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May 22, 2006
Donny
Last week was the funeral for Donny, 73. Born with Down syndrome at a time when society hid away the mentally handicapped, Donny was fortunate to spend the last decades of his life in the arms of a loving family who cared for him through thick and thin.
After the funeral at the big church in town, the basement was filled with chattering locals as well as those who traveled a great distance to remember Donny’s life.
Donny was a character. Always prim-looking, with his top button buttoned and his hair neatly parted, gentlemanly Donny greeted visitors with a handshake, a beaming smile and a formal nod of the head.
Donny had a quick, impish sense of humor. His eyes twinkled and he twisted in his chair with glee when his nephews pulled one of their frequent jokes. But if the joke went too far, Donny could deliver a stern lecture that put you in your place.
Most of us are spared the terrible decisions faced by parents who have endured the undeniable shock and sadness of bearing a child with Down syndrome. The varying severity of the genetic disorder means that not all who are born with it can be cared for in the home.
Yet, thank goodness we have moved along enough as a society to realize that hiding away the mentally handicapped is not the answer. In fact, my life would be poorer if not for some of the lessons taught me by people with Down syndrome.
When I was a fifth grader, my family visited a family with a Down’s syndrome child my age. I played with Dan for a while. He struggled to tell me a long story, but the time came when I yearned to run off to play with the other kids who were more cool.
Almost the very instant I started thinking I wanted to leave, Dan paused, looked at me, and said, “I know you would rather play with the other kids, but please talk with me a little more.”
Well, that broke my heart. More than that, Dan’s acute perception scared me. He had read my mind and called me on my rudeness in a direct but polite manner. It was an unforgettable lesson.
A couple of years ago, I taught some college classes. At the college, they have a program where developmentally disabled people who work as janitorial staff. Believe me, those bathrooms are spotless.
One of the staff is Nancy, who grew up near our farm. I remembered Nancy from high school, so I made a habit of greeting her when she walked by the classroom door mid-lecture. Nancy is a serious, sober sort, so she wasn’t always real keen on interrupting her work for small talk.
Even so, our greetings soon became a ritual. Ten minutes into my lecture, Nancy would shuffle past the door with her cleaning equipment. I would say, “Hi, Nancy!” and she would begrudgingly acknowledge me, grunt “hi” back, and shuffle on to the next bathroom.
One day as I worked myself into a froth over Daniel Webster and Henry Clay, I turned to the door to see Nancy. But instead of walking past, Nancy took a hard left and shuffled into the classroom straight towards me, armed with her usual serious look.
When she got a couple of feet away, she held out her arms for a hug. It was so unexpected that I was completely befuddled. After giving me a prim and proper squeeze, Nancy turned on her heels and shuffled out of the room, serious as ever.
The class sat in tense silence, supressing giggles. I really didn’t know what to do--until Nancy got out of sight. Once around the corner, she broke into loud, uncontrolled laughter. She knew she had caught me completely off guard and oh, how she loved it.
The class busted up and needless to say, Nancy’s joke on me was the most memorable event of the semester.
So it is with Down syndrome. Tragic, yes--until you are taught by a sufferer of the malady a stern lesson in the importance of love and hugs and humor.
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