Day 14: Bud

I'm warning you, in advance, that this story seems outlandish and unreal—I'm still having a difficult time believing it—but it is true.

I was sitting in the library studying with my classmate and friend Joey for our Medical Speech Pathology exam, which is tomorrow. Yikes! We were taking turns teaching each other about different topics that will be covered. It was Joey's turn to teach so I was sitting on a bench reading over the materials that I would be teaching next, while she was jotting down notes on the white board. The white board area we were working in is right next to the main thoroughfare on the first floor of the university library. A man in tattered clothes, worn shoes, and a raggedy beanie stopped next to one of the white boards and examined the writing. I let him examine it for what seemed like a few minutes.

"Looks like fun stuff," I said, in attempts to break the awkward silence.

"Spastic Dysarthria" he said. "Sounds like a psychological term," pause. "What are you studying?" he asked.

"Medical Speech Pathology," I replied. "It's not as fancy as it sounds but I sure like it," I added.

"Can I ask you a question?" he inquired.

"Be my guest," I responded.

He said, "Do you know what Asperger's is?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Why do you ask?" I ignorantly replied, not looking much into why he would be asking such a question.

"I have it," he returned.

"Oh really?" was the best response I could come up with.

"What do you think of when you see a Styrofoam cup?" he asked.

"Well...I think of something that you can drink out of," I hesitated.

"When I look at a Styrofoam cup," he paused to swallow. "When I look at a Styrofoam cup, I see polymers, I see polymers adhered together by "%$&#@" bonds (No, this is not a curse word. They are symbols that represent some scientific term which I was, and remain, unaware of). I think of oil and the chemical process through which it is refined to create a compound which we call Styrofoam. Would you like me to explain that process to you?" he offered.

"I'm not much into chemistry but you can try," I uttered.

"Nevermind. I think of the health benefits that have come to fruition as a result of being able to keep cold things cold and warm things warm," he continued rapidly.

"You have a brilliant mind," I interrupted.

"That's a bit of an understatement," he said.

I thought, for a moment, of being offended by his arrogance but I let it pass. Pragmatic skills don't tend to be a strong suit for those with Asperger's. So the conversation went on, swerving from one scientific discipline to the next like a blindfolded drunk man trying to walk the line. We talked about car engines and jet engines, thermodymanics and physics—all of which I could barely get a grasp on before we were on to the next topic. Finally, he veered hard left with the conversation and made a crash landing onto a topic that I could finally understand—humanity.

"Are you a caregiver," he asked, this time looking me in the eyes.

"I guess you could say that I'm a caregiver," I replied.

"I need a caregiver," he said.

"Listen bud, (he hadn't told me his name) if you're asking me for money, I don't have any," I said in the nicest way I knew how.

"I don't need money," pause. "Well, I do. But, I need some food and a roof over my head. I need someone to take care of me."

He pulled out an envelope with an LDS bishop's order for food that had been given to him.

"I have this order for food, but I have nowhere to prepare it," he said as I swallowed hard to fight back the tears.

"Let's talk, my friend," I said as I frantically tried to come up with ideas.

He sat down on the floor and crossed his legs—his nonverbal way of saying I'm all ears. I slid down off the bench I had been sitting on and sat crossed legged directly across from him and looked him in the eyes.

"I can't let you stay at my house," I said. "Have you tried the Road Home?" I added.

"I rather go to jail than stay there. You don't understand the types of men that hang around there. They're mean and they do bad things. At jail they at least have guards that keep an eye on people like that. I've been living out of my car since my mom died. She was my caregiver but ever since she died, I've been on my own," he  said.

Feeling helpless, I switched from talking about housing to talking about food.

"Let's make a deal," I proposed, not thinking that this tired and hungry man probably wasn't up for striking a deal.

"I don't know what I can do for you tonight as far as housing is concerned. But, let's talk about food. Since I can't provide you with a place to cook the food from the food order,  how about I bring some food that is already prepared?" I suggested.

"That won't work. I can't have gluten or milk," he replied.

"That's just fine. I'll bring food and snacks that are gluten free," I said.

"Really?" he asked in disbelief.

"Really, my friend. Do you have any favorite snacks?"

" I like the 50 pack of Kroger brand Pepperoni," he responded, trying to analyze if I was bluffing or not.

"I'm going to brainstorm some ideas for getting you a roof over your head and I want you to do the same thing. We can work together to figure this out if you're willing, but I'm not going to just hand things to you. Truth be told, I don't have much that I can just give to you.  You're going to have to put in your share of the work. Meet me here tomorrow at 3:30, and I'll have some food for you. Brainstorming is much easier when your body has nourishment."

And so the story goes. I met this man, whom I refer to as Bud,  in the most bizarre of circumstances. But he set before me, on a proverbial silver platter, things—so many things—that I have to be grateful for. The two that come first to my mind are a roof over my head and food in my belly.

I sure as hell hope that Bud shows up tomorrow because there will be a bag full or food (milk and gluten free) waiting for him.

If any of you are aware of resources that may be beneficial for Bud, please let me know.

Day 13: Irregular Past Tense

Irregular past tense verbs. I know, I know... I'm sure it's a term that you've tried to avoid since middle school grammar class. But, as it turns out, irregular past tense verbs can be a lot of fun—especially if you work in a special education class.


Background info for new readers: I work, as a behavioral aide, in a special education class at a nearby middle school. There are nine students in the class, one girl and eight boys,  ranging in ages from 12-15, all of whom have a diagnosis of Autism. Many of the students have multiple diagnoses. My students are the coolest teenagers on the planet. If you don't believe me, ask them.


Recently, the kids have started working on grammar packets. As a neurotypical (a.k.a. normal and boring) student, I remember hating grammar classes, packets, and activities. So it's no surprise to me that my kiddos—all of whom have language learning disorders of varying degrees—hate them, too.


The most recent assignment was one that focused on past tense verbs. The kiddos were given a list of verbs and asked to provide the past tense form of each. For the majority of the verbs, they were able to provide the accurate past tense form but boy did they come up with some brilliant approximations of past tense forms of irregular verbs. Let's take a look, shall we?

When asked to come up with the past tense form of these words:	My students came up with some surprising variations that include:
Go	Geed, Gooed, Gaw, Goed
Sing	Singded, Sangded
Do	Doed, Dooded
Throw	Threwded
Swim	Swammed, Swammied

I had a hoot correcting these worksheets! For once, grammar was a whole bunch of fun. It was a nice reminder that: A) the English language is wacky and B) the students in my class are brilliant little people who cease to amaze me.


My kiddos and their ingenious brains are what's right in the world.

Day 12: Olly Olly Oxen Free

Today, I made a visit to my dear friends in room 2613 of the University of Utah hospital. There are few people as great as Tammie, Alyssa, and Trevor. Whenever we get together, we like to party like it's 1999. Today our partying took the form of a popular children's game—Hide-n-Seek.


For those of you who are new to the blog, Trevor is my best friend's brother and the son of the most amazing mother on either side of the Mississippi. It's true. Trevor is in the midst of recovery from his second traumatic brain injury. Trevor has survived, not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, but SIX brain surgeries including the removal of parts of his frontal and parietal lobes. If you feel like you have misread this or that your mind is playing tricks on you, I urge you to take a few deep breaths, close your eyes, count backwards from ten and reread this paragraph.


Tammie, Alyssa and I were enjoying our third viewing of Juno for the month when Trevor had to excuse himself to go use the gentlemen's room. Well, it's the bathroom attached to his hospital room.  It can be a ladies' room or a gentlemen's room depending on who is watering the hole. It's like the magical horse on the Wizard of Oz that changes colors...BUT COOLER. So, since Trevor was watering the hole this particular time, it was a gentlemen's room. Enough about the bathroom. Trevor sat up in his bed and his mom, Tammie, reflexively whipped the wheelchair around and pulled it up next to his bed. Trevor stood up on his own (you read it correctly, I said: ON HIS OWN!), with only the slightest wobble, and quickly shifted his weight from the bed to the wheelchair and he was off to the races, err... the bathroom. Same difference.


While Trevor and Tammie were in the restroom, Alyssa and I thought it would be funny to hop into Trevor's bed and cover ourselves with all the blankets. You know...like hide-n-seek. No one would ever find us there. It was the perfect plan, or so we thought. We quietly took off our shoes so they wouldn't make noise on the laminate floors—like the people who were five feet away from us in the approximately 10x10 hospital room wouldn't hear us moving—and tip-toed over to Trev's hospital bed. We jumped into the bed, smooshed together (as my thighs do when I run), pulled the side rails up on the bed (safety first), and flung the blankets over our heads. We did our best not to laugh and it worked as well as an oompa loompa doing the high jump. We pulled the blankets down so only our eyes were visible as to keep watch on the bathroom door.


Trev finished his business and the bathroom door began to move. Lyssa and I sent the blankets flying over our heads and laid under them squealing with bouts of laughter. I'm sure it was like watching/listening to second graders trying to fall asleep at a sleepover. The wheelchair rolled over next to the bed and we successfully got a laugh out of Trevor but we stayed hidden as to keep the game going. Before we knew it, the joke was on us. Apparently, Trevor lost interest in our game and scooted himself out of the room. Tammie obliged his silent but deliberate request and accompanied him to the lounge at the end of the hall.


Alyssa and I sat, blissfully unaware, under the covers still laughing our heads off at our childish antics. As we realized that the room was completely silent, we pulled the covers down past our eyes and scanned the room for signs of Tammie and Trevor. The coast was clear. Moments later, we heard footsteps outside the room. Alyssa, in a whisper-yell, said "Hurrrrry, hide, it's Trev." So we pulled the blanks taut back over our heads. There was a faint knock at the door but we ignored it, positive that it was Trevor and Tammie returning to admit defeat. There were a few seconds of silence, followed by "Umm...Trevor?" Once again, we pulled the blankets down as to only reveal our eyes. This time our eyes were met by the confused gaze of Trevor's doctor. There was a pause followed by another, slightly more awkward, pause and then an eruption of laughter so loud I'm sure people across the hall could hear us. Alyssa and I could barely pull ourselves together from all the laughter long enough to let the doctor deliver his brief message—Trevor will be getting his vena cava filter out on Monday. 


And just like that, the doctor—the beautiful Dr. McFoxy Barnes—was gone and Alyssa and I sat in Trevor's hospital bed laughing so hard that our bodies could barely find time to inhale and the tears came a pourin'. It's a sweet, sweet thing to have a moment, in what can easily seem such a dreary place, to shed tears. For once not sad tears, but laughter tears. As for Dr. McFoxy Barnes, I'm sure he's seen stranger things. He works in the inpatient rehab unit of a hospital for goodness sake. 


A game of hide-n-seek gone terribly hilarious is what's right in the world. 


P.S. You should follow Alyssa's blog about Trevor. Simply put, it's amazing. It gives you a glimpse into an experience that no one should ever have to come to know, let alone twice. http://wakeupwoo.blogspot.com/

Day 11: To be or not to be...

To blog or not to blog, that is the question. Today was difficult. I realize that there is so much good that I'm not seeing right now. I blame it on running head first into a shelf yesterday. The goose egg and headache remain, but I'm afraid the brain cells are gone. Such is life.

However, I watched this video today and it made me smile the biggest smile I've smiled in quite some time. I hope it does the same for you.



You see right through me. Yes, I love babies. Yes, I'm baby hungry. There, I said it but let's just keep it between you and me.

A toddler in a rainbow sweater reciting Hamlet is what's right in the world.

Day 10: Garbage Pickup Eve

Wednesday is the day before the garbage truck dutifully empties the neighborhood garbage cans. Do you know what that means? You're right! It is, indeed, the day that I get to clean up dog poop. Eww, you're gross. No I don't think picking up dog poop is what's right in the world. But, thanks to the dry Utah air and a whole bunch of sunshine, it wasn't so bad today. Sunshine does so much good, including turning fresh doggie bowel movements into hard and  manageable items that can easily be plucked from the grass and tossed into the bin. So, without further ado, I would like to give a shout out to Mr. Sun. You were a real champ today.

 The sun and it's many magnificent transforming qualities is what's right in the world. If you're a dog owner, you totally get this.

Day 9: Contagious Laughter

I love babies. This is one of the many reasons why.



Laughing babies are what's right in the world.

Day 8: This Aint Her First Rodeo

"Woke up to a phone call from my mom saying Trevor hit his head and was being airlifted to the University of Utah hospital. Got up, got dressed and headed straight to the hospital to wait for his arrival. Scared out of my mind with no idea what happened or what to expect." 

These are some of her first reflections of her second rodeo. 

The first rodeo was exactly ten months earlier, to the day. Trevor, her brother, had sustained what would be his first traumatic brain injury during a rail jam snowboarding competition. She dropped everything and was on the first flight (or series of flights) back to Michigan where the first rodeo awaited her. She had no idea what the next months had in store, but she jumped up onto the saddle, grabbed the bull rope, dug her spurs into the bull's side and dared it to rear. It obliged. It reared in ways that no rider could expect. Faking left and going right. Creating ups and downs beyond the scope of any bull's abilities. But she didn't let go. She moved with it—feeling every up and down, every jar and pull, every twist and every turn. And it was her her ability to move with the bull rather than fight it, that sent her on her way to her first victory. 

After the first victory, she slid out of the saddle, breathless. She stood dumbfounded at what she had just survived, and slowly inhaled, letting her feet adjust to the ground— ground that was solid and was no longer spinning. She exhaled, letting go of the fear— the what ifs that so frequently invaded her thoughts. 

Being new to the world of rodeos, she decided that once was enough, but the universe had other plans. 

"Resident took Larry and me back to see Trevor for the first time. Intense feelings of Deja Vu that I can't even begin to describe. He looked a lot better than the last time around, his head less swollen and bruised. Couldn't believe this was happening all over again. I thought we won the battle, but apparently it was just half-time..."

On Feburary 2, 2010 she was saddling up for her second rodeo. It wasn't an event that she had signed up for, but it was here. And just like she had done before, she jumped up onto the saddle, grabbed the bull rope, dug her spurs into the bull's side and—once again— dared it to rear. Following suit, it reared and it continues to rear. Its taking turns. Left, left, followed by a sharp right. A dip, abruptly matched by a flail. A jolt. A tug. Pounding circles. It continues its dance like the waltz of a giant with four left feet. But instead of falling victim to such a beast, she sits atop it and moves in sync with its every move—every pound, every clash, every shake, stagger, and rock. She keeps a steady grip, refusing to release. She has a white flag in her pocket, like the one we all come equipped with, but she keeps it there. She doesn't wave it over her head. Steadfast, she continues the ride. And when the bull relents, she will take the white flag out of her pocket and wipe the sweat from her brow—all in the name of her brother. 

My best friend fighting, like hell, in the name of her brother is what's right in the world. 

Day 7: Reconciliation and Peace

This man embodies humans' capacity for good. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable. 

People like this man, who choose peace and reconciliation over revenge, are what's right in the world. 

Day 6: Sunsets and Mountain Tops

Everyday I get to see these.

When I'm driving home from school, they look more like this...

In a few months, sights like this will be hidden in the nooks and crannies.

I can't wait for the day, it usually comes in June, when I go camping for the first time of the season. This marks the day that my car stays fully equipped with camping gear for the summer and at a moment's notice, I can be doing things like this...

...with this guy

Sunsets and mountain tops are what's right in the world.

Day 5: Itai

A most impressive example of the good hearts and goodwill of the people in Japan. I'm in awe.



People who continue to find good, in the midst of catastrophe, are what's right in the world.

Day 4: LIVESTRONG

I wear it everyday but somehow I haven't looked at it in weeks. I mean, really looked at it. It is the yellow LIVESTRONG bracelet wrapped around my wrist. It happens to be my favorite color and it does an incredible job of making me look sportier than I really am but that's not why I wear it. It was a gift.

Bob, a close family friend had just passed away. I remember being in the room with him in his last moments. He was frail. His body had evolved into a life sucking machine that was ripping out pages—chapters— of his autobiography. It didn't make sense. I was fourteen, almost fifteen, and death wasn't something that my teenage mind was equipped to distill.

Bob was business man. He had a smokey office in the back of his billiards hall— McHenry Boulevard Billiards. On the occasional Friday evening, before the rowdy crowd filed in, my brother would take me there to see Bob. My sassy second-grade self would walk back to his office like I owned the place. He would put out his cigarette, I would jump into his lap, and we would start talking business. I would file papers that, hindesight 20/20, I think were on their way to the garbage bin. I'm sure Bob had resurrected them from the trash pile on his desk and let me file them so I could feel like I had helped. It worked. I always felt like I was something else. After my work was done, Bob would reach into the top drawer of his desk and pull out a bag full of quarters. This was good stuff. It was the signal. It was my cue to get my tom-boy tooshie out to the air hockey table. We would play as many rounds as I could beg out of him and he would always bribe me out of another match by striking a deal. He's a business man, remember. If I agreed to relent, I got to sit up at the bar and have a soda with Debbie, his wife. It never took to much convincing.

But he was gone and my these were the memories that my teenage mind clung to in order to cushion myself from the blow of death. It was my first real experience with it and it felt like a whirlwind of bizarre.

A few weeks later, I got a package in the mail. I ripped it open, anxious to see what was inside. Yellow LIVESTRONG bands—one for me and one for my mom—and a letter. It was from my brother. He wrote about the fragility of life and how watching Bob pass was lesson, to him,  in living strong. So, in memorandum, we all wore our LIVESTRONG bands as reminders to do just that.  

Exactly a year of wearing our bracelets had passed when I got the call. "Hi Meggy, 
it's mom. Nick has come down with a really bad flu and I'm headed out to California to take care of him for a few days. I love you," my mom's recorded voice said into my voicemail. I thought nothing of it. I would miss my mom but school, homework, and track workouts would keep me busy. The next message was a little less light-hearted, "Hi Meg, It's mom. Nick's in the hospital. They're doing some blood work but I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. I'll keep you posted. I love you." My heart sank slightly in my chest but my world kept charging forward. Blood work was no big deal. It's standard.

The next school day came and went. Track practice was over, I was exhausted and I was headed home to make some dinner and crawl into bed. The third call came, but this time we finally connected. No voicemail would be necessary. I answered my cell and could hear that someone was on the other end of the line. We were connected but my mom was silent. "Mom? Are you there?" I asked. "I'm here, Meg," she whispered. "What's up, Mom," I hesitated to utter. "Meg," she paused. "Nick has Leukemia." I hit the floor like a ton of bricks. My phone went flying and my world went blurry.  How I got from Utah to California still remains fuzzy in my memory. But I did. Next thing I knew, I was calling Standford Hospital home.

The cancer was progressive and they started chemotherapy immediately. The familiar scene of watching a limp body, sunken into the sheets and sucking life, had returned. But this time it was closer than I could ever imagine. Everyday the nurses would come in dressed like they were transporting nuclear waste and they would inject the chemo—The Death— into my brothers body.  I would sit, like an observer at an execution, as I watched death take my brother by the hand and lead him to bleary horizon where life and cessation meet.  And everyday, like clockwork, death showed up to lead him to that bleary horizon. But everyday, he refused to go. He fought, for what seemed like an eternity, through the chemo, through the radiation, through the bone marrow transplant, and through the myriad of associated illness that followed. But somehow, in the midst of such unrest, my brother had become the epitome of living strong.

Two months ago, marked the five year anniversary of my brother's diagnosis and I'm proud to say that he's still living strong. I got a glimpse of the yellow band around my wrist tonight and thought:

"My brother. My brother still living strong is what's right in the world."

Day 3: He lives in the most fantastic world

A few days ago, I was at work just going through the motions. A work routine usually looks like this: The teacher is at the front of the room trying to teach a new concept—social skills on this particular day. Such a subject is never a crowd pleaser in a classroom of ten teenagers, spanning the ages 12-14, all of whom have a common diagnosis of Autism and many having dual diagnoses. I sit in a chair that is strategically placed between two students that need more assistance than the others and I take notes. I record things like 'how many times H. picks his nose,' or 'how many times S. throws her books off of her desk in a fit of rage,' or my personal favorite 'how many times C. refers to his imaginary world.'

Tangent time: I need to confess something. I'm a fraud. Heres how this note taking business works. At the end of an allotted period of time, I take my recorded notes, graph out behavior patterns, and then create programs for working on these behaviors. These behaviors, according to the teacher, seem to be hindering the students' progress in school. Here's where the fraud part comes in. I don't think that C. living in an imaginary world is hindering his academic performance. It may not be ideal for his social performance, but that's a whole other battle. The poor kiddos I work with constantly have people (usually big bad adults) breathing down their necks telling them to do this, don't do that, you're not doing this right, that's too big, that's too small, oops, try again. So my thinking goes like this: If I had big, bad adults constantly breathing down my neck critiquing my work, I would create an imaginary world, too. And I would escape to it as often as possible.

So, I beef the data regarding how many times C. refers to his imaginary world. If I beef the data so it doesn't look it's a problem that is potentially jeopardizing to his performance, he gets to keep the imaginary world. He gets to, for the tiniest moment, be safe from the nagging adults commenting on all the ways he is doing things wrong. I'm not going to be the one to take that away from him. I'll leave that for the next person that does this job.

Welcome back from that tangent. Let's move on, shall be? So, C. (who just so happens to be my favorite student) was sitting at his desk working on an assignment. It was his birthday and I was extra impressed with how attentive he was, considering such a monumental event. He was 13! He was doing fantastic work but his eyes were fluttering in and out of sleep as he desperately tried to fight off sleep and stay awake. I scooted my chair next to his desk and said "Hey bud, I was noticing that you look pretty tired. Did you get enough sleep last night?" This is the conversation that followed:

C: "Of course I didn't get enough sleep last night, Miss Megan."
M: "Oh no, I'm sorry, my friend. What was keeping you up? Were you excited about your birthday?"
C: " I was just thinking and I couldn't sleep because my thoughts wouldn't let me."
M: "That makes sense. What kinds of thoughts were you thinking about?"
C: "Well, there was really only one thought."
M: "Why don't you tell me about it."
C: "It's just that I was thinking about rats. I was thinking about what the world would be like if rats didn't have hair on their backs but grew all their hair on their bellies."

This, my friends, is where I lost it. I kept my cool long enough to finish the conversation but all the while, I was experiencing a full body reflex that was working in overdrive to keep me from bursting out in laughter. The tears were pooling in my eyes. But alas, I made it. I got myself out of the classroom just moments before the anti-laughter reflex busted at the seams and doubled me over. My dearest student couldn't sleep all night because he was up thinking about rats. RATS! Rats. Rats with no hair on their back, at that.

My students and their dear imaginations are what is right in the world.

Day 2: Spending the day at the park with the pooch.

As soon as I got home this morning, I stepped into some sweats, grabbed Titus, the leash, a bag of tennis balls, the oh-so-loved Chuck-it, and Titus and I were off to the park. We lucked out by being the only ones there, so we played fetch until Titus couldn't take it anymore. He always lets me know when he's pooped out by trotting over to where I'm standing and flopping over onto his side like a wounded soldier who has just taken a bullet to the gut. Despite being exhausted, neither of us were ready to make the walk home and we were both enjoying the the whether that has been giving us some promising sneak-peaks of the quickly approaching Spring. So, I rolled my jacket up into a pillow, Titus plopped down next to me and we curled up to take the most delightful snoozer I've had in a while.

Titus is what's right in the world.

Day 1: Little Tikes

As I was flipping through old photos, I stumbled upon these precious little people. They are some of the many unbelievable kiddos that I was able to spend time with in Thailand. They are what's right in the world.

Concept: Finding that which is right in the world

It's simple. Finding all that is wrong in the world is an easy task—one that we seem to constantly be tripping over. And as we're finding our way back to our feet, all we can see is the wrong that sent us falling. We keep our eyes glued to it. Afraid that if we look away it will strike again. But all the while that our eyes are glued to that which is wrong, we miss all that is right in the world. Our vision is tunneled and we neglect the beauty in our periphery.

The concept of my blog is simple. It is to, for a liberating moment, release my gaze from all that is wrong and focus in—even for the slightest moment—on that which is right. That which is good. That which is kind. To plant the tiniest seed of decency, nurture it with love and goodwill, and have hope that something beautiful will bloom. And when it does, that which is right in the world will become the focus of my gaze, sending that which is wrong to my periphery; a spot where I can see it just well enough that I need not stumble over it.