Transforming Love and Candor

I have found a long-lost acquaintance on Facebook, and the delightful part is seeing her stepson, Bobby, in photos across the page.

Bobby is a man with Down Syndrome who often visited the Sunday Bible Class we taught for many years. Seeing his picture brings to mind the joy and fulfillment we experienced working with that wonderful group of adults.

Did I mention they were adults with various disabilities, especially what we called Developmental Disabilities?

That means they were at various levels of mental retardation or delay.

I told Husband, “You should see Bobby’s picture. He looks like a version of his Dad.”

“How do you remember those people and their names? I can barely connect Bobby to his Dad, and that is because I knew his Dad’s cousin, Roy.”

“It’s a curse, really. Although there are times when I have to tell people I remember their faces, but not their names.”

“That was a long time ago,” Husband said, taking me back to the original conversation.

“Wasn’t it great?”

“Well, sort of. At least it was for you.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Those men and women really loved and respected you. They can remember your name much faster than mine, and I was the actual teacher. I did most of the work.”

“Well, yeah, I guess it was my charm.”

“I am convinced it was the way you treated them. You were genuine with them.”

“You were genuine. You really loved that work.”

“Yes, I still love the thought of those guys.”

Husband stared at me. “Can I, can I , can I t-t-t tell you something?” We both laughed because Pat, a member of the class always began his conversation with that phrase.

“Seriously, I want to tell you something. Sometimes I resented those people. It took 15 functioning adults to make one of them look independent. As normal as possible.” He added that last phrase in a mocking tone.

I contemplated that for a while. “Yes, it did, but it didn’t hurt us. Look what God did through us in that class.”

I began to call names, ”Don, Carrie, Dwain, who married Michele, that Campbell girl whose first name escapes me. Lisa, Lisa Campbell. All of them are now deceased, and all went into eternity knowing the God who loved them.”

Husband remembered them all, “What was it Don told you about coming to Sunday School? You asked him if he liked coming and staying for worship.”

“Don said he liked hearing that God loved him. ‘I never knewed that before.’ And he didn’t because he had been abused and exploited. We were there when he prayed to receive Christ.”

As I looked at Husband, I said, “And you were part of it with your matter-of-fact way of working with them.  They loved you for being you with them.”

Husband reflected on our conversation for a few minutes. “It is like you always say. Those people are more like you and me than different from us.”

I recalled a time when we visited one of the group homes, and I began to laugh.

“Do you remember when you walked into the TV room where Rick and some of the guys were watching a movie?” I asked.

“Yes, I remember! It was filthy with all sorts of half-naked women running around with their butts hanging out of their swimsuits. I told those guys they should change the channel. That movie was not good for them to watch.”

“Well, your final comment to them demonstrated what I mean about your matter-of-fact way of being around those people. Rick said, ‘But we like it.’”

Husband turned a bit red. “Oh, yeah. Afterwards I was afraid my flippant remark would cause trouble.”

By this time I was laughing again at Husband’s bluntness.

Yeah, you said, “What do you know? You’re retarded.”

First College Experience

Yesterday, I asked Husband about his first year of college. “Why did you go to Emporia State rather than stay here in Wichita?”

He looked somewhat saddened when I mentioned that first year.

“Why are you asking?”

“This time of year, many students with ADHD go away or attend college for the first time. Thinking about it sets off a plan to write a blog.”

“I went to Emporia because the school offered a computer program. Wichita State was not an option for me. Friends would have been an option, but they did not offer the program I wanted.”

Keep in mind that these were the days before the microchip perfected the role of computers in our lives.

“And how long did you live in Emporia?”

“One school term or year.”

“Why did you come back home?”

“Because I was an idiot,” he shot back at me without a moment’s hesitation. “I left a situation without finishing it. If I had been on the ball, I would have gotten a job and stayed there.”

His face reflected disgust at the memory.

“But if you had, we would not have met,” I whined.

His face softened at the memory of meeting me.

“At Emporia, they actually expected me to work. School meant I had to do more than listen and take notes, which is how I got through high school.”

Thoughtfully he continued, “I was disappointed in college because I didn’t feel accepted. A certain group of kids, the ones from back east who couldn’t get into eastern schools, made me feel bad about myself. It was miserable.”

His comments supported what many college students with ADHD feel. For them, college has much to do with developing a self-image and discovering future hopes and dreams. More importantly, it’s about finding friends and people with whom they can identify. But frequently it is difficult for them to find friend on campus. It’s as if nebulous circles or factions are challenging to understand and befriend.

“Another reason I came back was because Dad kept hounding me to get a job, so I could pay the $35 monthly rent. I lived in a house with four other guys. It was a real mess.”

Often persons with ADHD lack social cues, act socially inappropriate or immature, and often put the blame for all of this on others.

“Were people cruel to you?”

He thought for several seconds, and I could see he was sorting through the stories.

“One economics teacher was a real jerk.” Actually he used another offensive term that insulted the instructor’s value and intelligence.

“He was a poor teacher to begin with, and whenever a couple of us asked him to clarify his explanations, he became belligerent. As well the answers to the test questions were not in his notes.”

I saw a bigger picture in relation to his comments. Many persons with ADHD also have learning disabilities concerning the use of language skills. College students with ADHD and/or learning disabilities comprise the greatest percentage of students with disabilities on college campuses in the United States.

“So I came back home and enrolled at Friends University.”

I asked, “What was different about Friends?”

“Even though home was not best, I was home. I felt more secure about going to college. The instructors at Friends treated me more like teachers did in high school. Also the classes were smaller, I had a cooperative job schedule, and there was an advantage of more jobs overall.”

He continued, “I felt better about school in general, though we both know I didn’t complete my degree until 30 years later.” At that we both smiled at the thought of his transcripts and incompletes.

“Going away that one year, however, was beneficial. It helped me see the importance of doing what I had not been doing.”

 

One in a Million

Restaurants have become one of our more favorite haunts, and I don’t mean that poetically.

Husband and I often hang out at restaurants these days because we no longer enjoy cooking. However, this blog is not about eating out. It is about a song I heard during lunch this week.

The deep baritone voice caught my attention: “A one in a million, chance of a lifetime, And life showed compassion, And sent to me a stroke of love called you, A one in a million you.”

I stared across the table at the familiar eyes and face.

Husband stopped chewing and held my gaze, “What?”

“Who is singing?” I always ask him because he is the one who pays attention to such details.

It is ironic, I know, that the one with ADHD pays attention to nitty-gritty details, but he is the one with the interest in performers.

“Larry Graham,” came his short reply.

As I continued to watch his face, I thought how appropriate those words are to a couple who is growing old together.

Husband said, “We’re not there yet. I’ll tell you when we have gotten old.”

The song continued, “I started to believe I'd never find anyone,
Doubt had tried to convince me to give in, Said you can't win... But one day the sun it came a'shinin' through, The rain had stopped, and the skies were blue.”
“That’s me,” I thought as I remembered Friends University, how I met Husband, and how in my loneliness, I had prayed for a certain type of man to be my life partner.

I didn’t know about ADHD at that time, but knowing what I know now, I would likely have included it on the request list.

“I found a piece of happiness to call my own. For to love you, to me, is to live.” I mouthed those words at Husband.

He looked at me as if to question my sanity.

Talk about ironic. That same morning I had gone through the house muttering to myself again.

It wasn’t about happiness or living to love.

No, indeed, it was about my frustration at unfinished chores, repairs that have long been ignored, and other irritations that fill our marriage.

“A one in a million, chance of a lifetime.”
My mind raced to the unique silliness that can only come out of my Husband’s mouth.

“I go through life like an amoeba in a vat of acid, constantly pulling away from the stimuli,” Husband once told me.

And I reflected on the three children only Husband could have fathered.

“Hi, there, Sweet Thing. I’m your daddy,” he said when he first held each of our newborn babies.

“A one in a million, chance of a lifetime. And life, showed compassion,” the song said.

If you know ADHD, you know the challenges one faces as the spouse of a person with ADHD. However, you may also know the inner criticisms that go along with being that person. “I’m a failure. I can’t do that. I am totally inadequate. I will never be like that other person.”

“And life, showed compassion, And sent to me, a stroke of love, called you. A one in a million you.”

In Husband’s case, he does not realize I refused to settle for second best. To me, his humor, intelligence, and spiritual depth primarily   describe him.

Yes, we deal with his struggles with depression, lack of follow through, and low self-esteem.  When life harms him, it is extremely painful to me.

“I was lonely with empty arms to fill, Then I found a piece of happiness to call my own. And life is worth living, For to love you, to me, is to live.”

I consider it my responsibility to help him recharge and refill when he feels depleted or discouraged.

I am blessed to do so because he truly is one in a million.

 

Follow the Steps

I noticed it again this morning as I followed Husband to the front gate.

He often walks ahead of me, not to take a superior position, but to lead and protect me. I follow about two feet behind. Yes, at times, we walk side-by-side, but today’s thoughts have to do with me following behind him.

I find myself matching his rhythm and pattern of steps. He strides with his virile gait, and I imitate his pattern, only my stride is not nearly as long, and my steps are short and quick. My adult children poke fun at me. They call me “Hi-aw-atha.”

As I watched my feet in pattern to Husband’s pace, I thought how symbolically it represents our marriage affected by his ADHD. His disorder sets the pattern for many ways we do things.

When it comes to daily living, I follow him like the coxswain in a row boat.  Do you know what a coxswain does? He or she is rowing the member of a rowing crew who faces forward, steers the boat, and directs the speed and rhythm of the rowers.

I am the one who actually faces forward, thinking in terms of future plans, directing the daily chores of getting things done. “Pick up you right foot; pick up the left” is my mental mantra, which I find myself clandestinely chanting throughout each day.

Our morning routine often goes like this. “It is time for you to get up,” I approach him gently.

“What time is it?” he asks every morning. Every morning.

“What difference does it make?” I habitually reply. “Time for you to get out of bed.”

I return 10 or more minutes later. He may be sitting on the side of the bed; he may not. I share a brief run-down of what he should accomplish for the day. It is never more than three items because his brain would go into a do-loop if more.

“I am going to take you to breakfast,” I say because he really likes eating breakfast out; it is a treat he could not enjoy all the years he had to be at work.

“Where?” he always asks. He hopes I say Village Inn, his favorite.

On a number of mornings I will ask him to work in my office. We attached a chart on the wall next to his desk. Our expectations are a set routine, and after several weeks, he finally can begin without verbal prompts.

Other mornings, I ask him to complete a small number of chores while I am gone. His look tells me much, “I don’t know if I will or not.”  I usually return home to find merely one or two completed.

To be fair, I didn’t always direct him with such detail. He got up independently and went to work. He learned to work with me on financial responsibilities, and he provided excellent leadership as a parent.

He even took the go-ahead on major decisions, a few which actually worked out well. For those occasions, I took short running steps to catch up with him before falling into pace.

Last week, as three-digit temperatures continued to scorch the Plains, our air-conditioner struggled and spat to cool. We weren’t certain what to do with the ten-year-old unit that we bought at discount.  Husband sweated and turned pale each time we discussed what should be done.

He dreaded making a decision about it. He didn’t want to make a decision. I continued to inquire as to what we would do.

One evening a phone call brought us an answer. A heating and cooling business marketing group volunteered to check out the unit.

Husband said, “I have been praying about this.” Again I mentally ran to put my steps in pace with his.

When I got home from work, the A/C guy and husband were discussing a new unit. The compressor was gone on the old one.

“Sit down, so we can talk,” Husband instructed me. “I’ve made a decision. I’ve seen that the compressor really is shot, so I am talking to him about a new unit. This is what I think.”

We talked, and I asked questions. I was relieved that I did not have to carry the responsibility on this. I was proud of the thought Husband put into the decision.

So as he stepped out in front with his long, powerful steps, I ran to catch with him and match my stride with his.

In the Brain, Out the Mouth

Sunday, Husband had the rare privilege of attending church with Crown Prince, who was home on vacation.

“Dad is going to church with you tomorrow,” I told, rather than asked. Sure, our son is a man 33 years of age who has live 1800 miles away for over four years. I agree he is independent and capable, and usually I ask if either his Dad or I can thrust ourselves into one of his social events.  But this time, I made a direct statement.

“Uh, sure,” was our son’s dutiful reply. He rolled his eyes at me and asked, “What if he says something?”

“Like what? What do you mean by saying something?” I grinned

“Come on, Mom.  You of all people know exactly what I mean.”

With my most serious expression and voice, I answered, “I find it difficult to imagine what you are talking about. But if he makes a comment, then let him say it. He won’t hurt anyone or be obnoxious.”

“Well, not intentionally. But he often says things or blurts out comments, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings asking him to hush.”

Husband was eagerly enthusiastic to attend worship with his son. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of the conversation.

That is, it was the end until my guys got home from church.

Shortly after lunch, Husband began reporting on the morning’s events.

“No kidding. They have this woman on their music team, and you should have seen her.” Using his hands to gesture about three feet apart, he continued, “And her ass was this broad. I mean broad and in all directions. She could barely climb the short two steps to the platform.”

I merely waited to hear the type of comment he made.

“And I said, ‘Oh, my!’ as I saw her bouncing down the aisle past us and struggling to get to the stool they placed for her to sit on. Fortunately, it wasn’t something she needed to hoist herself on. She only had to sit down.”

He paused and frowned, “Our son told me to hush, but I told him I wasn’t mocking her.  I was just startled to see her size pass by me. Who I am to make fun of any fat person? Son told me people could hear me.”

“I didn’t know I said it that loudly.” He looked toward the floor with a genuinely remorseful expression. “I didn’t mean to embarrass him.”

I smiled inwardly thinking of the numerous times Husband has publicly blurted out comments or reactions to someone or something, and most of them were basically knee-jerk reactions. He’s correct; he usually doesn’t intend to hurt or humiliate anyone.

I laughed again at a memory from our early-dating days. As we sat in the theatre waiting for a movie to begin, a rather large individual walked up the aisle. The lady really did seem to fill the entire aisle, and I think my boyfriend was self-conscious for her. He himself had been following the Weight Watchers program for about two months losing a remarkable number of pounds. He felt like he needed to defend huge and obese people.

Turning to me, he said in a rather loud voice, “Bet she’s heading for the concession area.”

“Be quiet. People will hear you.”

“I’m only saying what they are thinking. I know; they think that about me.”

He was correct; shortly she passed by us again with a tray of soft drinks and snacks.

He gave me the knowing look. Without dropping the volume, he said, “Isn’t Weight Watchers won-der-ful?”

Years later, our son expressed it well. I, of all people, did know exactly what he meant.

Bod Shop

“I talked to Paul this afternoon, “Husband informed me last week.

I waited several seconds for Paul’s last name, which of course did not come. Finally I asked, “Which Paul?”

“You know, from the mortuary. Paul with the red hair.”

I got it. Husband couldn’t remember his last name, either. My mind filled with pictures of the tall young man we’ve known for more than 25 years. At that time he worked at a funeral Home in the old mansion downtown.

“Oh, yes. That Paul. Nice guy. How is he?”

“He sounds great. He is back in the mortuary business.”

“Does that mean he left it? Why?”

“He did for one year. He worked for the Hawker, but when they had lay-offs, he was one of the first out the door. He worked there one year and one week.”

I really wasn’t interested in those details. I was just glad Paul had a trade to fall back onto. My main question had to do with the conversation to which Husband first referred.

But I did continue with the memories. “His twins must be nearly grown, like around 18 or so. Didn’t he and his wife have at least one more child?”

Husband remembers that type of minutiae. “Yes, I believe they did one more child.”

I was looking to move this conversation on to the piece that affected us. “Did you call Paul, or did he call you? What was it about?”

“Oh, I called him. I am thinking about getting back into the business part time. He was glad to hear from me and said he would like to have me available to help pick up bodies and other tasks like that.”

I thought back to when Paul and Husband first worked together in the mortuary business. Husband was a mortician’s assistant in that he closed caskets at night, helped with the grunt work of the funeral services, and was on call to help pick up bodies and take them to the mortuary. He was even allowed to help with preparation of the bodies.

It was the type of work Husband truly enjoyed.

“You were always really quite good at that type of work. I couldn’t imagine why you chose to do it since you got the job just when you yourself just had cancer surgery, my brother died, and your step-mother had cancer surgery. It seemed we were surrounded by potential death or thoughts of death during that time period.”

“We needed the money for medical bills, and strange as it seems, it helped me take my mind off my own health. I was just thankful I was alive and able to do the work.”

“It is a people-pleasing job, which isn’t always your strong suit, but you did so well with the families of the deceased.”

“I think of it as a ministry. People die every day, and families need help and comfort.”

“You were kind to them.”

I snickered to think, “Our kids have memories of the pizza parties we had in the back room of the viewing area. It was one way we could have dinner with you the evenings you worked there.”

“I thought of it as a great learning setting for them. However, Crown Prince doesn’t like to remember I picked him up and laid him in an empty casket. I wanted him to feel how soft it was.”

I shivered to remember that incident.

“Yeah,” Husband said, “He said ‘Daddy, you’re not going to make me test out a casket again, are you?’ Of course I grabbed him close to me and assured him I would not. I did not realize I had frightened him that much.”

“No, I suppose you did not think ahead in that direction. You were focused on letting him have an experience.”

“The kids still call it ‘The Bod Shop’, ” Husband grinned.

“I know. I thought it was funny and typical of you to nickname it in that manner. I guess it still is. It didn’t seem to teach them disrespect for death.”  I chuckled.

“After all,” Husband continued. “That’s all a mortuary is. It is a body shop for the dead and a place for their loved ones to say good-bye in good fashion.”

I hope Husband does get to work with Paul and does get to serve others during an hour of need. However, I am going to draw a boundary. No more eating in the back viewing room while he is at work.

A Complimentary Word

This morning a national TV personality asked her audience: “Have you made it a habit to speak a compliment to your spouse or partner each day? Actually I recommend you make a habit to do it four or five times each day. See how it helps to heal your marriage.”

She laughed loudly when a woman in the second row of her audience groaned audibly.

“What’s so funny?”  I thought. This was one time I did not feel guilty reflecting on the challenge.

I enjoy giving Husband compliments. His face lights up each time I do so, and when he is fighting depressed moods, it is one of the best things I can do for him.

He compliments me, too, and I remember a specific time he made a point to say nice things about me.

We had been married less than three months when I came down with a bud or allergy or something yucky along that line. I felt horrible, and I looked like death warmed over. Or, at least I thought I did.

I stood in the sitting room of our little apartment with my hair plastered against my head, no make-up, and a general pasty pallor. Yep, it was a bad as it sounds.

Husband looked across the room and in a most sincere tone said, “You are a beautiful woman.”

One simple statement.

“I feel awful, and I look it. Are you serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious,” he replied emphatically. “I can see the structure of your face and the blue of your eyes. I am sorry you don’t feel well.”

That gave me enough energy to wash and style my hair. Lesson learned.

A few years later into the marriage, a friend was at our house one afternoon when Husband arrived home from work.

I said my usual greeting to him about how nice it was to have him home.

My friend said, “I want to tell you something. You always encourage your husband. Like right now, you affirmed him by telling him how much you like seeing him come home, and I heard you thank him for working hard for you and the children today.”

“I try to tell him that every day. His job stresses him, and I really do appreciate his working, so I can stay home with the kids.”

“It shows,” she said. “I have noticed it many times. You compliment him or thank him in a natural way. He must really appreciate it.”

Later that evening I asked him about it. “Norma says I encourage and compliment you often. Do you feel as if I do?”

My heart somewhat dropped to my feet when he paused to think about it for such a long time. The seconds literally seemed like minutes.

“Yep, you do. I just think it is part of your personality. I know I don’t feel like I deserve your kind words.”

“I only tell you what I honestly think or feel,” I assured him. “I sincerely love you.”

Going back to this morning’s TV program, I talked back to the host of the show. I admit it; I am one of those who talks to the TV.

“You are spot on, Girlfriend. Keep telling women who are in their struggle years. There may be some in that audience who are married to really hateful jerks. But likely many of them are persons prone to condemn more than praise.  It will be much better for each if she learns how to compliment more and criticize less. ”

I am going to be honest with you. There were times when Husband deserved for me to strap him on my foot like an ice ski as I took a walk around the block. There are times when it took every ounce of effort to say one nice thing to him during the day. However, early in life I learned to choose the right thing before doing anything.

The right thing is a positive, encouraging word. A positive you is a powerful you.