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Count Us In..Growing Up With Down Syndrome, by Jason Kingsley and Mitchell Levitz Road Map to Holland… How I Found My Way Through My Son’s First Two Years With Down Syndrome by Jennifer…

Source: Resource Book Shelf

Earth wears the cloud like a high-fashioned muffler.  Sensations rise up, above, high,  on top of the world, over the rainbow, heavenly, defying gravity, and buoyed by the breeze.  Only the seeds of rain pull her nearer, tugging at her underbelly, breaking free to water the Earth.  Cotton balls or muffler, the everpresence  of clouds high in the sky strutting their stuff, pacify, satisfy, an atavistic longing.  And then—

sudden effusion

bullfrogs jump and plop and croak:

the sky’s orgasm

There’s nothing in the previous entry because it is “hung up.”  I tried to copy and paste it and obviously that didn’t work.  I’m going to try one more time:

THE SNATCH

Kidnapping me was a lark. I was so unsuspicious  he could have scooped me up with a butterfly net.  Never again will I be so trusting of strangers,  even if they do seem friendly and sincere.  What could I have been thinking?  Oh yes, the lost mother beagle whose pups were crying up a storm. I know that’s a popular pitch when nabbing kids, go for their sympathies, entice them. It’s just my luck that I’m twelve, only look eight. Evidently at the time of the big S at the school bus stop I had to be thinking like an 8-year old, too! Or younger.

I don’t remember the details of the snatch because to tell the truth I don’t seem to remember much at all, since he held a handkerchief soaked in what smelled like ether over my nose and well, hat was it until I woke up in this basement with my hands ted behind me. Ether smells so pukey! He must have hit me on the head, too. Though I don’t remember it, I’ve got a pretty big knot on my top.

Since I’m super short and wear glasses,  guess he figured I’d be no flight risk. If only he knew! –Wait, don’t go there. This is real and life-threatening. The knot on my top is starting to throb, and I can feel my heart bamming away. What is more troubling is that although I’m pretty sure I’m twelve, I can’t be completely sure of my name. Strange that I can remember some of the self-defense lessons from last summer. I may be little and bitty, but those courses weren’t for nothing, although I  didn’t use my head in the current situation.

I inch over to the heating duct to see what I can hear. Definitely no crying puppies. Can I hide somewhere? Dumb thought. Maybe he is going to try and ransom me. Would that mean my parents are rich? Even if they are it doesn’t mean they would be willing to pay for my return. Although my memory of them is foggy, I get the feeling that I have been a handful for them and they might just welcome a respite.

My thoughts turn inward. Where did that thought come  from? I don’t even remember my parents and yet I just caught a negative glimpse of them, true or not. I look around, recalling how other prisoners have freed themselves by rubbing their restraints against something sharp, (although I  can’t even recall my own name?)  Zilch. This is not the basement of a handyman. Fire?  No thanks. My eyes are beginning to adapt to the darkened basement. There are two very small windows up near the floorboard above, and a drain in the cement, which means I can pee.  Whoop de doo!

After what seems like ages the cellar door opens. He flips on a light and comes down the stairs carrying a tray. I barely look at the tray and say, “Thanks, Daddy.”

He draws his head back and says, “I’m not your daddy,” as he holds out the tray, apparently forgetting  that my hands are tied behind my back.

“Well, who are you?”

“I’m your worst nightmare,” he snarls, whereupon I giggle. He is acting like a monster from one of the movies I can’t remember, either.

“But you will spoon feed me like when I was a baby won’t  you, Daddy? ‘Cause I can’t hold the spoon or the tray myself.”  If looks could kill I wouldn’t be around to tell  you this story. He cuts the rope that restrained me, and as I rub feeling back into my wrists, I say, “Where’s Mama?”

Looking at me suspiciously, he says, “What’s your name, little girl?”

“I can’t remember. What’s yours?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

Oh good, he’s regressing. We’ll be down on he floor playing marbles soon…or not.

“Not really. Just being polite. I really can’t remember my parents, my name,  even my age.”  I swing my legs against the chair as I swallow a spoonful of canned chicken noodle soup.

“Yum! I was getting hungry!” I look up at him and smile. He stands with his hands on his hips, watching me eat. My last meal? Nah. I hope not.

“You don’t  know who you are!”  An incredulous, worried look crosses his face. “You could be anybody!”

“Yep.” I think I slurp a little. I really am hungry.

“How many kids get off the bus at that stop?”

“Oh…”  Here I am pretending to count, because I really can’t remember. Would more or less be better?  “Let’s see–one young girl rides the bus when their chauffeur is toting her mother around, and–aw, I can’t remember! You took my memory away from me!” I don’t have to fake the sniffle that follows that statement, because I’m not having fun any more. “I wanna go home!”

“Yes, and I’d like to return you home, but I don’t know what I’m dealing with here.”

“I know the feeling. I can barely remember a bunch of big houses in the neighborhood, but not my parents. My mother could be head of the house or the maid, or the butler could be my own dad–here I shoot him a dark disparaging look. I feel my face brighten as a possibility crosses my mind. “Or I could even be a poor relation.” With my last statement he turns to leave.

“Hey, aren’t you going to tie my hands back up?”

He turns and gives a little-boy smirk. “You can try and escape. Be my guest. But I rather thought you liked it here, with me as your Dad-dee.”

I call up the stairs after him. “I’ll bet you don’t even  have any kids of your own!”

He calls back over his shoulder, “I can think of a lot worse things!”

“Yeah? Name one!”

He emits his Prince of Darkness snarl. “Like being held prisoner underground by a childless villain.” I hear him double-lock the door.  Several hours later he descends and sets down what he calls “a pot to poop in.” He stands over me again with his hands on his hips. It must help him think. “Nobody in the whole world has missed you yet.  Is no news good news or bad news?” Here he seems to be asking  himself.

The next time he brings me vittles I have a new question for him. “Do you really not know who I am?”

“No. Do you?”

“No, but I want to know what happens to me if I remember.”

“I guess we’ll have to see.”

“Well, who did you think I was? People–even childless kidnappers–don’t just run around snatching total strangers…I think.”

He does his heh-heh-heh thing and an idea occurs to me. “Hey! Wait a minute! Is this some kind of audition? I was in that play at school last fall…and are you trying out for Hulk or something? We’d make a great team!”

He scrunches up his face at me and says, “Are you from the funny farm or something?”

“No, but you must be, a grown man with nothing better to do than pick on and scare little kids for fun.”

“No, not for fun.” My statement seems to come closest to making him feel a little ashamed. Hey! Just maybe he is religious!  Can I tweak that banjo string?

“Do you know why I’m still alive?”

He seems curious and shakes his head.

“Because God watches out for me and takes care of me.” He does not reply. “And do you know why I forgot my cell phone and left it at school today?” He was silent, listening. “Because He is watching out for you, too. He knows you have a better life ahead of you than playing bad guy–or somebody else’s stooge.”

Growing increasingly desperate despite  my bravado, I break into song, revealing the voice lessons I can barely recall. As I sing”He walks with me and talks with me and He tells me I am His own…” my captor flees up the steps. I call after him, “Remember that I don’t have any memory of you or what’s happened!”

It is several minutes before I realize that there has been no sound of the door being locked behind him. Crossing my fingers, I tiptoe up the steps  and try the door.  It is unlocked! On the kitchen table is a sheet with big  black words scribbled on it:  “I QUIT!”

Without a moment’s hesitation I run out the door, turn left, and hightail it towards home as fast as my short legs can carry me.

I  had to laugh at myself this morning.  We know that images that appear as we go to sleep are hypnogogic and those upon wakening are hypnopompic; that dreams/images can be over-determined, and that they often reflect events or thoughts of the day before (day residues), and moreover that the Dream Maker is a great punster.  Well, as you may know I wrote my “cow pee” post entitled  I’M STILL ALIVE (FOR NOW), BUT… last night,   so when I woke up early this morning and “saw” a tall cowgirl complete with  straw hat, jodphurs and boots standing in the doorway, it took me just a moment to remember the post about cows last night,  and that I currently had to pee!

image pinterest

The world of disability advocacy boasts its own language, for better or worse. In some instances for the better, hurtful labels to describe a type of disability have been replaced by words that do not yet have a pejorative connotation. In other cases, however, terms of common usage, such as “choice,” “inclusion,” “integration” and “community,” have been incorrectly redefined to mean only certain choices or certain places according to the user’s ideology. In these instances, some individuals with disabilities have suffered due to a lack of individualized care in favor of ideology.

“We feel strongly that people with autism and/or developmental disabilities have the right to choose where they receive services, with the help of their family members and legal guardians as appropriate,” says Huso. “Unfortunately, prevailing public policy has taken the ‘person’ out of person-centered planning favoring instead an approach that attempts to push everyone into small residences without any regard to individual need or choice.”

VOR believes by serving people according to individual needs and choices it is more assured that they enjoy greater happiness and a higher quality life experience – whether in a family home, small home or specialized facility setting. The needs are diverse – one size does not fit all.

“‘Inclusion’ has become more about pushing people with profound needs out of specialized care or denying access (deinstitutionalization), rather than focusing on meeting unmet human needs,” said Huso. “As a result, vulnerable people are truly suffering and are far more isolated in unprepared settings.”  http://www.vor.net/about-vor

Creativity

What do you do when the spigot runs dry?

I mean, besides sit down and cry?

If there’s no more, is there something?

Listen, touch, smell, taste and oh yes,

look….

The clouds are always making faces,

aren’t they? The world is going on

about you without you. You don’t have to do it

all.

Let the birdsong lift you, the trees bring you

shade. Be soothed in life’s great cocoon

and just be.

A poem for Dverse

More experiments have  confirmed that nature–being in, looking at, smelling–is physically healing in a number of ways, as revealed in the July 25, 2016 issue of Time magazine, page 24.  In “The Healing Power of Nature,”  Alexandra Siffilin writes that for years the Japanese called it “forest bathing,” or shinrin-yoku, and it was believed to lower stress, but it hadn’t been proved.  Now a number of experiments have shown positive results.  If you’re stressed and your office doesn’t even have a window in it…what do  you expect?  I had heard previously that just taking time to look at one of those large nature posters can boost  your immune system.