Before and After Zachariah

Fern Kupfer

• Publisher: Academy Chicago Publishers
• Year: 2015
• Print ISBN: 9780897333030
• eBook ISBN: 9781613734698
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

The heart-wrenching story of one couple's courageous decision to have their severely brain-damaged son cared for in a residential facility.

Part 1

BEFORE ZACHARIAH

1

I filled out a survey the other day and as I checked the right boxes I thought about who I was: Female, white, 30-35 years old, Democrat, college educated, married, Catholic, children (three), home-maker, twenty-five-to-thirty-five-thousand dollars a year. But there was no box which asked if any of my children were not normal … and how did that affect my life?

—Erica

In a speech class I teach, I ask the students, for their introductory presentations, to “bring themselves to class in a paper bag,” to select three things that best show or symbolize who they are as people and share these with the class. My students at the community college bring record albums (“music plays a big part in my life”) and family pictures and schoolbooks. One boy takes out a six-pack of Bud (“this is what I do every weekend”); a girl displays her checkbook and its balance of ninety-three cents (“being poor is my identity,” she explains).

I, too, am going to participate, to introduce myself to the class. The night before I think of what to put in my paper bag and think of “who I am.”

I am thirty-four but part of a generation who heard that this age could not be trusted. I see small lines around my eyes and the boy at Safeway who puts the sacks in the back of my station wagon calls me “ma’am.”

My friend Barbara calls from New York. We have been friends since junior high; her first period began in my house, her exuberant shouting from the upstairs bathroom, “I got it! I got it!” Then, more restraint, compassion, because I, her best friend, had not yet “got it.”

At college we shared sweaters and graphic sexual secrets. And years later, hundreds of miles apart, we talk of the security and constraints of monogamy, the joyful births of our first children, our daughters; we swap teaching stories and give each other book lists. We talk, even on Ma Bell’s discount rates, long into the night, at least fifteen dollars’ worth. We say at different times in the conversation, “Oh, my God, this will be some bill,” but we continue on the telephone, that intimate connection for women, ear-to-ear, mouth-to-mouth, heart-to-heart. Tonight Barbara calls and says how the young mothers around the pool at her apartment complex that summer are really young. She’s thinking about covering the gray that has begun to thread itself through her thick, dark hair.

“I mean, really, Fernie, I think we have only a few good years left!”

I am a New Yorker, now living almost a decade in the Midwest, a Jew surrounded by Gentiles who see this identity and my New York accent as somewhat exotic. (My students ask, “Are you from Boston?”)

I have adapted to a certain midwestern civility and earnestness. Here in Iowa people smile at strangers they pass in the street; they say “hi” or “how ya doing?” or “sure is hot.” And I have gotten so used to this cordiality that on our frequent visits “home” to New York, I feel uncomfortable assuming that blank subway stare, looking past invisible faces in crowded elevators. It does indeed feel more natural to smile, to connect in a human way, although it is only madwomen and hookers who address strangers on New York streets.

Easterners talk, sometimes scornfully, of the “culture shock” when they move to the Midwest. It took me a while to make the adjustment. The first time I went shopping here in Iowa, the cashier said, “Hi, how are you today?” with such a warm interest that I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out where we had met before.

Sometimes clerks smilingly help you to the car with heavy packages; garage mechanics have really said, “Oh, it’s nothing, I’ll fix it right now, no charge”; delivery boys look dumbfounded at gratuities (“What’s this for?”); the garbage collectors say “Have a nice day” if they see you on the way out the door as they empty your pails.

But midwesterners also lack—and because I grew up with it, I miss it—a certain passion, an intensity, an abrasive honesty, a capacity for easy intimacy. “How are you?” Always “fine.” Even if things are really shitty, the ulcer’s acting up, the kids are on dope, the husband falls asleep every night in front of the TV, I’m growing old, I’m growing lonely, I hate my life. “How are you?” “Fine.”

Midwestern parents neither bite the behinds of their children in adoration (“so good, I could eat you up”) nor do they ever shrilly scream “get over here or I’ll kill you” across a crowded playground.

Midwesterners can admire a dress, or a dinette set, or a new Persian rug, but they rarely ask, “Where did you get it?” (And never, ever, “How much did it cost?”)

And most midwesterners do not respond to sarcasm—that staple for East Coast repartee, leading an English professor here at Iowa State to observe, “There is no irony in Iowa.”

So part of my identity has to do with a view of myself as a visitor of sorts.

I am a feminist; I have survived in a marriage and grown and changed because of it, no small accomplishment nowadays. I remember one time, nearly twelve years ago, when Joe and I had dinner at his mother’s apartment. Joe wore jeans and an unironed cotton shirt. His mother looked at me. “Aren’t you ashamed of the way he looks?”

“Why? I’m not wearing a wrinkled shirt,” I said. It would not have occurred to me, even as a newlywed in preliberation America, that my standards were reflected by my husband’s dress. At that time I was seen as a rebel, and a lazy rebel at that—one who wouldn’t do the ironing. Later I did that modern-woman juggling act, trying to find a balance between graduate school or work and family, wanting to have it all, knowing that it’s never possible; that to be grown up is to understand the nature of compromise; that now I was not going to be “discovered” as I had secretly dreamed even throughout college.

(A woman I know, in midlife after three children, one divorce, and a new marriage, went back to school to become a reference librarian. I met her for lunch one day and asked her how she liked the job. She confessed that she’d really “rather be a ballerina.”

“Why, I never even knew that you danced,” I exclaimed.

“I don’t,” she said. “I never have.”)

Oh, our fantasies die hard and late. Part of the problem with the women’s movement is that it tells us that we can be anything we want to be. I mull this over, driving to work in subzero temperature, on icy Iowa highways, to teach English composition and speech to a group of girls at a community college who are going to become dental hygienists; it is a job for which, because I am part time, I receive no benefits and am grossly underpaid.

I still wasn’t sure what to put in my paper bag for my introductory speech.

I think of hobbies. The truth is, I really don’t have any hobbies, a fact that I find disconcerting only when I have to fill out applications or surveys. Then I usually put down “reading,” an activity that never does seem appropriate. My students all seem to have hobbies. Along with the beer and family portraits, they bring in needlepoint and motorcycle helmets and old comic books.

The next day I introduce myself to the class and give a brief personal narrative. I don’t mention my age, or my feelings about being New York Jewish in the Midwest, or the complications of the women’s movement. I take a red pen out of the bag and talk about being a teacher as part of my identity. Then I take out a book (a Margaret Atwood novel), which I unwrap from a pillowcase and tell them about my keenness for reading in bed—my ersatz hobby. They laugh. Finally, I take out a copy of Redbook, which has published a story I wrote for their “Young Mothers” series called “A Place for Zachariah.” I tell this class, whom I have never met before, that I am the mother of a multiply handicapped child. I wrote the story about him and about my decision not to have him live at home. I talk about how being the mother of such a child has changed me and my vision of the world. The class is very quiet now and there are a few girls, scattered in different rows, whose gentle faces turn toward me, glowing softly like flowers in the sun.

Saying this is difficult, even now, and my voice still catches. The admission gives me a vulnerability I’m not sure I like. When I first made the assignment, some student in the back yelled up, “You do it, too. We want to get to know you.” Right away I thought about Zach. Oh, Zach. I could never, with any honesty, omit Zachariah from a description of who I am. I am the mother of a retarded child, of a severely physically handicapped retarded child. Zach’s gross limitations help define me in a way that is perhaps ineffable, but permanent. My relationship to this child defines me, not only as I present myself to the world, but in a way that reaches deep within. Because of Zach, certain moments of everyday life—a small boy running through a shopping mall, a woman lifting a baby from a car—stand out with such brilliance that even these most ordinary events reveal the intense fragility, the beauty and pain of life.

Zach has changed me and sometimes I can no longer think of who I was before I had this identity. Then again, there is a part of me that does not truly believe that this really happened at all.

Radicalized, I have fought for Zach’s rights and for our rights as a family to survive. I know I am stronger for the struggle, and perhaps I am a better person. A woman who has a Down’s syndrome child told me that “having a handicapped child is the best assertiveness-training course there is.”

But oh, I did not sign up for this course. This was an elective not of my own choosing. No matter how we long for the silver lining in even the most ominous thundercloud, I cannot say that this has been a positive experience.

There is a lot of talk with parents of retarded children about “learning to accept it.” We get praise and admiration from the “handicapped professionals,” from the teachers and social workers about how well we’ve “learned to accept it.” Parents themselves spend a lot of time denying like crazy (“He’s only a baby, he’ll catch up”), choking back the anger, and crying in the night as we bend over to cover our children in their beds. It is true that just as all children are good when they are sleeping, so all children look normal when they are sleeping. I do not know a parent of a retarded child who has not had this thought and made silent pleas in the dark.

There are days I suppose that I don’t want to “learn to accept it.” On one of our early social-worker evaluations, it is written “the parents have difficulty in learning to accept the situation.” I thought, That’s true. That’s right. And oh, God, who wouldn’t?

A few years ago I hurt whenever I saw a baby crawling and cooing and doing cute baby things. A few weeks ago I saw a blond, curly-headed little boy in overalls and tiny red sneakers running across campus toward his mom. The image, recalled over and over again that day, tore at me. I wonder if I’ll feel the same pain later when I see ten-year-olds playing ball in the street or teen-age boys showing off to their girl friends at the beach. I think so. There is a deep-down sadness that will be with me for the rest of my life. I don’t know if you ever totally learn to accept it. I’m getting better all the time. I can talk about Zach to an inquiring stranger who asks if I have any children, without tears coming to my eyes. I no longer awaken at five in the morning, cold and frightened, with my heart pounding uncontrollably. I don’t always feel as if I’m on the verge of throwing up. I know that no doctor is going to find an operable brain tumor, to fix Zach and make him better. I know that Zach is irreparably damaged. I accept that. And yet, at the very core, I still find the whole situation somewhat unbelievable and, yes, unacceptable.

I look at the picture on our kitchen bulletin board of a smiling, dimpled Zach, blue eyes with dark fringy lashes, his hair a mass of golden curls, and think of the kid he could have been. So there is still that voice in me, protesting and rejecting, angry, hurt.

Once, at a parent support meeting for “new parents” of handicapped children, we had as speakers a husband and wife who had a retarded teen-ager. They were talking about learning to accept the fact that your child is retarded. “Well,” said the mother, smart in a black tailored pantsuit, her long red hair caught up in a barrette, “it took me a long time, but I have learned to accept it—about twenty-eight days out of the month.”

There are studies that show that many families of retarded children experience a grief akin to that felt when a child dies. I talked about this with a friend of mine who has a severely brain-damaged daughter. She said, “Of course it is horrible when a child dies. It is one of the worst things that can happen—for the parent to outlive the child. You will always feel the pain. It is not something you can ever really ‘get over,’ but at least the act, the death, is an ending, a finality. And the parents’ wounds can begin to heal. I feel as if I am always enacting Cathleen’s death. As she becomes older and less appealing, her problems become more pronounced. When we go back to the neurologist, when I go to her special class for the evaluation, I feel as if the coffin is being wheeled in again. And I am split open all over again.”

Yet the books we read about life with a handicapped child and the programs we see on TV are not truth-telling for how a number of parents live their lives. The thing is, we like miracle stories. We like inspirational tales of courage and conviction, the spirit of never-say-die. We like to hear of children who learned to walk when the doctors said “never,” children who laughed and sang and became whole when the doctors said, “There is no hope.” And the mothers of these children, who patiently nourished and sacrificed and never lost faith that their special children would bloom slowly in their own time, these women were held up for all of us to see.

But what about those women who have such children and who cannot stand one more Sunday afternoon alone in the house with a child who doesn’t know how to play; or wake to another day to find the bedroom walls smeared with feces; or feed another blended supper to a child who must be fed spoonful by chokey spoonful? What about these women? Mothers of normal children can say aloud, “These kids are driving me crazy,” after a long August of car pooling and spilled sugar on kitchen counters and kids whining about nothing to do. But the woman whose handicapped child is real...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction
• Part 1: Before Zachariah
• Part 2: The First Year
• Part 3: Journal of the Second Year
• Part 4: After Zachariah
• Afterword