Complete and Beautiful

     Over the years, my own children have fallen in love with my students. Relationships have developed and endured; my 3 daughters and my students have spent a great deal of time interacting and playing together. My daughters--now young adults--have untarnished hearts and eyes; they don’t see my medically fragile students as broken or damaged, but as complete and beautiful; no different than themselves.            --Allen L.

Running with Kevin

Kevin loved to run fast; racing invisible opponents in his wheelchair. We did this often, over the years--across the playground. Kevin would say: “Run, Mr. Allen. Go faster! Faster, Mr. Allen!” (me deliberately going slow (initially). . . So Kevin would ask or say (or beg) “Go faster . . . Go faster! Then in the end, when I was breathing hard (no faking or make believe on my part—I was exhausted), Kevin would say (panting) “Whew!  . . . . . I’m tired.” In his mind and heart, he was running. I never checked his pulse, but his face would be flushed and he would be breathing (on his ventilator) as if he had just sprinted across the entire open playground—which technically, he had. 

Her Voice

She was deaf, blind and believed by many to have no observable or recognizable intelligence. To those unfamiliar to her world, this little girl was considered unreachable. However, when I held and supported her on a large classroom swing, and rocked with her back and forth, she would make sounds of contentment. Back and forth . . . back and forth. And when I would suddenly stop swinging . . . this child would bump me with her shoulders. This was no accident. She was speaking to me, saying “don’t stop, keep going, I’m enjoying this.” That little bump spoke volumes, giving her a voice, opportunities, and a personality--as long as I had the patience to listen and engage her. 

I learned, if I ignored or didn’t make the connections, her voice fell silent and her opportunities became limited to, none. I found myself in the middle of her world; a key to her voice and meaningful existence. Over time, I found her more than reachable. --Allen Lujan

Seeing Beauty

         So often we are distracted by what hovers and floats upon the surface of the severely or profoundly challenged: deformities, oddities, and abnormalities; never noticing the intricate and beautiful world right before our eyes--just beneath the surface.

Too often our eyes and minds become locked and focused upon the surface. It takes time and experience to see beneath the surface to discover a person's inner beauty and perfection of spirit.

I am grateful to have been given the opportunity to see beauty with a different set of eyes--eyes that see perfection in the flawed, brilliance in the broken, and intelligence in the imperfect. 

Beauty--however flawed, broken, and imperfect--surrounds me. It beckons me to come near, to spend time, to admire.

--Allen Lujan

Vulnerability and Trust

In my classroom, medically fragile students tend to hold back their trust until they know you are trustworthy. Over time they will carefully observe your actions and behavior. You are always being observed, judged and evaluated. They notice your tone of voice, your emotions, your pace and speed of movement, and most of all your consistent demeanor. 

Once they know you are safe and on their side, they will give you their complete trust and begin to rely and depend upon you. There are very few people they can trust and depend on. 

From the time they were born, most of my students have been closely assessed and observed; they know what it means to be poked, prodded, and tested. Because they have limited communication skills and abilities, they begin to trust only those who consistently stand beside them. They respond best to those familiar people who show evidence (and desire) to know them better for who they are--a complete person capable of giving and receiving trust. --Allen Lujan

Learning Might Be ...

 Learning might be different than anything you’ve ever experienced before. 

Learning might be as simple as making eye contact 

or smiling during peek-a-boo. 

Learning might be laughing when others are laughing 

or rolling over . . . or holding your head up.

Sometimes learning is scooping with a spoon 

or being able to drink from a straw or a sippy cup.

Learning can be sounds that communicate (but aren’t words) . . . 

sounds that speak volumes to those listening;

Volumes to those who have invested hours and lifetimes

training their ears to hear . . .

Listening and interpreting 

Guessing and … learning

From those who have been the teacher all along.

Windows to Heaven

There are little windows in our world that we can peer through and clearly see from this world all the way to Heaven. Gazing through these little windows you will, no doubt, come upon the reflective eyes of God. --Allen L

When Joy Pierces Through

     Even within the extreme limitations of a medically fragile classroom, the heights that can be scaled and claimed through tears of joy and happiness are beyond imagination. I constantly find myself in awe when joy pierces through the strained moments of daily routines and maintenance. Somehow (daily) a few moments of joy happen to occur. The good news is that joy and laughter are contagious in my classroom. The students feed off each other; they all want to be a part of the happy, chaotic, commotion. No one wants to be left out. Even those with severely limited vision and hearing are fully aware when happiness is in the air!

Expanding Boundaries

     When Kevin was still three, I can recall Kevin's mother, Susan, expanding his boundaries, away from the normal elements or comforts of bed and wheelchair.

     One day, I arrived for my shift and Kevin, from his bed, was trying to communicate something concerning a large swivel chair that was positioned near his bed. Previously the basket-shaped swivel chair had been across the living room in a different spot. When I couldn't figure out exactly what Kevin wanted, his mother approached Kevin's Bed. I thought he wanted to put the chair back to its original place; but that was not the case. His mom quickly understood what Kevin wanted. He wanted to be moved into the swivel chair. I was a little hesitant as I was relatively new and had never really transferred or moved Kevin.

     Susan asked me to give Kevin manual breaths (with an ambu-bag) while she extended the tubing from the ventilator to reach all the way to the large chair. She also put a couple pillows in the chair to better prop Kevin up. Once everything was in place, Kevin's mom lifted him and gently placed him in the chair. Kevin glanced at me while his mom reconnected him to the ventilator and adjusted the pillows. His eyes showed great joy and happiness. His mom explained that Kevin had enjoyed spinning in the chair (as far as the tubing would allow) the evening before. And now, I was being introduced to his expanding world. This would be a repeated pattern of joy in Kevin's life: always finding new ways to change, adapt, and enjoy the world around him. He spun in that chair for 3 hours that day.

Outward Looking

It took a few years of working with Kevin before I finally discovered one of the keys to his happiness and longevity—how to be happy and appreciative in all circumstances.

This discovery happened when Kevin was 7 years old. He was at home on a Saturday morning and was watching Mr. Rogers on TV while we were doing his morning routine—brushing teeth and getting dressed. Suddenly in the middle of this routine Kevin said “Look! Mr. Allen, look!” Kevin was watching a young girl (7 or 8 years old) with Muscular Dystrophy walk with arm crutches and braces. I turned to the T.V. and saw the young girl walking with extreme difficulty; her gait was very labored and required great physical effort. The young “poster child” was focused but smiling as she plotted her way onto center stage to be with Mr. Rogers. Kevin was awe-struck by the young girl; his eyes were glued to the T.V. As I watched her walk, I was more struck by Kevin’s reaction to the girl’s effort. Finally, when she made it to center stage, Kevin said (over a couple breaths from the ventilator): “Mr. Allen, that’s sad.”

I could only stare at Kevin. He was deeply touched and moved by the young girl’s limitations and extreme awkward gait. Kevin, in his hospital bed, propped up with pillows and attached to a ventilator was completely caught off-guard by this young girl’s fragile and highly noticeable plight in life.

“Kevin,” I said. “What about you? You can’t even stand.” Kevin looked at me with his big blue eyes. His eyes grew large and happy. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forgot!”

Throughout his life Kevin always showed compassion and concern for other people. It would have been easy to be stuck on himself and his limitations--but he never did. He always looked outside himself to the people and world around him.