Stephen

Whenever I see rhododendrons I smile and remember Stephen. Stephen was a fair, red-headed, freckled seven year old. He was full of mischief and fiercely independent. Stephen had cerebral palsy. His speech was limited and very unclear and this had secured him a place in the language class. When he arrived that first day he came with his parents. Stephen launched himself into the classroom, promptly tripping over his toes, but saved from falling by his ever-vigilant mother. His father looked up at us and said, with typical Yorkshire understated style, “Lad’s a bit unsteady on his pins.”

It very quickly became apparent that Stephen’s unsteadiness did not present any obstacles in his mind. He wanted to do everything by himself. We anxiously weighed every decision, to give Stephen as much independence as possible, while hovering unobtrusively trying to prevent skinned knees, or worse.

Stephen missed no opportunity to test the limits, giving us heart-stopping moments, and resulting in frequent “time-outs” for Stephen. Stephen particularly hated the feeding therapy he needed at lunch time. He would have much preferred to eat quickly and messily and go to play, rather than learn to bite, chew, and swallow with care. It became a race. Stephen would attempt to bolt into the lunchroom unsupervised, grab a tray, and rush on wobbly, giraffe legs around the room shouting , “I don’t like this dinner!” hoping to dump it into the rubbish bin before we caught up. He often succeeded or ended up in a tangle of legs, tray and dinner. It was an exercise in frustration for all of us. Finally relative peace was negotiated when it was agreed Stephen start lunch thirty minutes before the bell so feeding therapy did not interfere with Stephen’s independent lunch activities.

Another point of contention was the bathroom. Stephen wanted to stand at the urinal like the big boys. The shiny, five foot high porcelain wall was an irresistible lure. However, the coordination and stability required was beyond him at that time. The potential for injury was high, and this was reinforced almost daily by Stephen’s mother’s reminders in his communication book to “accompany Stephen in the bathroom at all times!” We were careful and it appeared, in this at least, that Stephen had accepted the limits. When it seemed like he could go in with the other children, use the stall, and emerge unharmed, we relaxed and let him go alone. After a while we noticed that Stephen’s hair at the front was always wet after a trip to the bathroom. We asked him why he was wetting his hair ? Stephen looked at us innocently and said, “I’m not.” Wanting to get to the bottom of this mystery, we peeked around the corner after Stephen disappeared into the bathroom one lunch time. There was Stephen, standing feet wide-spread at the urinal. He was intent on accomplishing his goal. To steady himself he carefully braced his forehead on the porcelain wall of the urinal in front of him. With a look of satisfaction, he completed his task. What he had not taken into his calculations, was the automatic flush time of the urinal. There was not quite enough time to remove his forehead before the water came. Undaunted, Stephen washed and dried his hands and patted his head with the paper towel before emerging. We didn’t say a word, sure that eventually Stephen would learn to move more quickly.

The year progressed with many battles and bumps. Finally it was the final field trip and picnic of the year. Stephen had not actually been allowed to go on any field trips with the class that year. His mother just felt they presented too many dangers. But on this last trip, she relented, after many assurances that proper precautions would be taken and, I am sure, a constant barrage from Stephen. We were going to a “stately” home and rhododendron garden nearby. The mansion was on top of the hill and the gardens flowed down the hill, a path wound down through the gardens to the picnic area and playground at the bottom. The entire hillside was covered with rhododendron trees of every colour possible. When we arrived the flowers were in late full bloom, the entire hillside was a blaze of colours, and many petals had fallen, making the path a colourful carpet as well. Stephen quickly wriggled away from the partner he had been assigned, and took off, running wildly down the petal-covered path. It looked like his speed plus the steepness of the path were going to combine to cause a serious accident. We were just about to take chase when Stephen skidded to a stop, bent down and scooped up an armload of petals. He turned to us, his face shining, and said, “Miss, look what I made!” and we smiled.

Rhododendrons make me think of Stephen, and smile.