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Her grandson was not adjusting to his school. To
see him standing at the door, red faced from having been crying for
obviously a length of time was really more than she could bear. Her Native
American Blood was all at once one with her ancestors. It was a battle to
keep her mind from flying back to an ancient place when her folks went home
to tell their family the people who were coming upon them were violent.
"See how they treat their children!" It was
true, they had said this, because she could remember, even though it was
many years ago.
This might have been an eon away from those
people, her own grandparents. Here and now it was, and there was her
grandchild wailing as if with a broken heart. Every day it was the same. At
first she went onto a far part of the acre and wept quietly too, but only
for a brief time, because the child needed her. He and his one year old
sister needed her. What to do? What to do?
They all gathered into the car, Baby,
Grandson, Cerebral Palsied daughter and all. A trip to the local Hobby Lobby
was distraction for a short time. They must have looked a site with the baby
sitting on the lap of her aunt who was in a wheel chair. The four-year-old
was walking ahead of them, showing them the way to the toys.
One day was torment while the child cried for
hours, "I want my Mama." "I want my Mama." She could only distract him for a
while. As soon as there was a quiet moment he would be back to his sobbing
deep sobs.
"I asked them to call me, when he first
starts crying." "They won't do it." "You people are beyond my
understanding." "A child only wants to know someone is there for them."
"After a few days he would have been reassured and over his fright." She
knew her reasoning was falling on deaf ears of her Anglo husband. She even
knew what he was probably thinking. "What's the big deal?" "He'll get over
it."
This day was particularly trying. The
continuous strain was wearing her down and she was becoming erratic in her
actions. As she was gathering the children into the car all the while the
little boy was wailing, she was reminded by her daughter that she had
forgotten her car keys. As she tossed the wheelchair into the trunk, she
told them she would be right back. The concern was that she hurry since the
boiling Oklahoma summer heat was still upon them and she knew she couldn't
leave the baby in the car for any length of time.
In between the boy's crying he had put his
hand into a bowl of salad in the fridge and was munching on the vegetables
there. There was a moment of sorrow in her heart as she recognized he was
learning to placate his misery with food. What could she do? "Don't look!"
"Don't think!" She turned to rush back into the house.
Evidently he had dropped some of the salad
coated with dressing on the floor and she did not see it in her haste. Now
if she had been younger, when she played at dancing, sliding as she was
doing now would have been no problem. Somewhere in her programmed brain the
same action was upon her. The only difference was that her muscles grabbed
and held without the same lithe ability she once had. She felt her muscles
jerked and pulled as if someone had circled her with a stout lariat rope.
The twisting of one leg under her was now a terror for her. After the first
wrenching of her back she was afraid to move. Carefully, gingerly she was
moving slowly while testing to see if there was to be a shooting stab of
pain at any time. When she realized she was not really hurt the woman was
all at once traumatized. The tears ran down her cheeks like rivers, and she
stayed where she was for what seemed to be an eternity but was in actuality
only minutes.
As her grandson peeked around the corner he
was suddenly very calm and thoughtful. There was no crying as he asked, "Gramma
what's wrong."
"I'm okay!" "Just a little shaken." "I'll
need to call your Mother and I've broken my glasses." "Be a dear." "Go get
my glasses in the bedroom." "I've broken these."
"Pull a chair up to the shelf." "You can
reach them."
While she fumbled with the phone book trying
to see the print with her old glasses she stopped and looked directly at her
grandson. "What are we going to do?" "I don't know if I can see with these
old glasses." "You won't go to school so you can learn to read for me."
"What are we going to do."
The little boy looked at her with such a
grown up expression. "I'll go to school, Gramma." "I will."
That very day his Mother quit her job, vowing
to stay at home with him. When the Gramma called him the next day to see if
he had cried at school he said. "Not at all, Gramma." "Not at all." |
