last year. Thank you God.
In addition to "different" and "Angels" is the third "word". I mentioned at our meeting, preference to be able to 1) walk, 2) talk, 3) remember properly. All these activities have been a challenge to me. I will continue to challenge short coming to them. Thank you God.
I have a question. I have bank card. Now what is my number.
I do not think that I am disabilities.
But I am just like you are but in wheelchair.
I would like to think all of us have a special gift to show.
That is we the disabilities have a feeling like you do,
and can we get a long with non-people
it is my pray we can get a long each other!
II. My future plans consist of retraining myself as a radiographer, work two years in the field and return to school to train as a CT or MRI radiographer work two years then apply to the companies that make the equipment, as a salesman. Salesmen in that position start at 100K+ expenses a year.
III. The injury The first accident occurred on July 94. My sisters Rosemary, Barb and myself were waiting at a stoplight when a man rear-ended us going at least 20 miles per hour. My sisters were hurt and I received a concussive head injury and four ruptured disks in my back. A year later on July 2, 95 I went in for surgery, upon coming out of surgery I was put on a morphine drip, (also I was diagnosed with sleep apnea and was supposed to be put to on a bi-pap machine every time I was sleeping) at 2 PM I nodded off without being on the machine, my sister happened by at 6 PM and discovered I was hardly breathing and I was a bluish gray in color. After quite an ordeal she finally convinced the nurses that something was wrong. When they came and saw me they freaked out, after countless injections of Narcon and pure oxygen I finally came back. My oxygen sat level had dropped to 23%. I couldn't talk but a jumble of words came out whenever I tried to speak. They said I would eventually regain my speech and then released me. I eventually ended up at a brain injury program they ran a spec scan of the brain, it showed marked brain damage to frontal lobes, frontal temporal and frontal parietal lobes.
I had lost my personality. My aspect was totally flat, I felt neither joy or anger I was emotionless. I would start to do some task and either totally forget what I was doing or I would be overwhelmed as to doing the simplest thing. Thank God for my sisters if it wasn't for them I would be dead or dying a long painful death.
A year later I was in yet another accident in which, again, I was a passenger and my sister was driving. We were stopped behind a car making a left turn when a man driving a minivan rear-ended us going 30+ miles per hour. I lost consciousness and awoke to 6 police and paramedics trying to get me out of the car.
It's been three years since then and I am still recovering. Trying to get back to where I was. My circle of friends has dropped to two people, one of which has moved out of the area.
My social life now consists of attending group sponsored by brain injury association of Washington and various doctors appointments. I am now in extreme pain all the time due to back injuries. I'm hoping and praying for a brighter brand new day.
Mother "Agnes"
friends-relationships
sense of humor
community-social
drawing-art
Mickey Mouse
Extraterrestrial
Flowers
Nurturing
Prayer
coffee-chocolate
McDonald's
My Diary
I don't even remember much. And I don't know how I have changed. All I know is that my life, since my brain was injured, has been very different. In a way, it has been everything I was afraid it could be, and in a way it has been a conscious and amazing gift. I was injured in a head-on collision with our hometown policeman and I had a seat belt on. But I was in a Rabbit--a tiny car, and the car came in and hit me in the head. At the time I had aspirations of working in the alternative technology field, working with technologies that encouraged the good health of our planet instead of destroying it, and I was also working toward a medical degree for the prestige I assumed I would need to make any sort of social impact. And because I have always been interested in science and human health. I had a marvelous time in the hospital and with all the encouragement that followed, and then things started getting hard. I flunked out of about 10 different schools and worked at all sorts of minimum wage jobs and eight years later figured out that I was brain-damaged. Mostly just because I kept ending up in BIF offices, no other reason; I honestly thought that I was just lazy and for some reason couldn't get my shit together and that made the difference in my performance. Now it has been eight years after that realization and now I can accept that, regardless of everyone saying they have had the same problems that I do and I do not have any brain damage, and regardless of the fact that I really don't feel any different except that my plans never seem to work--that I can still give myself the attention I need for being brain injured. That's a big one-- people always said that they have the same problems, simultaneously discounting any concerns I am trying to share and to work with. So here I am, brain injury and all, living each day doing the best I can and unaware of the changes that have happened to me and changed my life so much. Well, it's not so much that my life has changed, it's that it hasn't changed and I am now 37 years old, I think it usually changes by now. I think the experiences I went through while I was in the hospital was probably a most amazing experience that has been well worth the ensuing hardships. Plus, I enjoy my days largely, and that is good.
Jennifer Kettle
I may be disabled and have a brain injury but I'm here and alive. One has to love life. Because one doesn't know what tomorrow will bring. Enjoy life think about what you do for its short and could be taken away in an instant
{image}
From the center of the universe, where all things originate, the life energy spins out into the circle, which has no beginning and no end, thus our lives and the lives of everything on earth are intertwined relying on each other for life, death, rebirth and life. If there is a break in the chain it ultimately affects
Almost Died, but Some Know
I Lived
By:
Alan R. King
The title to this story has fit me well once or twice during my 41 years. My mom said I was born dead and it to the doctors 20 minutes to revive me. It was from this near death experience that I became disabled with cerebral palsy, due to the lack of oxygen to my brain. I am the middle child in a family of 7 with three brothers and three sisters. I lived with my family until I was 9 and then it became too hard physically for my family to handle me. My parents placed me in a state school for disabled children under 21. It was at this school that I learned to communicate with my left foot. A very creative teacher put small picture symbols together on six ordinary rolling pins. She then mounted the rolling pins on a frame of small steel tubing and made it so the bottom two tubes fit into the ends of my wheelchair footrests. I would use my left foot to turn the rolling pins and as years passed I became very quick at speaking to people. I was so used to the picture symbols that my spelling skills didn't get developed, which was not a good thing years later. I spent my years at the school doing many projects, such as playing the guitar and sewing. Mom has a picture of an embroidery piece that I entered in a fair which won a red ribbon. My feet have gotten me far in life. I had a job going from the different departments of the school delivering mail, and my rolling pins came in very handy talking to people. When it turned 21, it was my turn to depart from the school in which I had made so many friends with the staff and the residents. Seattle would be my next destination with many opportunities to seek, and I received my first electronic communication device. Many more followed trying to keep up with technology. I am currently using a liberator, which is the best talker on the market today.
Living with a tracheotomy and a feeding tube is no picnic! It has been two years this last April 19th since my life completely changed. It all started when I was not feeling well one day, and I was throwing up dried blood. My attendant, Carrie, became concerned and called 911. She thought it was my old ulcer acting up. Soon we could hear the first aid siren roaring down the street coming to the house. They checked to me out and suggested that I go to the hospital. An ambulance was called to come and get me, and off we went to the closest hospital, which isn't far from my home. I couldn't take my liberator with me because it's attached to my electric wheelchair. The ambulance couldn't take my wheelchair, so there I laid on the stretcher with only Carrie to interpret my head shakes and eye movements to yes and no questions.
In the emergency room they tried to pump my stomach out, but they gave that up because of the involuntary body movements of my muscles. Putting in an IV tube into my arms was a trip as well. I tried holding still, but the more I tried, the more I moved. The doctors and nurses who were working on me were trying to be patient and understand how my body worked. The doctors are going to send me home, but I was breathing hard to so they took a chest x-ray and there was a spot on my lungs. I had aspiration pneumonia with a fever. The doctor wanted to admit me into the hospital to see what was causing the fever. Sharon, my wife, who also has cerebral palsy, had taken the city bus to the hospital. She gave hints on her liberator to the doctors and nurses about how to make things easier for them to work on me.
I was admitted to the sixth floor, which deals with respiratory problems. I was just going to be on the sixth floor for a few days, but those few days stretched into six horrible weeks. Sharon was visiting me daily, but Monday night she asked if she could go Tuesday to one of her many meetings, which she attends quite often. I agreed to it, because we thought that I surely would be home at the end of the week.
The doctors had taken me off all my medication in the emergency room and to this day we still don't know the reason for that move. I went to bed that Monday night, and the next morning I woke up in a hot sweat. Now remember, I hadn't had any of my medications in four days. The medicine was to help me relax my muscles and to help my respiratory system. I seriously can say that I was going through bad withdrawals. I was up all Tuesday in my wheelchair sweating and stressing out to the max. It was that night when all hell broke loose. They had put me to bed around 10:00, and the nurse came in my room to check on me a little bit later. I was breathing funny, so a couple of nurses put me in my wheelchair to see if that would help. I was still breathing hard, and I was feverish. One of the nurses went and called a doctor to come and check what was going on with me. By the time the night was over, I was wearing a neck brace, and I slept in my wheelchair for the next three nights. I really should say that I cat napped, because of my breathing problems and my muscles always moving. Tuesday morning when Sharon came in to see me, I was talking to Kathy, the speech pathologist. Kathy told Sharon that I had had one hell of a night, which was the reason I looked so drugged up. I still wasn't breathing normally, and talking with my liberator was becoming more difficult. Kathy brought in a small letter board, which I also had a hard time using with my foot. She showed the nurses how to position the small board the so I could point to the letters and numbers with my left foot.
Up until then I hadn't had anybody who knew me stay with me at night, which quickly changed when everyone saw what kind of shape I was in. It was like the night shift didn't take the time to get to know me as a thinking person. They just did what they had to do medical wize and then they would leave. I felt I was just another body to them. Our main attendant, Kevin, and Sharon put a list together of friends and people who knew how to communicate with me when Kevin and Sharon heard of my nightmare. Kevin started calling people that very afternoon and soon the first week, I had a different person, who knew me, each night. Sharon helped me with communication on her liberator during the day when she was with me. Most of the time she would ask me yes and no questions that I could shake my head to answer. It was really helpful to have my attendants come to the hospital to assist with understanding what I wanted to tell the doctors and nurses. It was like we all had ESP with one another. The guessing game came in handy when I had spelled a word wrong or didn't know how to spell a word.
Doctors came to check me twice a day. On Friday I still was breathing weird and my lady doctor came in about 1:00. Sharon and I were in my room alone talking about what might happen to me. I was able to use my liberator a little that day. The doctor didn't bring good news. They had been taking x-rays of the spot on my lung with which hadn't changed for the better, even with me on antibiotics. The doctor took a listen to my lungs and then said, "We need to talk, Alan." She proceeded to explain that the antibiotics weren't working like she had hoped they would, and she highly recommended I be transferred to the intensive care unit down on the fifth floor. The first words which came out of my liberator were, "Oh shit. Why me?" I was scared plus nervous. Sharon had a good cry from just hearing the words Intensive Care Unit. She asked for Kathy, the speech pathologist, to be called to come for support. Kevin was paged to come as quick as he could. Sharon went and had the doctor call my parents to tell them the latest. Mom had been calling all week to see how I was doing. It's hard having your family 300 miles away from you when you are so ill. My family called the hospital several times to make the arrangements to come and see me during the weekend. Mom wasn't in good health, so she stayed home with one of my sisters and a niece.
My belongings and I were taken down to the Intensive Care Unit. They pushed me in my electric wheelchair, because I couldn't lay without my breathing becoming worse. Once in the ICU they started evaluating me. Sharon followed me into the room, but was asked if she would leave for a few minutes until they got my blood pressure taken and took care of other things. In a little while they asked Sharon to come back into my room to discuss with the doctor as to which route to proceed with my treatment of care. They asked if Sharon would give her written consent to put me on a ventilator. Sharon said it was my decision and that she would agree to whatever I wanted. I agreed to go on the ventilator, and then they told Sharon she had to leave until they got me ready. I was heavily sedated, so it would be easier to work on me. The next thing I knew I was in bed with a tube down my throat and a block in my mouth so I would not bite down on the air tube. My throat was in pain from the tube, plus they had put a catheter in my bladder, which was really painful. I'm sure if I had had good hands, I would have had that thing ripped out of me in no time flat. I was pretty out of it for quite a few days. I remember a few of my family members when they came in and out during the weekend. They kept saying goodbye to me, and it sounded like they thought I was dying. I guess I was pretty bad, because the doctors and nurses kept working on the spot in my lung. A respiratory therapist came in every two hours to use an instrument on my chest. The instrument wasn't painful, but yet it wasn't the most joyous sensation that I had ever felt. I used to my eyes to answer to yes and no questions when I was aware what was going on, and the letter board was used when I was fully awake, or if the person knew me well, and had the patience to guess what I was spelling out. My spelling skills had gone down quite a bit being as I was so heavily sedated, but I still made my wants known. During the first few days my eyes were completely shut and I responded by my rolling my eyeballs up and down and from side to side. Quite often I would not respond to the doctors and nurses, but when Sharon started yelling, "Alan," I would make an attempt to move some part of my body or make a facial movement, so she knew I heard her. There's something about a wife's voice that makes a husband listen, sometimes! Julie, a friend for many years, got a notepad of lined paper show visitors could write in it daily what was going on with me. It's interesting to read the notepad now. The nurses and doctors did explain everything they were doing to me. Sharon and the rest of my attendants made sure that was communicated to every shift that was working with me. I also had many IVs stuck into me in the ICU only to have them come out in a short time. Finally the doctors got smart and put one in the side of my neck, and that one stayed in until they took it out on the rehab floor when I went home.
Sharon helped with communicating to the professionals. The second day in the ICU a social worker came and saw me, and being as I wasn't able to use my liberator, Sharon took over talking to her. The social worker was respectful and I felt she heard what Sharon was relating to her. The question of if I would go to a nursing home or home when I was discharged came up right away, and there were lots of pros and cons to the question. My family was concerned that with my care increasing, it would make double care for our attendants. My first priority was to stay out of the nursing home and go home where I had my familiar surroundings and the people who knew my basic care needs. All the staff in the ICU were willing to train Sharon and my attendants all of my additional care. This was the top discussion throughout the week.
It was around the third day in ICU that they decided to try getting me up in my wheelchair with all my hookups of tubes and wires. The staff had not put me in my wheelchair, so Kevin was asked if he would come to assist. The first time getting in my wheelchair was a big deal being as I was all looked up. I didn't have my liberator on my wheelchair, because it was easier to transfer me in and out of bed without it in the way. I couldn't use it anyway. I remained in my chair a good five minutes before I went back to bed. Sharon was there when all of this took place, which I wanted. It was also on the third day that they started weaning me off the ventilator. I was started out by getting less and less oxygen from the machine and gradually I was breathing on my own. The morning came when they were going to take me off the ventilator altogether. The night before I had told Sharon and Kevin what time I wanted them to be there in the morning to support me on my big day. I had an idea that I would try and be off the ventilator by the time they came, so I had the nurse call Kathy to come and give me support while they took out the tube from my throat. When Sharon and Kevin came I wasn't in such as a great spirit than I thought I would be. My throat didn't relax and let air come through when the tube was removed, so they had to put it back in. Kathy observed that I had become nervous when they had tried it the first time and perhaps with Kevin and Sharon there they could help me to relax. Kevin suggested trying it again with soft music and him talking me through it. This was tried and again I could not control my throat. It was attempted a couple more times before a meeting of all us was scheduled to talk about doing a tracheotomy on me, so I could get off the ventilator. The doctor said there was a chance that I would need it permanently, which made me start thinking that I would no longer have my voice to make sounds. I thought surely I could work to get off the trach. On the morning they took me to surgery to do the tracheotomy Sharon came to be with me until they came and got me and all my equipment. It didn't take that long and when I returned to my room, all of the equipment was gone and I had a trach in my throat which hurt bad. I was kept sedated for a couple of days, but I could respond to my facial gestures for yes and no. I was in the Intensive Care Unit a couple more days before I was transferred back up to the sixth floor until the Rehabilitation Unit on the 8th floor had a bed for me. While I was on the sixth floor for the second time, I received a letter, plus several words, board that stood and covered the foot of my bed. I could point with my feet to words and at letters to communicate with people while I was in bed. Marvin, an engineer in the hospital, made the board for me. We've known Marvin for years, so it didn't take him long to figure out what I needed. It was also on the sixth floor that I received my biggest blow. I had always loved eating and ate big amounts of food whenever I felt like it, especially ice cream, root beer and chocolate. A huge discussion was held when my trach was put in whether to fix my throat so I could continue eating with the trach in, or take a chance that perhaps someday I could be able to take the trach out altogether. I chose the latter and went with a stomach feeding tube. This discussion set me into deep depression and I lay in bed and cried while I thought about all what I would be losing. Eating had been a big part of my life and now that too was being taken from me. The doctor repeatedly informed me that I would experience very little pain with the feeding tube. The doctor was wrong with that information, because I had horrible stabbing pain that continued for months. I kept returning to see if he could figure out why I remained having pain. We finally came to the conclusion that it was being caused by my cerebral palsy.
I received a new electric wheelchair while I was on the sixth floor too. I was in that new wheelchair for the biggest part of the day, but there wasn't very much practicing space. I could work the foot switches pretty well, because they had been modeled after my old electric wheelchair. My liberator was mounted on my new chair, and I could carry on a conversation, but I would require more training when I got on the rehab floor to come up to my previous communication capabilities.
My dad, my youngest sister, and niece came to visit me while I was still on the sixth floor. In fact, they were visiting on the day that I was transferred to the rehab floor. I felt like I was going home when I moved up to there, because I had stayed on the rehab floor once or twice before when I was evaluated to get my new liberator. It was like going home after being on the floors of the hospital where people had to be trained on everything about my care. It was a big relief off of Sharon and my attendant's shoulders to know that I would be listened to, and the staff would take time to let me communicate on my liberator and really figure out what I wanted to tell them. The main goal on that floor was to discharge me either to go home, my top priority, or to a nursing home that had people my age. Dr. S., my primary doctor, had many team meetings over the next month with Sharon, Kevin, Kathy, 2 to 3 of my primary nurses, a social worker, plus other doctors to see what would be the first route to take. Dr. S. kept my first priority always in the foreground. In order to remain on the rehab floor, one has to have a daily program. I chose speech, physical and occupational therapy. I was no longer in my room when visitors came like I had been on the other floors. Every time one of my pastors came for a visit I was out doing something, so one day Pastor Nancy left me a note saying, "Alan, if you need anything, call." Sharon usually hunted me down and sat and waited until my therapy session was over and then we would wait in my room for Kevin or Carrie to come so we could either go outside or down to the cafeteria. The subject of going down to the cafeteria was a subject in itself. When I first got my feeding tube on the sixth floor Sharon asked me if I would rather not have her eat in front of me. I thought over her question and then shook my head, no. I wanted the company more than having people not eat in front of me, even though it was torture at first. It was hard on my family and friends not to offer me my favorite foods, which I have already mentioned.
I had worn Dr. S. down enough about me going home, that at the end of the second week he said the respiratory therapists could begin training Kevin and Carrie how to suction my trach and take care of it. The first few times wasn't that easy, but has time grew nearer for me to leave, the task became easier. My feeding tube also required new training, which the nurses did.
The big discharge they arrived and I was happy, but a bit afraid too about how everything would go once I got home. The rehab floor had become my place of security for the last month, but I knew I had to take the big step from my safe nest. I honestly felt that staff had done a marvelous job training both Kevin and Carrie and, and that it was up to all of us to carry the training on. My bags were packed and placed on a cart for transport. The social worker had made arrangements for a visiting nurse to be at my house when I got there. A nurse called for a wheelchair to come and get me. The same nurse went down with me to the van, and as I got on the van we both started crying. I had wondered many times as I laid upstairs in my bed if I would see my home again.
I began crying like a baby when I drove up to my house in my electric wheelchair. They had made big old "welcome home Alan" signs and the signs were up all over the house. In my head popped the song, "It Feels Good to Be Back Home Again."
The hospital experience has not stopped me from getting out and continue using my liberator to talk to people. I've got plenty to communicate to those who take the time and have the patience to listen to me.
Typed by: Sharon Jodock-King
For several hours, the classroom had an opportunity to speak the word had asked of MD. Different is the word first listed, and the first given by me. Different is how I feel in this new world. Difference is my experience today.
How many brothers and sisters
1 sister-Joyce
Joyce has children
I was born half dead, I am very smart with computers in fact I fix them and I love art, I enjoy movies, my favorite actor is Patrick Swayze, my favorite movie is Kick Boxer II. I am very handsome and very likeably and an extremely good sense of humor. I would like to draw people for a living and I like to girl watch.
FORWARD
Most books and articles are not written by the learning-disabled. I feel it is time to speak out and become an advocate for those similar to myself who have been going through life dealing with other people's expectations, never being able to live up to those demands.
Most of the stuff is written by doctors or educators who do not have disabilities or have not been as severely impacted as I have. When I was in college, one of my teachers suggested that I write my original thoughts and ideas, but my problems around the physical and organizational aspects of writing defeated me. My creative thinking is more than adequate, and now I have someone to type for me while I talk. We proofread together, she sends me a copy, we revise, and eventually, we are satisfied with the product.
I believe it would be a benefit to your readers to read this to gain insight into the world of the learning-disabled.
Gail Smith-Schilling
A LEARNIN G-DISABLED ADULT'S POINT OF VIEW
Sooner or later, disability happens to everyone who lives long enough to experience it. At the age of 89, you're likely to be a little wobbly and require a cane for stability. Eyesight might fade, hearing will probably deteriorate, memory will probably change. You might remember a childhood incident clearly but not remember where you put those glasses and hearing aid. Learning new skills such as keyboarding, becomes more difficult. The difference between disability and old age is the age you are when it begins and the pervasiveness of the afflictions.
Perhaps, like Christopher Reeve, you will have a serious accident before you grow old. None of us wants to anticipate such a thing, but just imagine with me. The hand you write with has broken bones, so you now must write with the other, awkward hand. You've had a concussion and have memory problems such as recalling a specific word; one that describes something you need a friend to bring to the hospital for you. Your brain is playing other tricks on you such as recalling the beginning of a funny story you are telling to visitors in your room, then the end of the story is gone without a clue. You laugh in embarrassment, then someone changes the subject. After they go, the rest of the story comes to you.
When you are finally released from the hospital, you go home to your family. You feel on edge, being somewhat handicapped. You are able to walk and do most of the physical activities you always did. Friends say you look well, but neurologically, you feel impaired. Confusion has become your usual state of mind.
You begin writing a note to thank a friend for sending you flowers and a get well card. You must concentrate very hard to form the letters with the uninjured hand. Inexplicably, the letters "p, d, b, and q" seem to shift position as you look at them. Spelling does not come naturally to you anymore. You stop to look up a word in the dictionary, but you have to consciously think about which letter comes after "s" or "w" and the task becomes discouraging.
You decide to use the computer instead of struggling with handwriting, because spellcheck is so handy. As you place your hands on the keyboard and look at the screen, the message to type certain letters doesn't seem to get from your brain to your fingertips. You realize as you try to type the first word slowly that this will take a painfully long-time. You decide to put off the writing task until you feel more in control, whenever that may be. Maybe someone will type it for you as you dictate it.
want to help you cope with your new disabilities. One friend suggests that you write yourself notes. You wonder how long it would take you to write the note, where would you look first for the pencil, and how would you find the notes when you need it?
Your estranged spouse claims that part of parenting is providing a clean environment and presents pictures of your messy house in court. The opposition lawyer raises questions regarding your ability to parent adequately now that you have some physical and neurological impairments. Child support payments are in question, since you are on leave of absence, not unemployed.
A psychologist appointed by the court interviews you briefly and writes about your handicaps as if they are the most important aspect of your life. Some of the assumptions she makes do not seem accurate to you at all, but the time she spent questioning you was brief. Medical and court personnel are focusing on your neurological damage and have forgotten your abilities, such as your interpersonal, verbal, and artistic skills.
Your life seems to be falling apart. Are you ever going to recover all your capabilities? Will you ever be able to pursue a career? Will you be able to save your marriage or find someone who understands the real you and is able to ignore the disabilities?
If you are able to imagine the above scenario as a possibility for yourself, then you have an idea of what Gail faces every day. But her disabilities began before birth, she will never heal.
Dr. Doerr, a neurologist at the University Of Washington Hospital, testing Gail extensively in 1993. Her higher level thinking skills and her verbal skills are excellent. Dr. Doerr diagnosed Gail with "Apperceptive Visual Agnesia" which is found in some cases of brain damage. While Gail's mother was seven months pregnant, she had been medicated for a tapeworm twice, medicine strong enough to poison the worm. Doctors did not expect to deliver a live baby. Although she was very much alive, the poison seems to be the cause of damage to the brain of the unborn baby, Gail.
COPING
Not all children outgrow learning disabilities such as those that cause difficulty with reading or writing or arithmetic.
Beginning with my first year, school was a boring and miserable experience. My first grade teacher seemed to be a person with very narrow experiences. She told us she had never been out of the state of Washington. I remember standing in front of the class during Show and Tell holding my petrified wood from the Arizona petrified forest. My family had been living there in Fort Wachuka. We went on an outing to the reservation, and I picked out the piece myself at the rock shop. This was my prize rock which I was eager to show to my classmates. My teacher looked at me standing in front of the class and said from across the room, "You're lying. That's not what petrified wood looks like. Petrified wood is brown!"
"It is so petrified wood." I was stunned. Mine is yellow, red and blue, and I still have it and treasure it. That teacher had only seen petrified wood from the Ginko forest in Eastern Washington. I vowed right there to "never open my mouth in class again," and I did not speak in class for seven years even if my teachers asked me questions. I won't talk in a group now even if I have plenty of ideas. I decided at that moment in first grade that I would never be suckered in again.
I always understated much more about people's motivation and characters than they thought I saw, but I had to be quiet about it. People treated me like I was dumb; I wasn't. I just couldn't do the mechanical aspects of schoolwork: writing, spelling, mathematics--in the timeframe required. Some things I couldn't do at all. I was not learning by the same educational methods that most kids were required to learn by. I could still think intelligently.
In my school, I still couldn't write in a straight line without lined paper, always at a slant across the page. My mother wrote most of my reports, but insisted that I be there and discuss it with her. I learned from listening to her and participating in the composition of the reports.
In my junior year of high school, I read Silas Marner and Scarlet Letter for enjoyment, which was a phenomenal feat for me and the beginning of my love of literature. When I was about 19 or 20, I was finally able to read for enjoyment. Five years ago I read War and Peace which took me five months interspersed with other reading including The Russians, which gave me some perspective and foundation of understanding that culture.
People will look at the surface of a person and conclude that what they think they see is what is true. Actually, they make judgment, judgments concerning things they know nothing about. They look at a person's behavior in certain issues or events and decide they are an authority on the meaning behind the behavior. You see and hear it all the time, statements like "that child is spoiled." Or "he's a bad boy." Myself, I've had people say I'm obsessive or controlling, angry, chaotic, or unstable. Are blind people obsessive because they require furniture, clothing or dishes in the same place all the time? The more scattered my environment, the more scattered I become. I can focus on just one thing at a time.
My house is messy because I can't pick up as I go like most people do. I have to think about where each item goes, and if it doesn't have a specific place, I'm in trouble. Normally, I don't even notice where I put things, because if I let my attention he pulled off the priority task at hand, I won't be able to retrieve my former course of action in any reasonable timeframe. Does that make me rude, inconsiderate, irritable? No, I am just panicked, because I have to meet someone else's time schedule, and I'm usually way behind.
I have a natural, inborn priority system: if it's alive, it's important. If it's not alive, it's not as important. First, my son, then his friends, then other children, then the cat, the guinea pig, the fish, other animals, then plants.
I've been caught in a "Catch-22" since birth. This is how it works. I am constantly stuffed into one or the other of the following categories:
People treated me as if I were developmentally disabled, or they demand that I perform tasks which are impossible for me to achieve.
The results of #1 are that I have far more understanding of others than they do of me. People underestimate me and give me little lectures like I'm a child or slow witted. Some talk about me as if I weren't there, act like I shouldn't interfere when they are making decisions that will affect my life, and oh yes, act like it's a miracle when I make intelligent statements, as if Helen Keller were speaking for the first time.
Conversely, those who see me in the second category, "normal," make assumptions such as, "of course, you can be neat, everyone can! Of course you can type, use the computer, ride a bike, swim, do graphs, balance checkbooks quickly! Only dummies can't spell or write neatly. Only inconsiderate people are late. Only slobs who sit around on the couch all day eating bon-bons have messy houses. What's wrong with you? Why don't you try harder? If you would just apply yourself! Just shape up!" In other words, people berate me because they don't like the way my disability inconveniences them. What nerve!
Some people judge me by seeing my disabilities and don't see my abilities. People think children with disabilities can grow up and be waitresses or work at some kind of manual, entry-level job. What an unrealistic expectation this is, and what a put down!
I bet if these people saw themselves through my eyes or those of others like me they would be appalled at their callous attitudes. But they can't see how wrong their attitudes are, so they will go on believing this myth, setting unrealistic goals for some young people, and having devastating effects upon the lives of those who can't fight back. Teachers especially are vulnerable to this attitude as are officials of our judicial system and medical and governmental personnel.
Gardening and yardwork is possible for me if people don't have expectations of time schedules to be kept. Those jobs are few. It's the places where I have to do paperwork or be on time where people are mad at me, due to my disabilities. (Different disabilities have very different results. My plumber is practically illiterate, but he knows plumbing and likes the challenge, and he is fast, thorough and conscientious. He also owns two homes and numerous rentals.)
Practice does not make perfect in my case. If I mention that I can't do something, usually I get concerned little lectures regarding my "obvious case of low self-esteem." "Don't say 'can't. Think positive! You are giving yourself negative messages! You just have to try harder and make up your mind you are going to do it! You give up too easily!" I've heard these responses all my life.
I can't abide people telling kids or anyone "you can be anything you want to be." I want to be an All-Pro black basketball star. I want to be seven feet tall and as talented as Michael Jordan. I want all the attention and the skill, fame and money. Think I'll get it?
No eye-hand coordination
5'1"
female
White
weak ankles
directional confusion
short legs
106 pounds
great personality
GOAL
ball handling skills
7" tall
male
Black
strong ankles
know which basket to aim at after halftime
long legs that look good in shorts
250 pounds
great performer
I know I can do it with enough practice and visualization techniques! The likelihood of my becoming a typist or a calligrapher is just about as likely.
PAPERWORK AND ITS RESULTS
The United States Bankruptcy Court, Western District of Washington, Seattle Division told me I had a deadline to file an objection to my ex-spouse's bankruptcy. I missed the deadline for Bankruptcy Court due to a misunderstanding and lost the minimal settlement allotted to me by the divorce court. I can't keep track of deadlines for three courts: Superior, Supreme and Bankruptcy Court. I can keep track of the basic routines of daily life, but even they take a lot of time and concentration. My lawyer had not helped me, so I dropped her and was attempting to find help elsewhere.
It took me about six months to get on welfare, because I couldn't get all the paperwork right and get it turned in on time. My mother finally did the paperwork and reminded me continually until it took them to the office. Meanwhile, it was time for my "Food Stamp Revue," I was six days late getting the new paperwork in four food stamps. They gave my son and me the Aid for Dependent Children grant and took me off food stamps. Then my income was less than when I got food stamps and child support. I wasn't entitled to help with paperwork because I was on Aid for Dependent Children, and only people on "Disability" Welfare (SSI or GAU) get help with forms. One cancels out the other. When paperwork is due for revue, I miss the deadlines, so then they cancel my food stamps or assistance.
Checkbooks: I don't balance them. I try to use cash. It used to take me three hours to balance it while my son was in day care, so it cost me $9.00 for day care every time. It just wasn't worth it even though I could eventually complete it. One thing I am good at is teaching math to grade school children who have trouble with it. I can always find ways to make math realistic to children, because I've had to learn so many ways to make math work for me.
IRS forms: I assume other people have filled them out correctly, then I sign them because I'm required to, not because I've checked them and approved them.
Other forms: I just don't fill them out. Needless to say, I don't get a lot of things I could if I were able to fill out forms. The new stove I bought had peeling chrome. GE wouldn't do anything on the basis of a phone call, nothing unless I wrote a letter. So I just put up with it. Now all the knobs have fallen off, so I turn it on with a chopstick. General Electric doesn't stand behind products owned by people with a writing handicaps!
In an attempt to get an advocate to work between me and my lawyer and the court, I applied to all the following agencies at least once and most between three and five times: Washington Protection and Advocacy Service, Disability Law Project, American Civil Liberties Union, Women's Law Project, Evergreen Legal Services, Washington State Bar Association (Pro Bono Program), Social Security Income, Services for the Blind and Partially Sighted, Community Services for the Blind, Catholic Services, Chore Services, Bridge Ministries, and others. They all turned me down, but because my disability didn't fall within their administrative domain. I fell between the cracks.
WORKING FOR MONEY
My problems were in getting to work on time and writing reports. In the last school where I worked, the principal considered those two items far more important than the work I accomplished with the kids. When it became gravely ill from a gas leak in my furnace at home, I had to take disability leave, and I have not been reemployed by the schools. What I wanted to do was get a Master's Degree and work with kids who have lags in reading and math skills, Chapter One classes.
I am project oriented. My personality style (ENTP, Myers-Briggs) determines that I work until I finish a project, and then I'm done. Or, if I don't finish it before my energy runs out, I'll never finish. If there is no mystery left in the project, I'm done.
TESTING: THE THOUSAND DOLLARS DAY
The first testing was at Associates in Behavior and Child Development conducted by a psychologist, which cost $350. That was a general test to find if further testing would be advisable. They recommended that I get my eyes tested, read about Attention Deficit Disorder, and see a specialist in finding careers for the learning-disabled. But she did not suggest that I pursue more testing. She knew money was an issue for me.
My attitude changed immediately upon receiving the testing results. I began to refuse to allow others to dump their dissatisfaction on me about areas of my abilities that I could not change. This caused great consternation in those accustomed to trying to force me to comply to their expectations of achievement for people.
When I was going through a divorce, the crisis led me to go to the University of Washington for neurological testing. The thousand dollar test showed that I did not have Attention Deficit Disorder but a neurological disability called them "apperceptive visual disorder." I Attention Deficit Disorder did not fit, because I'm not distracted by outside stimuli and actually have a long attention span.
After I was tested and given a diagnosis of apperceptive visual agnosia, I could better sort out what I might be able to accomplish. With the documentation for my disability, in January of 1994 when I was 46 years old, all the belief that I should be able to do all these things expected of me was gone. Realizing that I am physically unable to do this whole range of tasks for a legitimate reason came as a tremendous relief to me. Now, I could settle down to figure out ways to work around the obstacles confronting me every day, rather then give myself lectures about what I should be able to do. I knew I was smart enough to do many things, but still could not achieve up to my own expectations.
VISUAL ASPECTS
Clocks: I finally figured out how to tell time by the clock face is not long before I was 35. The direction the hands should turn is so hard for me to see and remember. If someone says, "counterclockwise," I have to stop to visualize the clock face and remember which direction "clockwise" is first.
Puzzles: my son, Kellen, and I do puzzles together. At age 3 1/2 she was much more adept then I am now. I just do the edges, and I do that by colors. He does not have any disabilities. Kellen can put whole sections of a puzzle together. When we were working on a dinosaur puzzle, he said, "I want to do the teeth, Mommy." Whereas Kellen can do a whole section like that, I can only put things together by color and by shape (if they have a flat edge that goes along the sides)!
Screws: I bought an electric screwdriver so now I never have to worry about which direction screws go in. Screws and turning knobs are designed for right-handed people and those who don't have directional confusion.
Mathematical arrows: I saw them for the first time in 1993 while working as a para-educator correcting papers in school, Chapter One Math. I had to tape the arrows on my desk with the corresponding phrase for "greater than," "less than" and carefully compare then each time I corrected a math paper, all year. The teacher thought it strange that they should be difficult for me.
Charts: I had to keep a chart for each student with skill areas to be marked off each school quarter. I cannot find someone's name, then scan across to the corresponding column. If I blink, then I'm lost. I started filling them out in different colors for each quarter. I am not efficient at using graphs and have no hope of acquiring this skill.
I can't type, ride a bicycle or organize (except by color, shape and texture). I can't use a computer, especially not with a mouse. Typing one paragraph takes me two to three days working approximately four hours a day. (I tried my best in four completed typing courses and one computer course)!
I cannot make a straight line with a ruler. I can cut around, but I can't cut in a straight line even if the line is already drawn. But I am a precision gift wrapper, because I can fold perfectly and cut the paper with a knife. Paper cutters are all for right-handed people who can line up the paper with the little marks on the ruler. I can't do that.
I can shoot a gun, because I can't aim. I can't play pool, carts, baseball, nor bowl (all gutter balls). I cannot watch football, tennis or soccer. When at sports fields, courts and arenas, one must not only know which is your team but also remember when they have switched sides of the field or court at halftime. Football is the worst: it's a mystery to me where the ball is or how it gets there due to my inability to track objects. They even hide it under their arms!
TIME SEQUENCING
"Time" issues are a primary source of aggravation for others when dealing with me. They are also one of the primary sources of hostility toward me. What methods can I use to try to arrive on time? All my clocks are about 1/2 hour ahead. What has worked in the past was to pay someone to call me at 6:00 AM everyday. I needed to get up at 5:30 AM to get Kellen to school by 8:30. One person helped me for awhile, and even though she did not call me at 5:30, she called faithfully at 6:00. Then she would go take a bath and call again at 6:30 and ask, "Eyes open? On your feet? Kellen up? Kellen's lunch made? Kellen dressed?" She would call every 15 minutes until 8:00. She would ask me what I had done and what I needed to do, give me a timeframe to do it, and this helped to break my work into manageable pieces. This worked quite well after about two weeks in operation. This arrangement lasted about six or seven months, and this is what I need all the time.
MEMORY RETRIEVAL
My memory is a little like electrical wiring with a "short". My ability to retrieve is not consistent. Sometimes the thought escapes me before I can formulate a statement about it and pull it back, like a fish on a line. Thought retrieval is very tricky for me at all times. But I have a great memory. The pieces are there, and they come back up, but not always at the moment I want them. My brain is like a mainframe computer at the Pentagon with an antique grade school Macintosh delivery system.
I have a random thinking style and I think quickly, but my thoughts don't hang around very long. To answer a question that is more complex than yes or no, I must talk through all the steps to get the answer. It's like a dot-to-dot maze.
Answering questions with short, succinct answers is impossible for me. It is as if I want to call Hawaii, but the connection must go to Seattle through Denver, New York, Chicago, Anchorage and Tokyo in order to get to Honolulu. To access the memory cells I need, I must search my brain for many different connections to find the right string to pull out. The thoughts are connected in random order, compared to other people's learning styles. Actually, they are not in random order to me: there is a definite pattern connecting particular groups of thoughts, all logical and sensible to me. It would not be a problem for me if it were not for the rest of the world informing me that I should be like the majority of the population.
What makes this even more confusing to the average "concrete-sequential" thinker is that what I am describing is a combination of "global, abstract, random" thinking style together with the effects of my disability. This places me in a tiny minority group among thinkers and learners.
ORGANIZATION
I do best when the structure is already provided for me in the workplace, freeing me up for creating the project. What I really enjoy is putting up art displays. This fits with my testing, which indicated that my abilities are in: window display, kinesthesiology (study of movement therapy), theatrical production design, costume design, and art therapy. I will never be able to do any of these jobs due to lack of money and the unwillingness of schools to accommodate my disability.
It is so hard for me to start over after being interrupted during a task such as doing the laundry, so I hate to stop until I'm finished. This makes me late sometimes.
Usually, when I go upstairs, I forget what I went up to get it. I go downstairs, stand in the spot where I was when I thought of it, and go upstairs again. I might go through this process five or six times to accomplish some little task. I cannot carry anything up with me, because I have to keep in mind where I intended to put that item away, so I'll forget what I went up there for again and again. In the meantime, my son is talking to me, and I'm trying to listen to him.
Menial jobs are not relaxing for me, because I have to concentrate on every movement-- think about each piece: paperclip, rubber band, paper, and each sequential step of the process of putting them in order. I can't let my mind wander and to be creative while I wash the dishes or sweep. Gardening allows my mind to relax unless I'm doing picking up tasks. While cleaning up, I get so confused I feel lightheaded. The trap is that if I admit the difficulties of processing menial stuff to the wrong authority, they conclude that I have no cognitive abilities and therefore they treat me like I am and might need a court-appointed guardian. However, my testing scores were high in; "vocabulary, creativity, and Higher Level Thinking Skills".
My house is messy but not dirty. In the morning, I put dishes in the dishwasher, do a load of laundry, fixed breakfast and lunch for Kellen and me. I leave the breakfast dishes until later. If I stop to pick up, I get confused, and then I'll be late. Projects and toys are sitting around the house.
Every day, I take the guinea pig outside in the grass. I like to work outside in the garden. It takes so much energy and concentration to do pick up work that I would rather do something soothing like gardening. I get Kellen from school, feed him supper and spend time with him. I forget the stuff on the countertops, being with Kellen is more important. Before bed, Kellen and I play a board game like checkers and Candyland or do puzzles or art. Then we have stories and snuggle. I've read to him every night since he was three months old. Now we can read the books he has written and drawn at school.
CHOOSING A PRESCHOOL
Choosing a preschool for my son was a quest. I needed a place and teachers who could give him what I am not able to give, organization mostly. The one I chose has such a rich environment and teaches diversity as a continuing theme. The center room of the school is devoted to an antique printing press. The students have designed and printed many sorts of projects from Tibetan prayer flags that hang over their garden to designing greeting cards, designing books, and printing them on their handmade paper.
WORKING WITH KIDS
The people who love me, love me because of the abilities I demonstrate at home, at school and on the job. My ability to work with kids and create change in their abilities (intra-personal and inter-personal) is documented by teachers I worked for as an educational paraprofessional. I work a lot on empathy with kids, they really "tough" and "behavior disordered." There is no joy in them for learning, because the mechanics of school work are so hard. As I see it, for these children in the standard school, the mechanics of paperwork become a tool of their oppression.
Part of the tragedy of learning disability is that they exist in childhood, so the judgments pronounced by others are swallowed whole by the child. These judgments result in the formation of erroneous assumptions which in turn become the basis upon which the individual interacts with his or her environment. The results are usually devastating.
When I work with kids, it is my disability that gives me the insight to do what I do for them. I break everything down into the parts, the components, and teach them from the way I think, what works for me, and what might work for them (i.e. survival math). Working as an Instructional Assistant for the public schools is work that has made the best use of my insight and empathy for others.
THE FUTURE: GOALS AND DREAMS
My heroes who inspire me are: Martin Luther King, Gandhi and Rigoberta Menchu, an Indian woman from Guatemala who inspired her family and tribespeople to organize against the oppression perpetrated and sanctioned by the Guatemalan government. My favorite books are: Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and Brodigan's Books: Trout Fishing in America and The Pill vs. the Springhill Mine Disaster, because their writing style is like my thinking style.
I am still trying to find a niche I can fill in the work world and earn enough to actually support myself. The Department of Vocational Rehabilitation counselor would like to help if she could, but she doesn't understand what I can and cannot do it. Tutoring children with reading and math problems is my goal right now.
In conclusion, this is how life works for me. I spend 90 percent of my time trying to achieve what many call "simple tasks." I'm capable of so much more, but that's not how life is.
THE TYPIST'S IMPRESSIONS
My first memory of Gail was at the real estate office where we both were attempting to make a living. My financial survival was at stake. After two months of employment following a few weeks of study and training, I had not sold one dollars worth of real estate.
As I sat at the reception desk in the hallway waiting for a call on an ad or "walk-in" customers, Gail came bounding down the stairs. I noticed her friendly manner and fashionable clothes. She seemed full of confidence and enthusiasm, important characteristics for a sales career.
At some point in the next few days, I noticed that her hand writing was not quite legible and her spelling wasn't so good. While I watched her give a report at a Saturday morning sales meeting, I had a realization. Her inability to draw a star on the chalkboard reminded me of problems of some of the first graders in the school where I had taught a few years before. She had some of the symptoms of what that school district called "Specific Language Disorder." She needed me on her team.
My writing and research skills could be essential to Gail. We decided to try working together for a month. We worked together nearly two years until the week my son was born. During that time, interest rates went up to 20 percent on housing loans, but we earned enough to live on, holding our position in the top 30 percent of the office sales out of a group of about 40 realtors.
We spent about 12 hours a day six days a week working together in and out of the office. During that time, Gail's skills and drive were so apparent to me that I never once thought of her as disabled, just a little stunted in the writing department, which gap I was able and eager to fill. She was fun to be with and easy to work with, and together we felt entirely competent to do the job.
Without Gail to motivate both me and our clients, I would have quit and I looked for other work early on. If her ethics had been lacking, in my opinion, or if she had pushed people into buying property they did not really want, I could not have worked with her. She said more than once that she wanted people to see all their options, but when she saw that they loved a place, she urged them to go for it.
Finally, the week before my first child was born, I retired. She stayed in the real estate business another year but didn't make much money alone. We have continued our friendship by phone and occasional visits for the 15 years since then.
Besides being a friend who comes to birthday parties and invites Gail and her son, Kellen, over for dinners, I serve as Gail's typist. She dictates to me over the phone and I type what she tells me. We proofread and rewrite together. One of my goals is to let the world know what it is like to be an intelligent person with disabilities.
PREJUDICE
Perusing "The Seattle Times" Tuesday, June 6, 1995, I discovered the following story which revealed a subtle prejudice held by my mind:
The subversive nature of unconscious thought is revealed by this riddle:
A father and son are en route to a baseball game when their car stalls on the railroad tracks. The father can't restart the car. An oncoming train hits the car. The father dies. An ambulance rushes the boy to a nearby hospital. In the emergency room, the surgeon takes one look and says, "I can't operate on this child, he's my son."
My solution to this dilemma was that the son was adopted, one of twins separated at birth. The doctor mistook the twin adopted to another family as his own son. Read on:
As cognition researcher, Douglas Hofstadter pointed out, even intelligent, broad-minded people go out of their way to invent bizarre scenarios--sometimes involving extraterrestrials-- in order to solve the riddle.
What prevents most people from seeing that the surgeon is the boy's mother is the reliance of the brain on the "default assumption" that a surgeon is a man.
A "default assumption:" Hofstadter explained, "is what holds true in what you might say is the "simplest" or "most likely" case. But the critical thing is that they are made automatically, not as a result of consideration and elimination.
"In study after study, the most important finding his that (biases) operate unconsciously, even in people who don't want them to," said Anthony Greenwald, a psychologist at the University of Washington. One of the greatest misconceptions of people have, he said, "is that wanting to be fair is enough to enable you to be fair-- not recognizing the unconscious forces that influence your judgments:
Those of us who are over the hill (50+) might have already begun to experience age-related biases or at least suspect younger people of such thoughts. Teenagers certainly feel at times that they are stereotyped as careless drivers, shoplifters, and irresponsible kids. Women are suspicious of men's sex based attitudes. People with physical impairments are sometimes treated deferentially. We can probably all remember some time when we feel we have been discriminated against in some way.
Are medical professionals capable of such mindsets? Judge for yourself after considering some of Gail's experience with a few of them:
Gail's medical records were inadvertently combined with four pages of those of another woman eight years older with the same name spelled differently. The four pages were on a "2 X 3" microfiche card slipped into a pocket under the top cover of her chart along with another microfiche card containing Gail's own records. When her medical chart was requested that by a court-appointed psychologist during a divorce trial, about 2 inches of paper was photocopied including the two microfiche cards belonging to the other woman.
The combined persona was that of a neurologically disabled person overlaid with that of a woman who had serious problems with depression from age 16 to age 51. Due to scanning, the court-appointed psychologist overlooks critical identification facts such as the other woman's hysterectomy 13 years previous to the birth of Gail's son, as well as overlooking the age difference. He was anticipating a woman with serious psychological problems (including "out of body" experiences) to walk in the door. So when Gail with her neurological problems came in, he came up with psychological labels for neurological manifestations. Her report began to make the rounds: her lawyer, the divorce court judge, another psychologist, state offices....
My point is that Gail and other people with learning disabilities or alternative learning styles are people with talents. They are not maladjusted nor incapacitated. If we can overlook the areas where learning lags exist, focusing instead on the abilities they do have, (overcoming our natural tendencies to think people with academic grades lower than ours are not smart as we are), we can utilize those talents.
Teachers can find alternative ways to teach to children's various learning styles. Medical personnel can look beyond their educated biases. Employers can find jobs that people with disabilities can accomplish, perhaps through teaming or job sharing. Our society needs to see such children and adults as people with certain, well defined disabilities and abilities rather than disabled people. We can gain insights from one another regardless of the levels of our various talents and abilities.
Told by Gail Smith-Schilling
Typed by Mary Ann Kennedy
March 1997
To Diane Jeffries
My life as an artist. My dad made a head piece. Mother had some water colors. Like to by myself to think what I am going to do my life as an artists? I to like paint the big green trees flowers and rainbows. I go and teach children art person with disability can do for myself. I enjoy the children and I enjoy teaching the children. I am the ones of started a, u, I would like to see this program go somewhere. I like to paint by music especially classical music it helps me to relax and get my mine off the world problees.
By Harriet Ann Hale
Harriet Hale 12/17/98
Hello Boys and Girls,
I have a very special project in mind today.
Do you want to join me?
What do you think art is?
I like the color blue the most, what color do you like?
What do you use to do art?
I want you to draw with the hand that you usually do not use.
I can also communicate with an eye chart, which I will demonstrate later.
I am also an artist.
There are many ways to paint. I have a friend who paints with his foot. I use my head to paint by attaching a paintbrush to a band around my forehand. Can you think of any other ways to use parts of your body to paint?
If you have any questions please ask me. But I have a couple of questions for you.
Can you think of other ways to communicate or to paint without using your hands?
Do you want to try to paint with your hand or your foot?
My liberator is a communication device that helps me talk to you. The system is activated by light attached to my glasses. My moving the light, I can beam the information I want to communicate.
Do you want to come home with me?
I have cerebral palsy. My body does not work like yours. Please give me a chance to answer you using my communicator.
What do you use to do art? I teach art to young students.
I did not get air to my head while I was being born.