Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children with Special Needs Read Online Free PDF Page A

Through Jeff, I was able to see the Land of Oz. He opened my eyes to the vibrant colors of a majestic land where trees could talk, scarecrows could walk, and horses were of many colors. Everyone was different, yet no one noticed. My heart would tingle with what I can only describe as a surge of joy each time I saw Jeff perform this song.
    But my favorite performance was “Tomorrow” from the musical Annie. With his arms stretched out wide, and a simultaneous jerk of his head and hands, Jeff would sing out loudly, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, the sun tomorrow.” He was quite a performer and always willing to entertain.
    When Jeff was first diagnosed with leukemia, I had no idea how to explain to him that he would not get well for a long time. What the doctors called “Phase One” of treatment, an intensive phase to say the least, was to last six months, before progressing to the next less-intensive phase. How could I explain that to my little boy? It soon occurred to me, once again, that I did not have to. Jeff would be my teacher. My challenged little boy was also my most influential mentor.
    Jeff had been feeling sick since the beginning of his treatments. As the days wore on, I tried desperately to raise his spirits and give him hope. At this point, I had to carry him into the bathroom because he was too weak to walk.
    “I very sick, Mom,” Jeff said, while standing in the shower with my support.
    I replied, “Tomorrow, we will see the doctor, and he will make you feel better.”
    With his head hung down, Jeff replied, “No, I die.”
    In desperation, I grabbed his chin and raised his head to meet my eyes. My body trembled. I struggled to speak with confidence. I needed to reassure not only Jeff, but myself as well. “You are not going to die! Do you hear me? Do you understand? You are not going to die!” Jeff did not reply.
    He knew and accepted what I could not.
    After ten weeks of chemotherapy, my son developed an infection. He was hospitalized for six days before the infection became worse, and he had to be moved to the intensive-care unit. Despite his pain and suffering, Jeff began to teach me new lessons. He had taught me countless lessons about living, and now he was teaching me about dying.
    The doctors were getting ready to intubate Jeff to help him breathe. I think on some level we both knew that once they placed that tube in his throat, the end was near. With all of the strength he could muster, Jeff looked at me and said, “Tomorrow, tomorrow, you and me go shopping. Okay? You and me. Okay?” This was his way of telling me that he could no longer deal with “his today,” and that he was going to “his tomorrow.” He wanted the pain to end. I contracted every muscle in my body and demanded myself to stop the trembling. I prayed for one last moment of peace so that I could answer my son with the respect that he so deserved.
    “Yes, Jeff,” I said. “Tomorrow, just you and me, tomorrow.”
    The doctors paralyzed him and placed the tube in his throat. I watched the numbers on the machine gradually decrease as it measured his heartbeats. With one finger, I gently swept Jeff’s hair back across his forehead as I sang softly. This was the usual routine, one that he was so fond of, that I had used to get him to go to sleep when he was younger. Knowing that these would be my final moments with my son, I told him that if he needed to go, it would be all right. And with my cheek against his, I whispered in his ear, “I’ll meet you just over the rainbow, tomorrow.”
    Jill Presson
     
    Jill Presson has worked in occupational therapy for over ten years. She is the proud parent of four children, two biological and two through the gift of adoption. Three of Jill’s children have Down syndrome. She is an active advocate for Down syndrome, special-needs adoption, and grieving parents. Jill can be reached at [email protected].
     

No Words
     
    T.J. struggles with the pencil in his left hand, pushing it