As Friday drew closer, I heard the clock ticking. I wasn't sure what to expect, as almost two decades of public schooling drew to a close.
When Cowboy was three years old, we said goodbye to the Early Childhood Intervention therapists that had been coming to the house for a year. It was the first of many goodbyes we’d experience in the next 19 years. And I hate goodbyes. But, with so much practice, I don’t grieve as long and hard as I used to.
Two months later, we sent Cowboy to public school two years earlier than we’d anticipated, for him to attend Public Preschool for Children with Disabilities (PPCD). I don't remember calling and making arrangements for my baby to go; I only recall someone from the district coming to the house to talk to us and to meet our pride and joy before his first day of school.
Cowboy's first PPCD teacher, Ms. Belle, always had a bright smile, loving eyes, and a compassionate heart. She was a great fit for my little boy’s launch into school, and first in a long line of teachers that served Cowboy well. In addition, there were speech therapists; occupational therapists; diagnosticians; and principals, many who were exceptional, and one that was inept, that would be part of our team.
Elementary school was an exciting time for Cowboy, and we fell in love with his teacher, Ms. Sullivan, immediately. When Cowboy completed elementary school, I didn't think I'd ever breathe again. After six years, she was a hero to me. She still is. She was our Anne Sullivan, and has always believed in Cowboy.
Before every transition to a new school, new teacher, new therapist, or new paraprofessionals, I polled parents as well as professionals I trusted, to get their input on staff members. The majority of my findings were positive, but when they weren’t, I still gave staff the benefit of the doubt. However, having information ahead of time helped me to be on the lookout for any area of Cowboy’s education that might be neglected, so I could call the appropriate administrator to discuss any problems. And every time a new special education director came onboard, I scheduled a one-on-one meeting with them to start a good rapport, and see what kind of person they were. We’ve been blessed with some wonderful directors who truly wanted the best for Cowboy.
Of course, the years weren’t all rosy. Although no school district likes to think that parents must “fight” for what their children need, it can feel like a fight, even in a good district. And usually, these duels take place in ARD (Admission, Review, and Dismissal) meetings, where individualized goals and objectives for a student are discussed. During one particular ARD meeting, the longest and most difficult of Cowboy’s elementary years, I finally opened up to our team about how horrendous things were at home, regarding Cowboy’s behavior and my being the brunt of it. I was advocating for more summer school hours for Cowboy, based on his behavioral regression during prolonged periods without school. With valuable input from my behavioral specialist friend Dr. Alexis, I was ready to make a case for Cowboy. Although a special education administrator, one of the best I’ve known, disagreed that Cowboy needed more hours, the principal went to bat for us. And the diagnostician, with tears in his eyes, said what I’ll never forget. “We need to help Mrs. Lindquist as much as we need to help Cowboy.” I felt incredibly heard, understood, and cared for.
Rather than securing more summer school hours, we acquired one of the most gifted special education attendants I’ve ever known, as our in-home trainer during the summer. He was gold to me. All of our in-home trainers and parent trainers have been an integral part of our journey. Our longest trainer was Dr. Verkade, a psychologist and farmer extraordinaire. I’ve been grateful to have men on our team, such as Dr. Verkade; it was important to me for Cowboy to have positive male role models during his school years. And when Cowboy began junior high, he had his first male teacher, Mr. Casey, which was perfect for an 11-year-old boy.
Cowboy’s teacher for seventh and eighth grades, Ms. Montessori, opened my eyes to Cowboy's ability to use a communication device, in spite of my doubts. Previously, he had used a Picture Exchange Communication System, gesturing, sign language, writing, and drawing. We quickly ordered an iPad, and the results were life changing; he began typing on his iPad to tell us what he needed. I still have a personal note his junior high principal mailed to me, bragging on Cowboy.
High school brought incredible changes, but also some familiar teachers we’d known from other settings, including Mr. Marley, who’s known Cowboy for 16 years. He was a calming force for Cowboy throughout high school. Cowboy’s alma mater also brought some powerhouse women as his homeroom teachers - Ms. Xena, a mama bear in her own right, and Ms. Diana Prince. Their firm, loving instruction provided the security Cowboy needed to navigate the waters of a larger school.
And then, last fall brought struggles in Cowboy’s final vocational training year, as his anxiety was still at high levels. After Cowboy’s attending two and a half years at a transition center in our area, paid for by the school district, that program was no longer the appropriate setting for Cowboy. I had worried for several weeks prior, in the quiet darkness of night, What are we going to do if this doesn’t work out for Cowboy? He can’t be home doing nothing every day. And he already left the high school. It would be yet another change for Cowboy, one that would come much sooner than we’d anticipated.
Then, I thought of the high school’s new vocational director, Ms. Leia Organa. From my communications with her during the year, I knew she had our back. Peace came over me when I thought of all she had already done during her three short months in her new position. She had a passion for my son’s success, as well as for all of her students. Two days later, after she attended a lengthy staff meeting, she called me.
“How would you feel about Cowboy coming back to the high school?” she asked.
I pinched myself several times to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Then, of course, I thought of potential problems.
“Well,” I replied, “I think that would be awesome. I didn’t know you could do that. But Cowboy already had closure regarding going to the campus. Will this be confusing when he has to say goodbye forever, in six months?”
She’d already thought of that; she often thinks for me.
“I’ll do a countdown with Cowboy, and help prepare him for that.”
Cowboy was too excited to sleep the night before his return to the school, and his amazing job coaches, Aida and Olive, couldn’t wait to have him back. Within three days of Cowboy’s being in Ms. Organa’s program, I received a text from her saying, “I think I know what Cowboy might want to do as a business.”
Three days, and she had my son running his own business. I was stunned.
“He loves making t-shirts, is extremely detail oriented, and works quickly.”
Not long afterwards, our new friend Charity, who owns a t-shirt shop, mentioned that Cowboy could train at her place of business during the summer, if he’d like to. Hope was springing again, like it did so many times throughout the years. Just when I thought everything was falling apart, God surprised me.
And then, The Virus came. And everything changed. I had no idea how to tell Cowboy that his last day on the high school campus was his last day there forever. The first time I broke the news, he was clearly agitated and anxious.
“But Ms. Organa will still be our friend, and your classmates are still your friends,” I added, hoping it helped the grief a little. I repeated it frequently, especially when he would tell me he wanted to go back to school.
Again, Ms. Organa came through. She created on-line vocational assignments that helped identify Cowboy’s strengths as well as things he’s not interested in. He read and watched videos about various jobs, and he did typing assignments that helped him learn proper hand placement on the keyboard, something that’s difficult for him.
Strangely, our time at home has reaped great rewards. Now, Cowboy logs onto his laptop and accesses email without any assistance from me. He’s adhering to our schedule at home more than ever, and his independence has grown, as well as the list of chores he’s doing. I’ve learned how much he likes to stay busy and productive, just like his dad, Flash.
But two weeks ago, when Ms. Organa emailed, “Next week will be our last week of work,” I felt a hollow place in my gut. Tears came to my eyes as I thought of perhaps our greatest goodbye of all. I felt untethered, as if I would literally float away from earth into the blackness of space, more alone than ever.
How will I do this without my team? I cried out in my mind. I haven’t walked this journey without them since Cowboy was three.
Many of our team members have been direct answers to prayers. They’ve cried tears of pain and of joy with me, disagreed with me while still respecting me, listened to me, taught me, and have become dear friends. They’ve been more than Cowboy’s team – they’ve been his school family. I contemplated bribing them all to quit their jobs and work for me, even though there’s not enough money in the world to pay them what they’re worth. Due to my inability to provide a retirement plan and health benefits, I gave up my plan, clung to my box of chocolates, and stayed in a fetal position for a couple of days.
And then, as if she knew exactly what I needed to hear, Ms. Organa emailed me the day before the Big Goodbye, writing, “It is going to be okay! Cowboy is ready for this. He has good skills. He can work! I have seen him! Let him lead you as you always have, and you will all be great. Do not forget, you have me as a cheerleader and supporter for the entire family!”
It was the perfect reminder that goodbyes are not always permanent, and Cowboy will always have cheerleaders in his life. And, most importantly, God will always lead Cowboy and us, and bring loving, supportive people to our team.