The Joy Of Giving

My Cassie lived in a long series of foster homes, during her first fifteen and a half years. In the last, she was starved nearly to death, locked in a terribly hot room upstairs by herself. Deep sores from dehydration were at the corners of her mouth, her skin was shriveled and dry, her eyes sunken. Her hair was brittle. She had a normal body, and could walk just fine in earlier years. But she shook so much from weakness, she could hardly walk, and hung on to the wall for support. She was emaciated, and weighed only 61 pounds. All of her bones stuck out. Her bottom was skin on bone. It hurt her to sit on the toilet. Perhaps that was why she did not want to use it.

She would not have lived much longer that way. She had lived four years in that home. The people said she had to eat alone, because her way of eating was disgusting. They didn't want their children to be exposed to her. She shoveled food in with her hands, not chewing at all, and gulped everything whole, choking as she did. She was starved so long, that at fifteen and a half years old, she had never had a period.

She had never cried in her entire life. Not as a baby. Never. One of the first things I did when I got her, after she had been gradually built up to a normal diet, so as not to make her ill, was to take her to a Chinese restaurant. Just the two of us. She watched as the waitress brought bowl after bowl of food and set it in front of us. The smells in the air would have enchanted anyone. She could see other people eating, all around us. When I began to fill her place with food, all of a sudden she comprehended that this was all for her. Abruptly her face crumpled, and tears ran silently down her face. She was overwhelmed. I hugged her. "You will never be hungry any more, Cassie. I will give you lots of food." That was my promise. And I believe she understood me.

* Comfort the feebleminded, support the weak. 1 Thessalonians 5:14

It is now twenty-three years later. Cassie and her sister Caressa, both profoundly retarded, share a room. Night rituals with them are a highlight of my day. My daughters and I are friends. My other adult children have gone to their part of the house for the night by this time of the evening, and my husband is busy at his computer. Cassie, Caressa and I have our special things to do. I wind their music boxes. I play music and try to get them to beat time with rhythm instruments. I encourage them to touch their toys and make them play music. Cassie is not interested in much of anything except rhythm instruments. Her style of play is to shake, then drop hand bells and tamborines in her lap, over and over. I sing to my daughters, and they listen. Caressa smiles. Cassie stares. Caressa peeks around me, at Cassie, and smiles sweetly. Cassie does not look back. She keeps rocking. If I put the two together, Caressa grabs Cassie, who pulls away violently, a horrified look on her face. There is no success there!

Cassie sits in her bed in the late evening when I come in for the last evening time. I get nighties on my daughters, and change their diapers. She watches me carry Caressa's night drinks and medicines across the room, watches as I pour them down the tube, watches as I go out to throw cans away. Cassie is going on forty years old, and cannot tell me if she is thirsty. If I go out and don't bring anything, she lies down and goes to sleep without a sound.

So, just before I turn on their night music, turn off their lamps, and close the door for the night, I go back to the kitchen. When I come in their room again, carrying a glass of chocolate milk, Cassie watches me, as usual. No expression on her face. She continues to rock, sitting in the middle of her bed, her legs straight out before her, like a year old baby sits. Every time, as I near her bed, she still watches impassively. But when I stop by her bed, and say "do you want a drink?" her face lights up while her hand reaches for the glass. A brief, but radiant smile! Every night it is the same. She does not expect it is for her until I actually ask her. Every night, it is as though she just received an unexpected gift.

Caressa smiles and laughs all during the day. She finds everything funny. But Cassie is a solemn little owl at heart. Cassie would never smile if I did not minister to her heart; pay attention to her feelings. She is much more responsive now than she was when she was younger. I was not aware when I adopted her at fifteen years old, that she held the ability to become more responsive. She rarely let me hug her when she was young, and rarely made eye contact. She lived in a world of her own. She purposefully crossed her eyes while rocking, to shut out the world around her. Who would have dreamed that in later years, with a lot of personal attention, this adult, who was autistic, and profoundly retarded, could possibly change, nearing forty years old!

Perhaps, each time she receives that glass of chocolate milk, she relives in her mind, the intense relief of that first glass of fluid she received, after she had been starved. Perhaps that is why it still gives her such pleasure, twenty-three years later!

* Jesus said: "Verily I say unto you,
"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these
my brethren, ye have done it unto me." Matthew 25:40

What a privilege it is, to be Cassandra Joy's mother. Forever and ever, and always, Amen.