What Our Retarded Son Taught Us
CATHERINE CHRISTOPHER
Tommy is 15 years old. He is crazy
about cars, as most boys his age
are. In Tommy's enthusiasm, however,
there is a difference.
Tommy is a retarded child. The cars he likes
are the ones his father brings home from the
dime store little plastic cars.
Tommy's father is a brilliant professional man.
For a long time he was bitter, looking upon the
difference in Tommy as a cruel trick.
It has taken Tommy quite a while to arouse in
his father a wisdom that did not come automati
cally with his college degree that his little son
does not live or, more precisely, love on a one
way street.
The bitterness ended definitively a few weeks
ago when the father came home with another
little plastic car. Hugging the trifling present,
Tommy said to his father:
"Daddy, aren't you lucky to have a little boy
who loves you so much?"
This incident shows how parents of retarded
children not only can "make do" but actually find
a special glimpse of happiness.
Our little son Jimmie was retarded, too. He
had hydrocephalus, water on the brain. For a
time we were lulled and unaware, able to pretend
that there was nothing wrong with our rosy
cheeked, blue-eyed little son.
The day came when we could not pretend that
other children Jimmie's age weren't outstripping
him in development. We went through the long
search for the miracle that did not happen, and
found one that did. The miracle we did find was
the understanding that in spite of his severe re
tardation, Jimmie could love us splendidly.
When I talked to other parents, my under
standing grew that the retarded child is a giv
ing child. I remember one parent's ptory:
One of the world's great cellists and his wife
came to live in our town. His career for half a
century has been in the stratosphere of the
world's finest symphony orchestras Dresden,
Paris, Snn Francisco, and others. Now he sought
the secluded cottage where he was soon to die. His
wife, to defray medical bills, took a job in the
local department store, and saying good-bye ev
ery morning never became easy for her. Thb
musician spent his days mostly in the sunshine,
for he was now too ill to meet the demand
IUUSTRATION IT MARVIN HIEOMXS
This is a mother's own story
of her boy ivho ;vas
subnormal except in hi$
ability to give lova
that most rigorous instrument, his beloved cello.
One day little Michael came into the yard.
Michael was a severely retarded child. He could
not talk intelligibly. Thereafter, the cellist and
Michael spent hours sitting together in the sun
shine each day, conversing in the language that
needs no intelligence, only love.
One day the cellist died. His widow was incon
solable for many months, for theirs had been a
long and loving marriage. Every day, however,
she would find Michael waiting for her when she
came home from the store. He would pull her
skirts, mutely indicating that he wanted his
friend to come out and sit in the sun again. He
would put his arms around her and hug her
fiercely, then dart for home.
"Not one of my sophisticated friends," she told
ma, "was able to bring me the same love, the
same comfort I had from that precious child who
couldn't oven talk to me!"
Parents cannot learn this in one easy lesson.
It is a long lesson and a hard one. But it must
to learned if parents are to be happy. Our own
son taught our retarded hearts that he was born
for a purpose, and he fulfilled it.
He elicited love, evoked compassion and tender
ness, and gave love even though he could not put
one block on top of another. In loving, our son
was not retarded.
There was never a day during his 18 years
on this earth that he did not give. Indeed, lta
asked nothing but to give. In the several years
since he died, we see daily how his work goes on.
We could not wish it undone, or done differently.
I recall that every morning a nondescript spar
row used to come and pick up crumbs from the
window sill outside his room, his world. I put
crumbs there because he loved to watch the birds.
Every afternoon the sun slanted into his room,
and he spent the hours trying to catch the sun
beams, laughing and enjoying himself, happy
though he had actually captured them. He didn't
understand that you cannot catch sunbeams.
His little sister and I were with him one aftw
Goon, and wo laughed with him. It was a gent!,
joyful moment. Then she became quiet a moirvmi,
3 I asked hor what she was thinking about.
"Mama," she replied, "I was just wondorin
H&m can I hav Mtth Bi r,4 q. wjiiasaa
t!r man, fan?"
COVER:
If h&rd to tmagine Sophia lto;r'fW'ji
looks needing improvement, but Hi
took beauty, strategy, to achieve?'
the Loren- of today, at, .you'll (
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Family Weekly mmsm m
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