The first night I met him, he glared at me then leaned back a ways before slamming his head down on to the table. That thud of skull connecting with wood was so hard it made the walls shake and the windows rattle. I choked a bit on my heart, and my stomach churned with that nauseous fear that comes when everything is wrong. Very, very wrong. What were we doing with this kid in our home?
To say I wasn’t thrilled about my mom’s decision to take in foster kids was an understatement. That she was specifically interested in taking developmentally challenged kids, made it worse. This was a bad idea. I was sure of it.
Matt’s case manager told mom that he was a “head banger.” Those two little words were inadequate to describe the frequency and force with which his head made contact with any nearby hard surface.
He was difficult to look at. His brain had not developed properly, and he was born with cerebral palsy and hydrocephalus. His hair grew in funny little tufts around the patchwork of scars on his head. His face was scarred, and frequently bloody from the head banging. He couldn’t stand up straight, and could barely walk.
And he was angry. Mad. Furious at the world. And with good cause.
It was Matt’s story specifically that finalized my Mom’s decision to become a foster parent. At the time she first heard about him, he had been living in a motel with hired care givers taking shifts sitting with him in that room, because they could not find a home that would take him. He had extensive medical needs, that required a great deal of work to manage. And developmentally he was a two year old, still a baby.
He didn’t know what was going on; he just knew that most people were mean, and he didn’t know who to trust.
It was a long period of adjustment: him getting used to our large boisterous family, and us getting used to this new person in our midst with so many new needs (like needing help with toileting, among other things), and of course, that head banging.
But one day we discovered something. If you put your hand on the table, or wall, or whatever else was the target of his swiftly moving head, he would stop mid-swing. He would bang his head, he would hit things, he would break things, but he would not hit us.
That discovery started a little shift. For one thing, it helped us significantly cut down on the head banging by just putting a hand in the way. But it also started to change the way we saw him: self-destructive, yes, but not violent towards others.
He got easier to look at over time as well. Eventually, we started to see past all the scars, and notice other things, like that mischievous twinkle in his eye.
Matt was a little prankster, especially once he got comfortable with us. He was funny. He’d blame his farts on you. He’d pull your chair out as you were trying to sit down. If he was done with you, he’d dismiss you: “Bye!”
And he was gentle, so very gentle, especially with babies.
The obvious lesson here is about not judging the book by the cover, or the person by how they look. But there’s more. It wasn’t just the way Matt looked that was scary at first. It was his behavior that terrified us. Matt also taught us a lesson in looking past the angry in others – that the attitude is likely a hard-earned, self-protective shell, and not necessarily indicative of what’s inside. Its a difficult lesson, and one I forget frequently. But I’m still trying.
Over the years, Matt went through dozens of procedures and surgeries. His hydrocephalus was managed by a shunt that drained the excess fluid from his brain. That shunt frequently had issues, perhaps caused by the head-banging, but that pressure may have also been the cause of the the head banging – the pressure caused a great deal of pain, that bang momentarily equalizing the pressure.
He actually became quite popular, at school, at church, in the community. He passed away from complications of surgery when he was 24. He was still a toddler developmentally, but he was a happy toddler. When he died he was surrounded by his family, foster family perhaps, but family still. And he knew he was loved. His funeral was standing room only; the community had learned to love him as well.
It has been 11 years since his death, today would have been his 35th birthday. I still think of him often. He taught us so much about accepting others, and about resilience and redemption. I’m still learning that lesson about forgiving and understanding the angry.
I was in the back seat, pretending to sleep as we pulled into the driveway late after a long day of shopping. At five, and the oldest in a large family, the odds of Daddy carrying me into the house and up the stairs to my room were pretty slim. But that didn’t stop me from trying.
Most of the time, he’d wake me up and send me inside, but every once in a while my little ploy worked. I’d rest my head on his shoulder as we ascended the stairs, and ragdoll as he maneuvered me into my jammies. Then he would tuck me into bed, brush the hair from my face, and plant a kiss on my forehead. I relished those moments, soaking up the attention.
Parenthood has given me a new perspective on this memory. I wonder how transparent my motives were. Did he know I was only pretending to sleep, and carry me in anyway? Did he want to hold me as much as I wanted to be held? As a child, I only thought about how I had to compete with my brothers for attention and affection. It didn’t occur to me that my parents might crave those cuddles, too.
Even before we got married, The Husband and I started a Christmas tradition where we pick out an ornament together to represent the year. I did not have any preconceived notions about what this year’s ornament would be, but once I saw it, I knew it was right.
A few days after he proposed, The Husband went out for Chinese food with some colleagues and his fortune said “You will be married within the year.” We were. We got married nine months later, and we had personalized fortune cookies made up for our guests as favors at our wedding.
This fortune cookie ornament reminded me of that happy fortune.
It also represents my attitude about this past year. I feel so incredibly lucky: lucky to have such a loving and understanding husband, a beautiful daughter, and to have some of the best doctors in the world helping me battle cancer.
It’s also a great talisman to carry forward into the next year. I certainly could use a little more good fortune.
Here’s wishing you all a season of great fortune: love, health, and joy.
You still sleep in that half crawl position with your butt up in the air, and your face plastered against the mattress. I love watching you sleep, but I seldom get to do it anymore.
I try to sneak into your room to peek on you, but I’m such a klutz these days, and you’re such a light sleeper that you’re on your feet before I get to the middle of the room. Then the following scene plays out:
YOU: Mama?
ME: Yes, Baby.
YOU: Hug?
Whereupon I melt into a puddle on the floor.
That scene plays out several times a day: in the living room, in your room, while we’re out for a walk, when you don’t want to go to bed… Yeah, I’m a sucker ~ But your cuteness hasn’t gotten you out of taking a nap. Yet. I am, however, loving all these hugs and kisses.
To be honest, most of the time you are really good about going to bed. I can’t believe how lucky I am. Daddy and I are both night owls, so we don’t like to get up too early in the morning. That’s means you don’t go to bed till 11 at night so you will sleep in till 10 the next morning. Yay for me getting to sleep in. It was also handy for those chemo days when I wasn’t strong enough to take care of you all by myself. My friends that helped take care of you would show up around 10 or 11 and stay until you took your afternoon nap at 3. Then Daddy would come home by the time you woke up from your nap. It worked out quite well, but the chemo is no longer an issue – I’m all done with chemo! Double Yay!
But when we do put you to bed, whether for a nap or for the night, you sweetly smile up at us from your crib as we cover you up with a blanket and tuck one of your babies under your arm. Well, most of the time. There are those nights when you have very strong feelings about bed time, but they are few and far between.
Regardless of how you fall asleep, the way you wake up is a beautiful thing. We’ve taken to leaving books in your crib each night, because you wake up and read them in the morning.
You love to go outside and play, and you would much rather walk yourself than ride in the stroller. But we do try to get in a good long walk everyday.
Snow was a revelation to you. It all melted away, but still you ask to go outside (sigh sigh – also your word for butterfly) and you ask for the snow. We look out the window at the bare ground and you tell me “gone.” I hope we get a few more good snow days this winter – preferably on days I don’t have to drive here in Seattle.
If I just listed off all the things for which I’m thankful this year, the list would go on for several pages, and I wouldn’t be able to complete it in one day. As I do have plans to spend some time with my family, I’ll try to keep this short and just point out a few of the biggies:
My amazing husband who takes such good care of me, especially on the chemo days when I’m feeling so crappy
My creative, beautiful, and intelligent daughter who brightens every day and showers me with kisses and hugs
The wonderful people who came over and helped out when I had my surgery and during chemo – Mom, Dee, Sharon and Perry, Kristen, Mary Jane, Diane, Carrie, Candace, and Sommer, to name a few
Completing chemo – yes, that’s right, I’m done with chemo!
My cancer was found before it metastasized
The amazing doctors and nurses at the University of Washington Medical Center and Seattle Cancer Care Alliance. Over the years I’ve received medical care in a lot of different systems, and this is by far the best care I have received in my life.
Medicaid. I qualified for medicaid which is making it possible for me to receive this wonderful medical care. Medicaid is saving my life right now, and 18 months ago it saved my daughter’s life. I don’t know how we will pay rent next week, or the power bill, but we have food in the freezer, and I can fight my cancer. I’m not proud of the fact that we need this assistance, and I know its a source of embarrassment to my family members who fight so hard to eradicate publicly funded medical care, but I am extremely thankful that this assistance exists and makes it possible for me to battle cancer. Thanks to the health insurance reform bill, my cancer will not prevent me from getting health insurance once we get jobs, so one day I will be able to get off Medicaid, hopefully someday soon.
Here’s wishing you all a safe, healthy, and happy Thanksgiving.
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