They Danced (Dedicated to Brittany S.)

She was in first grade when they met. At recess time she came over to stand by Kevin's side. She stayed. She watched his eyes; they were blue. She listened and liked the sound of his voice. She looked on the inside.

She learned his favorite color; it was green. She talked with him. She learned his language and his ventilator voice. She told him funny stories and made him laugh. She was considered brave: she wiped the drool from his chin. Over time, she learned to pick up his hands. She played with his hands and his feet. They laughed to tears. She wiped his eyes. She came at lunch time. They sat together, face to face. She learned to feed him. She knew how cold his feet were, how soft his hands were. She knew the shape of his spine, too; it had the curves of an “s.” It didn’t matter. She was there every morning when he got off the bus; she pushed him in his chair.

One day she picked up his hands and they began to dance. They danced, gracefully. They were poetry. They laughed and she knew his thoughts. He knew hers. When no one knew what he was trying to say, she knew. She knew his voice.

He walked her to class. They could talk without talking. She made him laugh. He made her smile. The sound of his breath she knew well; she often took his breath away, even while they danced.

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PS: Brittany would later go to school and become a Respiratory Therapist

Spirit and Consciousness

 Deformity of body does not mean deformity of spirit or consciousness. 

Frailty of health does not equate to frailty of spirit or awareness.

Lack of language does not mean mental depravity or an inability to communicate.

In reality, as a teacher and nurse for severely challenged children, I have discovered a hyper sensitivity of spirit and consciousness in those uniquely created individuals who are often seen as inadequate, frail, broken, or incomplete. 

Kevin's Light

     Kevin had a physical body that was fragile, broken, and misshapen. Yet, when you were in his presence, there was an immense light or joy that permeated the world around him; Kevin's spirit (his light) was extremely bright even though his body (and life) were barely tethered to earth. Kevin lived breath by breath, with assistance from a machine. His body was weak and dysfunctional, but the light of his spirit could never be dimmed or dampened; he daily brought light (and happiness) in all circumstances and to all who came into his presence.

Baseball in Bed

Kevin always was a sports fanatic. He had a passion for all sports, but he seemed to particularly love baseball. We would often play baseball while he was in bed. It was something that he really liked to do because I would try to take the time to position his body the way that a baseball player would actually bat, throw, or slide. At first I would just try to put his body into a batter’s position (with a small wooden bat in his hands). We would take great pains to get just the right arm and leg positions. He was very particular, because he knew what the proper stance was for a hitter. He knew how high the arms should be, how the head was turned and held. Once he had the proper stance of a batter, he would want to practice swinging the bat—over and over again. Of course, over time, Kevin would want me to help him make some of the noises and sounds that go along with a batter at the plate: “Hey, batter, batter, batter! Hey, batter, batter! Hey, batter, batter SWING!” After a while, Kevin would want the umpire (which was me) to call balls and strikes. Kevin, true to his nature, would not want to walk or strike out. He always, at this point, wanted to get a pretend base hit. And since he hit the ball, he would want to run the imaginary bases. 

“Mr. Allen. Can you pick up my feet, please?” he would ask. And I’d pick up his little ankles and feet and pretend like he was running the bases after just getting a base hit. Kevin, with his ball cap on, would run his heart out.