I am still touched by him.

Stephen walked into my classroom at age three, shorter than a yardstick, weighing less than a sack of potatoes, sprouting a mop of hair the color of a new penny, wearing an ear to ear grin. His green eyes conveyed mischief. He had an elfin charm, and he was quite the character, despite his congenital birth defect. Born without a pulmonary artery, he tired easily and struggled to keep up with his peers. I had to make many accommodations for him. I became very attached to this little boy.  

 

By age five, his weakened immune system made him susceptible to childhood illnesses and resulted in frequent hospitalizations. When he was too tired to be tutored, I allowed him to teach me – about his favorite television program, The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He was an expert on every aspect of the show, especially his favorite, Michael Angelo, who wore a mask that was the same color as Stephen’s hair.

After one of his hospitalizations, when Stephen was strong enough to return to my classroom, I surprised him. I purchased an oversized stuffed Michael Angelo with classroom funds.  Stephen's laughter and squeals made my heart swell with love. Although he could barely see over the top of it or wrap his arms around it, he dragged his best buddy everywhere and told his classmates every last detail about his favorite Ninja Turtles episodes.

Stephen  eventually went on to big school and I continued my close relationship with him and his family. When he underwent reconstructive heart surgery, his recovery was slow. Some days were fairly good, but others were unimaginably painful and depressing for him. He lay exhausted, his face as bloated as the helium balloons swaying above his bed.

“I miss the good old days,” he’d say, “you know, before my face got so fat (from meds) and I had this trache.” He pointed to the breathing apparatus in his throat. During thunderstorms he’d matter-of-factly announce, “That’s my friend Katie up there bouncing on the clouds again.”

When frustration, pain and aggravation consumed him, he’d point with what he called his “E.T. finger”, his index finger with the red light indicator clip, and he’d yell at his doctors and nurses, “That’s it! You’re fired!”

His mom sat by his bed at night and gazed out the window.  Stephen tried his best to comfort her.

“Don't worry, Mom. See the man in the moon? He's smiling at us.”

Ann smiled, but she wasn’t able to distinguish the imaginary features Stephen and others claimed to see when they looked at the full moon.

 As he suffered one set back after another, Stephen declared one day, “I just want to go home to my real dad.” His mother assured him that his father would be arriving soon. He looked at his mom and clarified, “Duh! My real dad, GOD!”

On a balmy June day, at age nine and a half, Stephen finally went home to his real dad. Racked with unbearable grief, rage, and unanswerable questions, his mother, unable to sleep that night, walked outside into the yard and gazed heavenward. For the very first time in her life, Ann swears she saw it…the man in the moon smiling right at her.

This was originally published years ago in St. Louis Southside Suburban Journals.

Stephen would be 30 years old this week. As I was typing this, I swear I felt a nudge on my back. Looked around, no cat, no hubby, nobody I could see. But I think I know who it was.

 

 

Angel boy

Do you believe in providence? I do. I received a Facebook message a few minutes ago from a former student's mom that confirmed what we both know. At our lowest points, our deceased loved ones find ways to send us messages.

Stephen walked into my life and classroom more than twenty years ago, shorter than a yard stick, weighing no more than a sack of potatoes, with hair the color of a shiny penny and personality that outshone the overhead lights. He had a very serious congential heart defect. I remember when he turned four and was supposed to move on with his classmates to a three day, more intensive, preacademic program. I had to convince his mom that it was in her son's best interest to stay behind with children he could keep up with physically and academically. It took lots of persuasion.

He had several hospitalizations, and his little lips would turn blue from exhaustion from simply getting up and down and doing physical activity. I wanted him to be happy and have a positive experience in preschool, not struggle to keep up. His mom agreed.

I tutored Stephen in hospital when he would not cooperate with the special ed team. He and I learned from one another. I knew that mastering those basic skills wasn't as important as allowing him to master his destiny as best he could. He needed some control over his life. He would become so tired and weary of medical interventions, he'd shout at the nurses, "You're fired!"

I would walk in with school work and I could tell by his mood. Some days I'd say, "You don't want to do ABCs? Okay, what should we talk about?"

I could see the disbelief on his face. Wow! The teacher had no expectations and wasn't going to force him to learn? We talked about everything, but mostly the latest episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I did a fund raiser for his family at Easter. My students did a bunny hop at school and we raised $1,000.00 for his family. I dressed in a bunny costume and parked in front of the hospital. I exited my car and realized I had left the envelope filled with cash on the front seat...and my keys in the ignition. I rushed into the hospital and begged a guard to come help me. I then grabbed my keys and the envelope and rode the elevator to Stephen's floor. I hopped into his room and he burst out laughing and squealed, "Ms. Linda!"

"How did you know it was me?"

"Your eyes!" He smiled.

I purchased a stuffed Ninja turtle, for the classroom. His favorite, Michaelangelo, waited for his return. That stuffed toy was bigger than the boy, but he dragged it everywhere.

When he had moved on to big school, Stepehen had surgery to replace his pulmonary artery (I think) but sadly his condition worsened over time. I kept in contact with his family and visited him in hospital years after he left me.

Stephen went to heaven eighteen years ago this month, at age 9.  I was on vacation and unable to attend his funeral. For years I would call his mom around the anniversary. The first time, I said, "I am sending you a hug through the phone, uuunnnnhhh."

She cried out, "That is just how Stephen would send me a hug across the room at the end when he was too weak to get up."

Today she received my Facebook message. She said she was clearing debris from his grave when her new phone pinged a message received from me: "Thinking of you and Stephen."

Ann said, "With only the slightest breeze in the air, the windmill I placed at his grave began to spin wildly."

You can think what you want, but Ann and I know than an angel boy flew by. For a brief moment of earth time we had that special connection.