The Blooming of Rose

     I have a passion for growing roses, although the success rate for wintering over roses in our northern climate is very poor. To improve my chances, my creative husband has constructed a greenhouse, and I sit now in the early morning warmth and contemplate one of my roses. I have planted it in this protective environment, and I faithfully monitor its well-being. The yellowed, tall, new growth is fragile and spindly. Too much moisture, sun, or fertilizer will kill it; too little and it will not have the strength to grow and bloom. I do not want this rose to die. It was a gift from a special friend.
 

A Dubious Beginning

      I first met Rose on a cold February afternoon eight years ago. I was 32 years old and well into my profession as a teacher of young children with disabilities. I was going to her home to begin an assessment of her little boy, Ronald, who was almost three and not yet talking.

      I knocked on the outer porch door and, not caring to wait in the below zero temperature, let myself into the enclosed porch. A path to the inner door had been created by a border of unused chairs, broken appliances, toys, and bundles of clothing. This type of clutter is a common product of our community's economy, which necessitates the philosophy, "Some day we might need it, but for now just set it over there." Having grown up in this same community, I understand the philosophy. To this day, I spend too much of my time tottering between "save it" and "throw it out." This family wasted no time contemplating such a choice. I doubted they had ever thrown away anything in their lives.

      Rose opened the door and my lungs filled with 90-degree, wood-heated air. My next breath took in the combined smells of spilled milk, soiled diapers, and other human and animal odors. I offered my best smile as an initial greeting, followed by a brief introduction of who I was. I then squatted down to be face-to-face with a smiley, bright-eyed child who was clad only in a diaper. He was dirty and the remains of his last meal adhered to his little body, filling me with intense desire to draw a bath and wash him with warm soapy water before proceeding further with the evaluation.

      He smiled a sweet smile, grunted, and gestured toward my basket of intriguing objects. I glanced around the room wondering where to put my purse and coat and where to set up the testing for this child. Rose offered no suggestions. She filled the recliner she sat in, beads of perspiration on her brow and upper lip. She was a heavy woman and was sweating profusely, though she wore only a sleeveless cotton dress. I was suddenly aware of how moist I was feeling myself in my turtleneck and wool sweater. Rose stared at the television.

      The adjacent room offered no better place, so I perched on the edge of a low chair. Ronald squatted in front of me and we proceeded with the assessment. When we were finished, I gave Ronald one of his favorite items from the assessment to keep--a red and blue ball.  I tried to share some positive impressions I had of his development with Rose, but her eyes remained glued somewhere inside the television. I then asked Rose some questions about Ronald's personal, social, and adaptive skills. All I got were a few half-hearted answers of "yeah" or "nah" and a seemingly more intense focus on the television. I felt I knew why he wasn't talking--he had never ever heard the human voice! I felt like giving up.

      Ronald was distracted by something in the front hall. He dropped the ball and eagerly headed toward the door. Heavy footfalls upon the porch flooring gave a clue, followed by the appearance of a large, shadowy figure on the opposite side of the smudged window. The man opening the door had the darkest, biggest, and hairiest face I had ever encountered. The experience was comparable to meeting a grizzly bear at close range in the woods--alone. Now my desire was to be safe inside my own, tidy, middle-class, home. I offered my best smile for the second time, introduced myself and stated the purpose of my presence. Ronald had completely lost interest in me and my toys. He rushed toward the bear and latched onto its lower legs, whereupon he was lifted up and tossed to the ceiling. Ronald squealed with joy. My heartbeat resumed. It was not a ferocious grizzly bear I had just met, but a large, timid, man named Harold. This was Ronald's father. I gave a sheepish smile to Harold and Rose and said my good-byes.

      Our speech-language clinician is a rather fragile woman, careful and meticulous, a well-dressed professional, a working mother, a caring and genuine person. Carrie is very responsible when it comes to the families she serves. In the ten years I have known her, I have never seen her give less than her best. She tries to do everything right. Everything right in this case included going on a home visit with me to meet the family in their own, comfortable environment. I offered some of my impressions of Ronald and his family based on my first visit, but nothing could really prepare her for the experience. The number of joint visits Carrie and I make together to families has decreased considerably since this adventure. Nevertheless, Carrie was a great help in understanding the nature and causes of Ronald's language delays. In addition to assessing Ronald, Carrie was able to draw Rose out a little and we discovered that she stuttered quite badly. We also learned that Ronald had a ten-month-old sister, Tina.

      We completed our assessment, and I prepared to receive Ronald into my classroom. I worried before he arrived: Did he have any real clothes? Would he be bathed? How would the other children and parents respond to him? Would he arrive? I discussed my concerns with Jody, my classroom assistant. Jody and I have grown quite close over years of developing the program together and overcoming many obstacles. We worried together, but our worries were unnecessary. Ronald arrived promptly on his first day of school with a fresh-scrubbed look, long pants, a buttoned-to-the-neck shirt, a matching vest, new shoes, and a just-combed curl in his hair.
 

Success, Change, And Setbacks

      Jody, Carrie, and I found Ronald to be an eager learner and better behaved than your average three-year-old. His progress in language was immediate and gratifying, but his progress in articulation was negligible. Rose's and Harold's participation in the program was only short of miraculous. Rose gave me detailed reasons for absences three months in advance. The whole family attended all program activities, consistently dressed in their best. Rose sent special treats and snacks to school for Ronald to share with his friends.

      Home visits were another story. On my visits to their home, I tried to offer Rose a few strategies to improve Ronald's vocabulary. My intent for these visits was not to teach the child, but to provide ideas and model strategies that might be used at home. Rose continued her intent focus on the television, despite the fact that the television was often not turned on! During successive visits, I noticed that Rose would occasionally glance in my direction as I spoke. Her glances became more frequent and more sustained with each visit. She began to watch Tina and Ronald at play, and I began to talk less and watch the children more, limiting my discussion to the here and now of what the children were doing and saying. Rose showed me some mail order books that she had purchased for the children through a book club. These books were written on a 5th grade level, but I did my best to use the pictures in the books to model teaching strategies. In this manner, we struggled together for three years, and Rose made slow but steady progress in understanding child development. As time passed, I began to see suggestions of smiles upon Rose's face and hear faint chuckles of amusement as she allowed herself to enjoy the antics of her children. Tina grew alongside Ronald, her speech developing without the numerous omissions and substitutions of Ronald's speech. She seemed quicker than Ronald, but Rose was concerned and asked that she be assessed by the school. We found Tina to be of average ability.

      In the spring of Ronald's second year with us, Rose experienced ongoing trouble with menstruation and we began to worry about her health. A strong odor accompanied this change in her health. The gains Rose had made began to deteriorate and the smiles faded from her face. I felt her slipping away and I didn't know how to hold on to her. She did not reach out to me.

      Surprisingly, Ronald, now four and a half-years-old, continued to thrive. One day he was playing with plastic magnetic letters. "E-er!," he called out, "Urse, urse, E-er!" Although he only spoke in two or three word phrases, he could correctly spell many words he had seen. When I asked him where he learned "nurse," he bubbled, "E-V, E-V." That television had served a purpose after all!

      In Ronald's last year with us, a new family development occurred. Rose was pregnant. Her health returned and, with it, her social skills. Although her pregnancy did not show until the last trimester because of her excess weight, it weighed heavy on my mind. I fretted about a third child in this family as I thought about the difficulties I experienced in raising my own three children who were in their primary and later elementary years.

      Rose's third child was born in December, and she named her Anna. I saw little of Anna in Ronald's last semester with us, but what I did see was troubling. When Anna was four months old, I gently shared my concerns with Rose. Anna's eyes were crossed badly and her weight gain would have put her over the 99th percentile for her height and age. She was a flacid baby, hypotonic with minimal head control, and absolutely no motivation to move about, play with toys, or make sounds. Much to my amazement, Rose and Harold had already sought medical help for Anna through our county's early intervention program for infants. Anna was scheduled for eye surgery and occupational therapy. A chapter was closing for me with Ronald's family, but I knew I would pick up the book again.

Letting Go

      Ronald began kindergarten, but he continued in Carrie's speech-language program. The heavy emphasis on phonics in kindergarten was a real challenge for Ronald, whose articulation showed little progress. I tried to speak with Ronald's new teacher, but she was not receptive. It was not an easy year. Rose hovered about, created tension for the teacher, and Ronald became a scapegoat in the classroom. He could not process auditory directions or do seatwork at the rate the other children could, but there were a few moments where his own resiliency and strength shone through.

      During one of my visits to the kindergarten, the children were about to begin a music listening game with the actions of a song about colors coming from the record player. "Red stand up, blue stand up, yellow and green stand up. Blue sit down, green sit down..." I sat down rigidly in my chair as the first group of eight children attempted to perform the series of listening directions. It was apparent that only the brightest were succeeding. The others didn't have a chance and looked forlornly to each other for clues--but there were none. I was sure that Ronald would be among the second group. He gripped his piece of yellow construction paper in one hand and waved at me with the other from his place between Miss Red and Mr. Blue. I plastered an encouraging smile on my face and the music began.

      To my amazement, Ronald stood up not only on the correct cues, but also helped the distraught Miss Red and Mr. Blue to perform the correct motions for their colors. Unable to face another round of the color song, I winked good-bye to Ronald and left.

A New Chapter

      I had little contact with Rose for a year and a half. Anna was receiving outpatient therapies, and Ronald began first grade. Then a bombshell hit the family. The early intervention staff shared with me the terrible news that Anna's therapy wasn't covered by the family's insurance. The family assumed that the charges were covered in some way by the early intervention program and innocently allowed the bill to climb to almost $2500. No one and everyone was to blame. Little by little, the family chipped away at the bill with monthly payments of $10 and $20, and some external support was found to cover a portion of future costs. Even so, the family terminated Anna's therapy.

      Soon after the beginning of the next school year, we began our multidisciplinary team assessment of Anna. She was approaching her third birthday. Anna wore strong corrective glasses, had numerous ear infections, and had speech-language patterns similar to Ronald's. In addition to severe language delays, Anna showed significant delays in motor skills, particularly gross motor skills. She didn't begin to walk until she was two years old. One major change from our first assessment with the family four years ago was the amount of information provided by Rose. We used the Minnesota Child Development Inventory, a three hundred and twenty item parent questionnaire. Rose and Harold answered 300 questions without help and asked me for clarification on the remaining questions. Their responses indicated the same degree of delay as the information obtained from the Battelle Development Inventory (BDI). I felt proud of their effort to assist in our evaluation and humbled by the accuracy of their responses. Anna became a student in my classroom when she turned three-years-old.

      Rose lived across the street from the elementary school where our program operated.  She brought Anna to school every day, stood near the door, and she stayed. Subtle hints did not dissuade Rose from her position at the door. She couldn't be encouraged to join in the children's play, nor would she accept offers of a chair. Little Anna stood with Rose each morning until Rose would finally tell her, "Go play." In my mind, I nicknamed her "Stand-Around Rose". While I practiced serenity in accepting the things I could not change, my teammates tried to instill in me the courage to change the things they felt I should change.

      I felt very alone in this dilemma. My firm belief in parent involvement supported Rose's constant presence in the classroom. Needless to say, I won no popularity votes for my decision to leave Rose alone. Anna's second school year began with Rose as permanent a fixture as the doorway in which she stood.

A New Rose

      Then small changes began to take place. Our Parent Teacher Association instituted a parent volunteer program, and Rose agreed to a few specific times to help in other areas of the school for an hour or so. She also volunteered to be a Girl Scout leader assistant and put in a great deal of time preparing for weekly meetings. By October of Anna's second year, Rose stayed five or ten minutes by the door and then explained to me for another five or ten minutes why she couldn't stay longer that day. Real progress, and it wasn't even in the IEP! We breathed a sigh of relief for ourselves and felt happy for Rose's new found pride.

      Rose's activities in the parent volunteer program and the Girl Scouts also opened my eyes to some social realities I would have preferred not to see. As Rose became a more visible and responsible person in the school, her naiveté and limitations were out in the open for everyone to see and comment upon. I learned that the intolerance, scapegoating, and sense of superiority inflicted upon Ronald by the children in his kindergarten class were, in all likelihood, learned from the adults in their lives. Those of us who had grown to love and appreciate Rose were stunned at the insensitive behavior displayed by some of the adults in the school, and we rallied around Rose as her cheerleaders. The cheering section included our immediate early childhood staff, parents of children in the same session as Anna, and a few select staff from other areas of the school.

      Something else happened in that school that changed the dynamics of our relationship with Rose. Soon after Christmas, a new little boy joined our class. He had autism, displayed aggressive behaviors, and was generally difficult to control. He was particularly enchanted by the slamming of doors. Cabinet doors, classroom doors, toaster oven doors -- any door at all would be opened and slammed continuously if left unchecked. When we interfered with his door slamming, he screamed and kicked. In fact, any transition set off a tantrum. Although we had one staff member assigned to work exclusively with this child, two or more staff members were often needed when he was out of control.

      Rose became indispensable for helping the other children with an activity in progress or otherwise seeing to their needs. For example, if we were getting ready for snack and our new little boy objected, Rose would help children wash hands, find their places, and get their dishes. I often wondered what Rose thought about how we handled these situations, but her presence at these times indicated her unspoken support. Her ability to fit into place in our room when she was so needed was a gift to us. It never occurred to me at that time how naturally, capably, and confidently she stepped in and kept the classroom going.

      Anna had a successful second year in the classroom. Her speech and language progressed, although these skills continued to lag behind her overall development. She loved to play in the housekeeping corner with the other children and readily engaged in pretend play with the kitchen toys, dress-up clothes, and baby dolls. Anna was content to follow the lead of the other children, but she was definitely not a leader. She was, however, the apple of her mother's eye. Rose dressed her in stylish little sweat suits, dresses and tights, and leggings and bulky tops. Rose sewed and decorated these outfits, often relying upon used clothing from the clothing center and offers of clothing from other mothers. She also delighted in fixing Anna's long, thick hair. In some ways, it seemed Anna was a little doll that Rose dressed up.

New Troubles

      Despite her many and varied accomplishments, some things about Rose stayed the same. She still stood in the doorway to watch when she brought Anna. She continued to provide lengthy and detailed explanations of any change in her schedule. She watched Anna with the same look of unconditional love. But through the smiles and chuckles, there was often a look of sadness in her eyes. When those eyes remained sad for a long time, I ventured to ask her how she felt--was she getting sick? Was there something bothering her?

      "It's Ronald," she said one day. Ronald, now a third grader, was fighting a lot. The other children continued to pick on him and he was falling behind academically. This was not a sudden development. Rose had been trying her best to keep things on an even keel by closely monitoring his homework and keeping her eye on the playground activities. Her close supervision of Ronald was a constant source of complaint by the classroom teacher.

      A re-evaluation was eventually conducted and Ronald was found eligible for additional services. He began a new educational program that involved his spending a portion of his day in a self-contained class and the remaining time in closely supervised activities in an inclusive setting. As the year passed, Rose began to identify with that program. She developed a closeness with the teacher and a foster grandparent who worked in the program.

      We moved into Anna's and Rose's final year with a spirit of "nothing can go wrong" and, "you've come a long way, baby." As a fourth grader, Ronald was doing well with the joint programming between regular and special education. Tina, now a first grader, was doing well and Anna continued to do well in my classroom. Halloween came, and we all dressed up in costumes. Even Rose came in a clown costume she sewed--complete with nose, wig, and funny shoes. The school staff didn't recognize her and it was interesting to sense the slight shift of attitude toward this clown of unknown personage. We were all the same, a bunch of teachers enjoying the fun of Halloween with our kids.

      So it was that somewhere along the way, amid this spirit of optimism and progress, Rose stopped smiling again. The touches of make-up upon her face, the style of her hair, and her smiles and chuckles were the first to leave. These niceties were replaced with increased body odor, ill-kept clothing, blotchy skin, and red eyes. I asked what was wrong and hugged her. She gave no response. It was in Ronald's classroom, with the teacher and the foster grandparent, that Rose shared her secret. Harold had been beating her in front of Ronald. Rose expressed concern that this was having an affect upon Ronald's behavior. She didn't seem to be aware of her own plight. With the support of the foster grandmother and teacher, she made the decision to move to the shelter for abused women. Rose came to us to let us know of her decision. She cried a little and then said with fierce determination, "I gotta do something!" In the next few hours, Rose made all the necessary arrangements.

      We all worried how this experience would affect Rose, who had no job skills, had never been on public assistance, and had a strong sense of a family being "Dick, Jane, Sally, Mother, and Father." I expected her situation to deteriorate before it improved. I expected Rose to disappear from the school grounds until this issue came to some resolution. I was wrong on both counts. Rose was back at work in her volunteer job, having arranged transportation for herself and Anna. Anna talked about meeting other children at the shelter. Rose's make-up returned, and she adopted a new hairstyle. Rose basked in the care of the shelter, and, in less than a week, a stronger Rose returned to Harold. "He's a good man if he don't beat me," was her explanation. We never heard another word.
 

Closing the Book

      The school year ended. The team found no reason for Anna to remain in preschool, so she was registered for kindergarten with high expectations for success. Her family took full responsibility for watching over her eyes and glasses. Another surgery would be scheduled in a year. Carrie would continue to monitor her hearing and conduct speech-language therapy. Anna had grown to a new level of assertiveness and self-confidence without losing her sweet and gentle nature.

      And so, Rose's youngest child, Anna, left my classroom this year. As usual, we had an awards ceremony and ice cream party-- a rather teary affair of hugs, certificates, and good-byes. We finished our awards and I invited the families to move over to the tables for our ice-cream sundae party.

      "Not yet," announced the usually quiet Rose. She and little Anna left the group to retrieve some mysterious gift. Rose told me three weeks earlier that she already bought me a gift but couldn't decide on what to buy for Jody. Jody graciously received a potted geranium, and I received my rose. The roots were bound in a plastic covering with a picture predicting a magnificent yellow bloom. I hugged Rose, gave her a kiss, and looked at her closely. I remember Rose seven years ago, sweating in her chair, and also remember her smiling face as she presented me with my rose. Her sincere and open enjoyment of that moment filled my classroom like the fragrance of a rose in full bloom fills the air.

This case story originally appeared in McWilliam, P.J., & Bailey, D., (Eds.). Working Together with Children & Families, Case Studies in Early Intervention. (1993). Baltimore: Paul H. Brookes Publishing Co.

The Blooming of Rose Discussion Questions