DownSyn Forum

[vonda]

Okay yesterday I visted a website called Logan's Link that I found when I first had Noah. This site helped me a lot during those first few months. I haven't visited it in quite awhile and there were many new things on there. For all of you who haven't seen it, you MUST take a look. Logan is absolutely adorable and SUCH an inspiration. Anyway, below was an addition I hadn't read before. I was in the middle of eating my yogurt and granola and when I got to the last paragraph I nearly choked to death. You know that lump you get in your throat when you are trying NOT to cry, and also trying to swallow GRANOLA at the same time, well, like I said, nearly choked to death. It is the saddest, but most precious thing I have ever read, so I wanted to share. Vonda

Phillip's Egg

Phillip was born with Downs Syndrome. He was a pleasant child....happy it seemed, but increasingly aware of the difference between himself and other children. Phillip went to Sunday School failthfully every week. He was in the third grade class with nine other 8-year olds. And Phillip, with his differences, was not readily accepted. But his teacher was senesitive to Phillip and he helped this group of eight-year olds to love each other as best they could, under the circumstances. They learned, they laughed, they played together. And they really care about one another even though eight-year olds don't say they care about one another out loud.

But don't forget. There was an exception to all of this. Phillip was not really a part of the group. Phillip choose, nor did he want to be different. He just was. And that was the way things were.

His teacher had a marvelous idea for his class the Sunday after Easter. You know those things that pantyhose come in? The containers that look like great big eggs? The teacher collected ten of them. The children loved it when he brought them into the room and gave one to each child. It was a beautiful spring day, and the assignment was for each child to go outside, find a symbol for new life, put it into the egg, and bring it back to the classroom. They would then open and share their new life symbols and surprises, one by one.

It was glorious. It was confusing. It was wild. They ran all around the grounds, gathering their symbols, and returned to the classroom.

They put all the eggs on a table, and then the teacher began to open them. All the children gathered around the table. He opened one and there was a flower, and they ooh-ed and aah-ed. He opened another and there was a little butterfly. "Beautiful!" the girls all said, since it is hard for eight-year old boys to say "beautiful." He opened another and there was a rock. And as third graders will, some laughed and some said, "That's crazy! How's a rock supposed to be like new life?" But the smart little boy who put it in there spoke up: "That's mine. And I knew all of you would get flowers and buds and leaves and butterflies and stuff like that, so I got a rock because I wanted to be different. And, for me, that's new life." They all laughed.

The teacher said something about the wisdom of eight-year olds and opened the next one. There was nothing inside. The children, as eight-year olds will, said "That's not fair. That's stupid! Somebody didn't do it right."

Then the teacher felt a tug on his shirt, and he looked down. "It's mine," Phillip said. "It's mine." And the children said, "You don't ever do things right, Phillip. There's nothing there!"

"I did so do it right!" Phillip said. "I did do it right. The tomb is empty!"

There was silence, a very full silence. And for you people who don't believe in miracles, I want to tell you that one happened that day. From that time on, it was different. Phillip suddenly became a part of that group of eight-year old children. They took him in. He was set free from the tomb of his differentness.

Phillip died last summer. His family had known since the time he was born that he wouldn't live out a full life span. Many other things were wrong with his little body. And so, late last July, with an infection that most normal children could have quickly shrugged off, Phillip died.

At his memorial service, nine eight-year olds marched up to the altar, not with flowers to cover over the stark reality of death....but nine eight-year olds, along with their Sunday School teacher, marched right up to that altar, and laid on it an empty egg....an empty, old discarded pantyhose egg.

And the tomb is empty!


http://www.c-magic.com/logan/


[Edited by vonda on 02-18-2004 at 12:43 PM]

[connorsmom]

That was so beautiful. Logan is so handsome!

Suzanne

[LoveMyLivi]

That was very powerful, thanks for sharing! I'm glad that I wasn't eating (I probably would have choked too) and glad I'm at home where I can cry freely (you need to start giving warnings!) I'm going to have to take some time and investigate all the links to other sites - looks interesting!

_________________
Veronika

Lucky Mom to Levi 20, Zachary 14, Fiona 11,
& my social butterfly...Olivia Lianne (11/22/02-DS) :)along with her faithful sidekick York

[rhonda]

Oh dear, what a story!! Can't stop crying!! Thanks for sharing the link, I'm going to go check it out!

_________________
Rhonda

Taylor 18, Jordan 17, Dylan 8

[samantha's mom]

Oh Vonda I found that story right after Samantha was born and cried my eyes out, and 10 months later it still makes me cry.
This was written by a mom and I thought it to be so powerful..

To make a long story short, earlier this week a question was asked by some nit wit official as to why there weren’t more parents (of special needs kids) involved in the local PTA and other issues that have come up that directly involve our kids. His question, which was passed on to me was "Where are the Parents?" The first time this question was asked I went home and started thinking—and boy was I ANGRY—and banged this "little" essay out the next day on my lunch break. By the way, I took copies of this to the school board meeting that night, and gave it to a couple of influential people and it WILL get around............ Sue Stuyvesant

Where are the parents?
By Sue Stuyvesant 10/15/96

Where are the parents?

They are on the phone to doctors and hospitals and fighting with insurance companies, wading through the red tape in order that their child’s medical needs can be properly addressed.

They are buried under a mountain of paperwork and medical bills, trying to make sense of a system that seems designed to confuse and intimidate all but the very savvy.

Where are the parents?

They are at home, diapering their 15 year old son, or trying to lift their 100 lb. daughter onto the toilet. They are spending an hour at each meal to feed a child who cannot chew, or laboriously and carefully feeding their child through a g-tube. They are administering medications, changing catheters and switching oxygen tanks.

Where are the parents?

They are sitting, bleary eyed and exhausted, in hospital emergency rooms, waiting for tests results to come back and wondering: is this the time when my child doesn’t pull through? The are sitting patiently, in hospital rooms as their child recovers from yet another surgery to lengthen hamstrings or straighten backs or repair a faulty internal organ. They are waiting in long lines in county clinics because no insurance company will touch their child.

Where are the parents?

They are sleeping in shifts because their child won’t sleep more than 2 or 3 hours a night, and must constantly be watched, lest he do himself, or another member of the family, harm. They are sitting at home with their child because family and friends are either too intimidated or too unwilling to help with child care and the state agencies that are designed to help are suffering cut backs of there own.

Where are the parents?

They are trying to spend time with their non-disabled children, as they try to make up for the extra time and effort that is critical to keeping their disabled child alive. They are struggling to keep a marriage together, because adversity does not always bring you closer. They are working 2 and sometime 3 jobs in order to keep up with the extra expenses. And sometimes they are a single parent struggling to do it all by themselves.

Where are the parents?

They are trying to survive in a society that pays lip service to helping those in need, as long as it doesn’t cost them anything. They are trying to patch their broken dreams together so that they might have some sort of normal life for their children and their families. They are busy, trying to survive.

[amante]

Sue, that was wonderful. Do you mind if I keep it and use it if someone asks me the same question. You wrote it very well!
Amante

[vonda]

I think you mean Elizabeth.....Vonda