Dani's Story: A Journey From Neglect to Love (5 page)

Chapter 5

Meeting Danielle

Within a week, Garet called and told us she had made arrangements for us to meet Danielle in her classroom. Willie wanted to come along, but Bernie and I decided it would be best for just the two of us to meet Danielle for the first time. We didn’t want to overwhelm her, for one thing. For another, even though we didn’t say it out loud, in the back of our minds both of us were thinking that anything could go wrong.

Would the feeling that we’d both had about her when we saw her photo at GameWorks still be there when we saw her in person? What if we saw her and decided—even if only one of us decided—that she was just too much? What if her history, which we still didn’t know, made it impossible for her to blend in with our family? What if she might cause harm to Willie? We had heard some real horror stories during the months we were looking at children. Considering what some of those children had been through, you couldn’t blame them for acting out and becoming violent or sexual predators. But we simply couldn’t have anyone like that in our home.

We had no idea what to expect. Was she going to be like Nell? Speaking a strange language, flying around like a bird, running off, dancing by herself to music that only she heard in her head? We were very anxious, but we were also excited. The waiting was finally about to be over, and we were going to meet Danielle. I kept having to tell Bernie to slow down, we wanted to get there in one piece!

Our first stop was to meet Garet White at her office in the agency where she worked. Bernie had spoken to her several times on the phone, but I never had. She wasn’t at all what I expected, which was something along the lines of a big, imposing, tough-as-nails spinster. Definitely not someone so pretty, serene, and soft-spoken. There was something very tender and nurturing about her, and I guessed that she was probably a mother herself. In fact, she was a single mom of a young son, whose pictures decorated her office.

We were running late, so, rather than go through the documentation and the disclosure then, we went right to Sanders Memorial Elementary School in Land O’ Lakes where Danielle was enrolled. It was the one school closest to her foster home that offered exceptional student education (ESE) and bus service. The school looked like it had been expanded and added on to in kind of a willy-nilly fashion. The office was in a squat building that had been the original school, cinder blocks painted white, with windows trimmed in royal blue. Other buildings were in various architectural styles and eras, but all of the campus was shaded by towering old trees draped with Spanish moss. It was very welcoming, and we felt good that Danielle was in a place like this and not in something cold and institutional.

Garet had been to the school many times to check on Danielle, so she was well known there. She introduced us to the school principal, Jill Middleton, and we made small talk while we waited for Marisa Perez, the behavior specialist for the school. We had glimpsed Ms. Perez’s back as she ran out the rear door to answer a summons on her walkie-talkie to track down two fourth-graders who were MIA from the classroom. I had a feeling that those kids didn’t have a chance.

Principal Middleton told us that Ms. Perez had bonded very strongly with Danielle and, when she had a meltdown, was able to calm her by taking the child onto her lap in the rocking chair. My mind flashed back to when I rocked my boys for the same reason—but they were infants and toddlers at the time. Danielle had just turned eight.

Ms. Perez whooshed back into the office, hugging Bernie and me as if we were old friends she couldn’t be happier to see. She was the type of person who could probably bond with a bear; she practically surged with positive energy. Although we hadn’t yet met Danielle, so far we were impressed with the people who were caring for her.

Principal Middleton walked along with us to Danielle’s classroom, and as we passed other members of the staff, they greeted us with big smiles. I didn’t realize until later that everyone knew we were coming to meet Danielle and probably thought we were either insane or saints. Bernie would say that we definitely leaned more toward the former than the latter.

Along the way, Principal Middleton told us that Danielle was in Kevin O’Keefe’s classroom for children with profound needs and that Danielle was considered profoundly mentally handicapped, or PMR. As we had discovered when we started thinking of adoption, you could fill an entire dictionary with acronyms used by the foster care and child services system. Now we would be learning new ones related to special education. Mr. O’Keefe had been in the field for nearly twenty years, more than ten at Sanders, and was beloved by his students and even more by their parents.

As we walked, I was only half listening, trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach. I hadn’t been so nervous about meeting someone since the one time I agreed to go on a blind date. What if the very sight of us set off a “fit,” and Ms. Perez had to spring into action?

I don’t think we were prepared for what we saw when Principal Middleton opened the door and we walked into the classroom. Unless you have an extremely disabled or very mentally challenged member of your family or you work in that field in some way, you can’t possibly be prepared. Most of us have been taught since we were small children not to stare at other people, whether it is someone with a terrible birthmark or scar, someone missing a limb, or a person who is handicapped or is obviously emotionally unstable. It becomes an automatic response—look away, avert your eyes, don’t stare!

But when you enter a classroom that is exclusively for children with profound needs, there is nowhere to look except at what is right before your eyes. I had to make a conscious effort not to look away, to walk mindfully into this world that was so extraordinarily different from what I knew with my three boys and what most parents’ elementary school experience has been.

In this classroom, there was no teacher writing vocabulary words on the blackboard for students to copy. There were no seven-year-olds jumping up to wave their hands in the air, hoping to be called on to answer a math question. No one was bent over a book or drawing a picture or whispering and giggling with a friend.

Instead, there were children in wheelchairs and children belted into chairs pulled up to tables. One boy was strapped to a board that was upright but tilted at an angle. There were two children on mats, one lying on his back with his arms out to his side as if he was making a snow angel, and another on his side, with a rolled pillow bracing him. None of them spoke a word, and it was impossible to tell whether they were even aware of our presence.

It was a large room, with several defined areas and adaptive furnishings and equipment. It was brightly painted in multiple primary colors, and nothing had sharp edges. Aides were showing pictures to children or reading to them. One aide stood beside a small sink with a little girl, running water over her hands as the girl’s head lolled to one side.

We looked for Danielle. After the event in Tampa, Heart Gallery had put a new photo of her on its website. She was wearing a white T-shirt and her hair was neatly combed, cut to just above her jaw line with bangs trimmed to almost touch her brows. Garet had picked her up from school one day, taken her to the photographer’s studio, and made crazy faces until they got a bit of a smile from her.

Even without the updated photo for reference, it would have been obvious which of the children was Danielle. She was one of the few who were mobile, and she was exceedingly mobile. In fact, she never stopped moving. Lithe and long-limbed, she walk-bounced on her tip-toes, her arms rigid but swinging back and forth at her sides. She would go over to one activity center, play with something, put it down, go to the blocks, put one in her mouth, put it down, go to another, pick up a ball, put it down, go over to a table, take a drink from a sippy cup, and drop it, which explained why it was tied to a leg of the table.

It didn’t seem like she even noticed us, although she looked at Garet and Ms. Perez when they called her name and let Garet give her a little hug. We said, “Hello, Danielle,” but she turned away and skittered off. She reminded me of Tigger from the Winnie the Pooh books, bouncing all over the place.

The sun around which this alternate universe revolved was Kevin O’Keefe. Tall and slim, soft-spoken and bearded, with kind eyes and a reserved manner, he offered a shy smile when we were introduced. He seemed a bit wary of us, but in hindsight, I know he was being protective of Danielle. He genuinely cared about all of his students and, as we found out later, keeps in touch with their families long after they leave his classroom.

Garet asked whether he and Ms. Perez could sit with Bernie and me and tell us about Danielle—what she did in the classroom, what she was learning to do, and what their goals for her were. Mr. O’Keefe told us about her need to move—something that was quite obvious already—and said that as long as she didn’t feel penned in or restrained, she was generally happy. He said that she came to the classroom drinking from a bottle and had progressed to the sippy cup. He laughed as he told us how many times they had chased that cup until an aide came up with the idea of tying the handle to the table leg. He said that she was making progress in learning not to take other people’s food. Note to self: Keep her away from Willie’s plate. He’s so small, he needs all the food he can get.

Mr. O’Keefe told us,

When Danielle came into my classroom last year, it was the first time she had ever been in a school setting or any kind of classroom with other children. We were told she had never been to day care or Sunday School or any kind of program for children. The school year had already started, but she had to get her immunizations before she could enroll, since she never had any. In her evaluation for qualification for Exceptional Student Evaluation, her primary exceptionality was noted to be profoundly mentally handicapped, so that’s how she came to be with me, and I was glad to have her.

At first, she was almost constantly very agitated, always moving. She was in constant motion. We tried to get her outside as much as possible, so she had lots of opportunity for movement.

She did have some severe emotional outbursts. The first time we saw one, we thought there was something terribly wrong with her or that something had happened, so we called the foster mother, and she just said, No, that’s how she handles her emotions.

She really wanted to eat, that was one of the first things I noticed about her. Anything she could put her hands on. We had to be very watchful because whatever was around her, she would put in her mouth. She would take other children’s food, whatever was within her reach. It took a long time to get her to stop that. She ate with her hands and would just grab food and push it all into her mouth.

The first time I took her out, she didn’t know how to climb the steps to get up to the playground. We really had to assist her. We went over to the slide and helped her get up the first time, and she had no fear of going down the slide. She loved it and did it again. She picked it up very quickly, and that was surprising to me. I thought that showed a higher level of intelligence than we previously thought, in that she did pick it up so quickly.

She also developed good balancing skills. As you can see, there are children in my room lying on mats, and she was able to walk around them without losing her balance or disturbing them, which many of my children can’t do. She likes to climb and get on top of things.

She has never been an aggressive child, she never hit or bit another child. There were other kids in my class who did those kinds of things. But never Danielle. Even if she was hit by another child, she did not hit back. There has always been a true sweetness about her.

While Mr. O’Keefe was talking and the aides were busy with the other children, Bernie saw his opening. Or his chance to escape. He is not big on group discussions, and although I knew he was interested in what Mr. O’Keefe had to say, Bernie’s not a talker, he’s a doer. He started to follow Danielle around the rooms as she made her rounds. He kept his distance. I know he didn’t want to frighten her, but she didn’t really seem to notice him. She picked up a Slinky and got into the swing that was suspended from the ceiling in the middle of the room. Bernie got down on one knee in front of her and smiled. “Do you want to play?” he asked and pulled on the Slinky in her hand, which pulled her forward. When he let it go, the swing went back. He pulled the Slinky, and she swung forward. He let go, and she swung back.

All of the adults in the room had stopped talking to watch them, and we saw the moment that Danielle connected with Bernie for the first time. As he smiled at her, she looked directly into his eyes and pulled the Slinky from him. He pulled, she pulled back. She was playing with Bernie.

Mr. O’Keefe and Ms. Perez smiled at each other, the aides smiled at Bernie, and Garet and I both had tears in our eyes. Such a simple little thing, but a small miracle had just taken place in that classroom. Danielle had never taken so quickly and naturally to anyone, they told us, and that revelation was all it took to put hope in our hearts.