"I'm the Oldest Person I Know."

I'm 95 years old, and you know what? That's old.

I'm the oldest person I know.

That's Grandma. As a kid, I can't say we got along. There were some strong opinions involved, some -- shall we say -- incidents. Like the time she called my mother from 100 miles away insisting that we wear sweaters "because it's cold over here." Or the time she entered my room while I was away and straightened it up "just a bit." I wanted to kill her.

Grandma has always held strong opinions about everything. She was into raw foods and organic produce long before the rest of California discovered them. She firmly believed, and continues to believe, that fluoridated water is evil reincarnate, and that women who do not make efforts to "look smart," (that is, dress well and apply make-up) are doing humanity some sort of general disservice.

Through the years, her letter-writing has had me in stitches. There's the time I wrote her from summer camp to report on my recent swimming lessons, and received a reply that she, too, was learning to swim. At age 70. "But," she confided, "I don't like to put my face in the water." (I could relate to that).

And not one of my fellow campmates received, as I did, letters signed with the valuable but ill-timed advice, "Remember to eat lots of organic lettuce!" I neglected to return her counsel with the sad but true reality that at camp we were lucky to get some limp iceberg with our suspiciously-tinted beef patties and soggy fries.

This year, my grandmother is, as she puts it, "really feeling my age." Everything is a process; getting dressed, preparing meals, even -- I assume -- going to the bathroom, although this has yet to come up in conversation. A couple of months back she fell down in her kitchen and, in typical Grandma style, refused to tell anyone about it for fear she'd be dragged to the hospital for endless tests (eventually that is exactly what happened). She's okay now, having rested at home for a short time, after which she systematically rejected the help of every home care nurse and social worker available.

During her recuperation she refused to go outside, for fear she would be spotted using a walker by one of her fellow retirement community-neighbors in her, and subsequently be labeled an old lady.

* * * * *

The other day I asked Grandma for her insights about aging.

Grandma: I don't like old people. Even myself....I have to listen to myself all the time, and I get tired of it. I'm always trying to change things.

Me: What do you mean by that?

G: I would realized what I'm doing, and change what I'm thinking, and reject it.

Me: Like what?

G: Like walking like a duck. I reject it. Like being critical about people. Things really aren't that important, you know? I'm trying to resist some of the earmarks of old people.

I once read in an old copy of New Scientist, a British popular science weekly, that neurological imaging at different stages of life has shown that older people have a tendency to "mellow out" over time, not getting as worked up neurologically about those little things that get under the skin of most the rest of us. In other words, over time, older people gain perspective, at the most basic neurological level.

Sometimes, after a frustrating conversation with Grandma, my family will say, "Oh, she's acting like an stubborn old person again." But I'm not so convinced. No question, she's still stubborn, way beyond the rest of us, but she's always been like that. If anything, she's calmed down a bit over the years.

She's not acting old -- she's acting Grandma.

If you'd asked me as a child whether my grandmother would ever mellow out, I wouldn't have answered positively. I wouldn't describe her as mellow now. Despite her refusal to receive help, for the most part her obstinate behavior benefits her. She's already lost some of her mobility, much of her eyesight, and most of her friends to old age. But when she tells me she's gained a new perspective on herself and others, I believe her. She just wants her body, and her life, to stay just the way they are. Don't we all?

(Get to know Grandma a bit better in Imagine the Alternatives and At Least I Can Explain Two Tin Cans).

Keep the balance,

ALN

Long Overdue -- A Day in Their Life

(This piece is from back in August. My apologizes for the lengthy post gap, and my thanks to you, loyal readers, for bearing with me).

When in London, we like to visit friends, and one family in particular who we're pretty sure we won't be able to see on our side of the world, since they rarely travel outside of England.

Their first-born, D, is a handsome, dark-haired boy with huge brown eyes, who came into the world with an exceedingly rare condition that has left his mind stranded in early infancy, even as his body continues to grow. On our last visit, when D was five, they shared with us one of his recent accomplishments -- reaching forward to push a large button on a musical toy. Now he is seven and he is much the same, only bigger and heavier.

Our time with them this afternoon was brief, which was really too bad, but during that two-hour visit I began to understand a little more about a few aspects of their lives. Here are some of the "simple" things, things I'd barely thought about before now.

Recycling. I offered to take a couple of glass bottles out to the curbside bins, and casually remarked that I wished Israel also had a curbside recycling program. Our friend, D's mother, pointed out that since cardboard was added to their borough's list, only a few months before, their lives had gotten a bit easier. Previously, they disposed of all those carton containers housing D's special feeding and care supplies only by dividing them among their neighbors' waste bins, since London's notoriously strict waste collection laws require that all items fitwithin the bin, or else forgo collection.

Shabbat. As D's body grows, he gains weight but not strength, and his parents can no longer lift him with ease. Several rooms in their house have been fitted with ceiling tracks for an electric hoist system to aid them in day-to-day care for D. But the hoists cannot be operated on Shabbat, nor can they be fitted with a time switch, since their control requires precise adjustments in real time, or D could be crushed. If they exchange the electric hoist for a hydrolic one (their health plan will only fund one), they solve the Shabbat problem but are stuck with an awkward manual one seven days a week. (One potential solution? Ebay...).

Unplanned "surprises." D and his family have known many good days in a row, days in which D can enjoy his classmates' company, bang away on his keyboard, and lie peacefully while his siblings play around him. And then comes the now long-expected unexpected: nonstop seizures that can last through day and night, leaving D exhausted and confused, and his parents feeling exhausted and helpless. It is just awful watching your child suffer, his mother writes me, and D clearly suffers.

Food and drink. D has dysphagia and struggles to swallow. All his liquids must be mixed with starch until they form a paste, to prevent them ending up down his windpipe. All foods must be pulverized, and even then he struggles to consume enough calories, and there are days when he suffers seizures and cannot eat at all. During these times he receives his nutrition via a PEG directly into his stomach, up to four times a day.

A day off. If our friends want to go away for the weekend, or even for the day, they must book hospice care for D in advance. Since hospice costs £400 - 1000 per diem, they must remain within their sponsored allotment of 20 days a year. (Last year it was 30; just another microcosmic fall-out of the market implosion). Twenty days of respite sounds like a lot, until you start to do the math:

One weekend = 3 days of hospice

Since any trip they take requires setting up D at the hospice care (half a day, plus/minus) and picking him up (another half a day), that's nearly one full day, already gone. One short trip abroad would use up half their annual allotment. (And yes, each of them has family abroad).

I haven't even touched on their morning routine --morning time, school travel, bath time, bed time -- since I don't know much about those things. Our conversation touched on other, "regular" issues, like our satisfaction level [medium-to-low] with our respective kids' education systems. (They have other, "normal" children and work hard to make sure these children lead "normal" lives, inasmuch as the siblings of special children live normal lives).

These friends are some of the brightest people I know. They are well-educated, balanced, hard-working, and kind. They have family for moral support, some extra help at home, and a hard-earned familiarity with "the system." But this is their reality, every day, and it is exhausting. Sometimes, when I feel my own exhaustion at the end of a long morning of work and an even longer afternoon of whiny children, I think of them. I don't know how they do it. But they do it.

If, despite the crash, you still have a few shekels / dollars / pounds to spare and would like to donate them to a worthy cause, please consider a respite program such as Shalva, a rehab hospital such as Alyn, or any similar organization -- there are hundreds -- you feel is worthwhile.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight, 3

(This is a continuation piece of last week's post, Perception and Creation Beyond Sight 2).

Immaterial Elements and Tactile Shades.  Light.  Color.  Texture.  Composition.  For most artists, these are key concepts, central considerations in all their work.  With closed eyes, color becomes irrelevant, as does all but the brightest light.  

Sharon Karni's works, so rich in scope and layering (as well as color) showed me that textural nuance and material variety can be experienced as colorful, in and of themselves.  With eyes closed and color no longer a consideration, I was able to appreciate and enjoy the depth of Karni's tactile expression via her use of varied materials and textures, from wood relief to netting to nails.  

(An internet search led to one Hebrew explanation of her tendency to incorporate natural elements, such as beach sand and seawater, to her pigments, further adding to their sense of tactility.  The Biblical title of this work refers to words contained in a line of Moshe's Song of the Sea describing the Red Sea's waters as standing "frozen" on each side).

Sharon Karni, Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), (detail), 2000-2004.  Mixed technique on wood.

Cathedral, a medium-sized sculpture in plywood by Israel Hadany, could be mistaken for simplistic in shape, a smooth, nearly organic form that -- in contrast to the surging interior of an actual cathedral, sags toward the middle, only to soar upward at each end.   To run my hands over its surface, eyes closed, was to flow down and up again, along its rounded exterior into the space created within.  But the temptation of actually seeing this work wedged itself into my tactile experience after only a few seconds.

Israel Hadany, Cathedral, 2005.  Plywood.

This was one of the few works for which, once I had opened my eyes, I could not limit myself to touch alone.  The contrast of light and darkness, spilling over, around and within the form, had me mesmerized.   An orderly row of small windows along its upper surface created a captivating sun-spot effect within.  Experiencing the sculpture by touch alone sharpened my awareness of the piece's richness and depth of form, as well as the visual beauty a sightless person misses.

Israel Hadany, Cathedral, 2005 (interior).  Plywood.

Compensation, Exaggeration.   It is commonly believed that those lacking one sensory ability tend to deepen their other sensory abilities -- namely, hearing and touch -- in compensation.  This makes sense to me, and I understand that magnetic imaging of the brain has proven it true on a neurological level as well.  

During my visit, I cannot say that my neurological abilities shifted in any meaningful way, but my attention certainly did.  The gallery, closed off only partially by short walls within the university's echoey, chamber-like corridor, had the opposite effect of that reflective, austere silence typical of most public art venues.  After only a few minutes I was intensely, almost painfully aware of the volume of sound entering the venue.  Previous wanderings through those halls, with my only goal to get from one end to the other, had not focused my awareness on the noise level, but here in the gallery I found it an almost overwhelming presence which disturbed my concentration.  In this context, an "enhanced" ability to hear became a limitation.

Closed In, Exposed Outward.  Last month, at a professional convention, I had the privilege of attending a presentation by several blind adults who shared some thoughts on their experiences before and after receiving dog guides.  One man, a psychologist by profession, had lost his sight as a result of a war injury.  He related his original refusal to have a dog guide, based on his fears of becoming dependent, and the many benefits he now credits to his canine companion, including a facilitation of his social connections with others.  Instead of standing out as an objectified, dependent person, he and his dog now share the limelight, and a sense of healthy interdependence.

I remembered this man as I made my way around the exhibit, eyes closed, hands roaming over the artwork.  I was acutely aware of the gallery's glass walls, and how ridiculous I must have looked to those who were unaware of the exhibit's focus.  I felt exposed, and this bothered me.  But I also felt strangely free, an unfamiliar sensation of being alone with myself, asking, If I can't see others, how much do I care how they see me?

In Conclusion.  I am so visual a person, I find it extremely challenging to even imagine a world in which my sense of sight does not play a dominant role.  Here in the Stern Gallery, I was reminded that my sight, for all its advantages, can limit my perception and my appreciation by its tendency to dominate my other senses.  I came to learn that approaching art up close can, with all the irony implied, create a distance.  

I credit this exhibit, its artists and curators, with providing us a particular opportunity to experience art -- and our own selves, experiencing the art -- anew.

* * * * *

Feeling and Meaning:  Seeing Art Through Touch

The Max and Iris Stern Gallery

Faculty of Humanities, Mt. Scopus

December 2008 - June 2009

Opening Hours: Sun-Thur 11:00-15:00 (except University holidays)

Curators: Susan Nashman Fraiman, Ahuva Passow-Whitman 

To contact Ahuva or arrange a guided tour, call 02-588-3881.

All photos here taken by ALN, and included here with permission of Ahuva Passow-Whitman.

* * * * *

Keep the balance, 

ALN

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight, 2

I have just spent half an hour with the exhibit “Feeling and Meaning – Seeing Art Through Touch,” now open  in the Stern Gallery, a glass-walled pair of narrow rooms carved out of the wide, multi-angled hallway of the Humanities Wing of Hebrew University, Mt. Scopus. Although it is a small exhibit, featuring only twenty or so works, I easily could have stayed there an hour or more.  

I took advantage of what I knew would be an abridged visit by passing fairly quickly from one work to the next, noting my reactions to the new and often surprising discoveries that came with experiencing a body of art in ways beyond the visual.  Here are some of my impressions.

Here, You Can Touch.  I entered the gallery completely aware that these objects, all of which had three-dimensional aspects, were on display to be touched as well as seen. Yet I had to consciously stop myself from asking the security guard to confirm that yes, I really was allowed to touch everything.  This, in and of itself, was a freeing prospect, breaking a social convention while opening doors to a new way of perceiving the artwork.

Eyes Down, Hands Up.  I did not want to fall into an impossible attempt at closing my eyes and "pretending to be blind;"  as a seeing person -- however myopic -- I know that I am habituated to experiences my world "eyes first."   By closing them, I understood that would only be scraping the surface of taking in my surroundings via additional senses.  I chose instead to touch the work with eyes open, but limiting their use, either beginning with a brief glance, to get a general impression of the size, shape, color and subject of the work, or else fixing my gaze downward, until after I had first gotten to know the art through my hands.

The Same Work, Twice.  This duality, seeing the work only peripherally while allowing my sense of touch to dominate my sensory intake, led to a feeling of intense sensory dichotomy. Through touch alone I could not identify a small sculpture which afterwards, by sight, I effortlessly recognized as a bust of Chaim Weizmann.  But it wasn't just a matter of finding something recognizable;  the sculpture as perceived by my hands, was nothing like the one my eyes claimed to see.  In all but those two or three works containing exceedingly clean, straight lines and clear-cut materials, I was never able to reconcile what I looked at with what I touched, effectively turning every piece into two -- or more -- completely different works of art.

How Big, and How Wide?  

The first thing I did when approaching a piece was to run my hands along its edges, trying to establish a tactile understanding of the size of the work.  

Sharon Karni.  Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

For many of the larger pieces, such as Sharon Karni's Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), this process took time and required a certain effort -- reaching up, around, crouching down.  It struck me, the amount of time and effort that would be required to understand the scope and size of an image without the help of my eyes.

A Feeling for the Whole Picture.  It only got more difficult when I tried to create an overall internal picture of the work in front of me.  With information coming in from only two hands, I could take in about 100 square centimeters at a time, and only slowly, bit by bit.  I ended up trying -- unsuccessfully -- to assemble a disjointed collection of data into one coherent image, but found I could do so only afterwards, using my eyes.  My sensory experience lacked wholeness and continuity.  

Sharon Karni.  Frozen Abyss (Exodus 15:7-8), (detail), 2000-2004. Mixed technique on wood.

Zohar Ginio, the lawyer/artist, and only blind artist participating in the exhibit, noted in his interview with The Jerusalem Report that he limits his works to a small scale since it is difficult for blind people get a feel for a large work that they cannot feel all at once. Indeed, his stone sculpture The Laborer, a self-portrait of his hand, is large in impact but small enough (approx. 80 across) to allow both sighted and sightless people to take in the work as a whole.

To be continued...

Keep the balance,

ALN

______

Feeling and Meaning:  Seeing Art Through Touch

The Max and Iris Stern Gallery

Faculty of Humanities, Mt. Scopus

December 2008 - June 2009

Opening Hours: Sun-Thur 11:00-15:00 (except University holidays)

Curators: Susan Nashman Fraiman, Ahuva Passow-Whitman 

To contact Ahuva or arrange a guided tour, call 02-588-3881.

All photos here taken by ALN, and included here with permission of Ahuva.

Perception and Creation Beyond Sight

I wish I could include here some of the amazing paintings by artist John Bramblitt, although when you see them, you might be tempted to believe he is not blind.  He is featured here in a recent NYT, as well as here in Tara Parker Pope's Well blog.  

His loss of sight became an ironic source of new courage, and a his painting, a way of communicating his perceptions.

"It wasn’t until I lost my sight that I became brave enough to fail,” he said. “Even if the paintings didn’t look good, I didn’t have to see them."

Wow.  To go back to painting, after blindness.   His ability to reframe his (and his environment's) outlook toward his limitation, into one of abilities, is powerful of itself.

On the subject, a current exhibit at the Stern Gallery on the Mt. Scopus campus of Hebrew University features artwork by, and for, blind and visually impaired visitors.  Read about it here, and in the February 16 edition of The Jerusalem Report (no web-based article available, as far I know), which includes a piece on artist Zohar Ginio, a lawyer by profession, and the only blind artist to have artwork -- a sculptural self-portrait of his hand -- featured at the exhibit.   

I have walked by this exhibit several times after-hours, on my way back from evening class.   The gallery has glass walls, allowing some works to be viewed from the outside, but I have not yet had the opportunity to wander in and experience the work tactically.  That needs correction, and since I happen to have class today, I am now going to log off, get up off my tush and head over to campus early, so that I have time to enjoy this exhibit.   Stay tuned for impressions.

Keep the balance,

ALN

A Visibly Beautiful Family

When beginning this blog, I didn't know what direction it would take.  After a decade of hospital work there were so many stories to tell, an endless backlog of small, moving moments. It was hard to start with anything, for fear of missing out something, or perhaps, for fear of being overwhelmed.

I'm really not into the maudlin.  Honest.  I'm not trying to make anyone cry, and I learned awhile back that Survivor's Guilt, in its various guises, has nothing positive to offer.  But now that it has a venue, the here-and-now campaigns urgently to reveal itself.

Here is today's story.

M lies in her mother's lap, her eyes nodding, sometimes rolling, upward and back, trying in vain to focus ahead of her.  Her limbs are heavy, flopped down beside her flaccid body.  She loves attention but cannot maintain eye contact, cannot lift her arms out to reach another. She does not talk, can barely form a smile.  A rare genetic illness has robbed her nervous system of control over her body, and her muscles have atrophied.  She is nearly five years old.

I enter the outpatient waiting room.  M's mother catches sight of me and we share a moment, both our faces lit up in mutual recognition.  How nice to see you, I begin.  It's been so long.

Actually, it hasn't.  She gives a sad smile.  This month we've been here every Sunday. Nobody sees us.  We're the invisible family.  M is the invisible girl.

I'm stunned.  I try to think back...  How could I have missed them all this time?  I make a quick calculation.  Last Sunday I didn't come in to the department.  The week before that? Too long ago to remember.    I'm sorry I missed you before, I tell her.  There's not much else to say.  Lame excuses certainly won't do here. 

It's no use.  Murphy's Law has demanded that I be called away at that moment on urgent staff business. I excuse myself, privately committing to return and sit with this "invisible" family before the day is through.

Sometime later -- but not much later -- I make my way back to Outpatient.  It's a Sunday, and the department is overflowing with hematology patients.  Before I can be pulled aside by a familiar kid requesting a puzzle, or a concerned mother inquiring after her daughter's studies, I beeline it for a smallish patient room at the end of the hall.

So, how are you these days? I ask M's mother, as I reach out to take her hand.  She is doing all right, she tells me.  Her life is taking care of M.  That's all she does, all she wants to do.  I listen, and the questions takes form inside... I hesitate, but something inside pushes a question out. What happens when you need a break? Who relieves you?  She smiles.

My sister, if I need to go somewhere for a few hours.  Or if M can't fall asleep at night, I wake my sister at 2 a.m. and she takes over so I can sleep a little.  But that's it.  That's all I need.  No one else knows how to take care of M like I do.  

I don't need a vacation.  Seeing her smile at me, knowing that she's comfortable and free of pain, that's my vacation.  The only one I need, for as long as she needs me.

M's mother continues.  She has four daughters -- the oldest is in medical school, the second youngest still in high school.  I am a mother of girls, she tells me.  I love being a mother of girls.  Once, there was a son.  He left them seven years ago, at age four.

G-d gave him to us, and then He took him back.  We pray for him, and he is Up There, praying for us, all the time.  We celebrate his birthday, every year. We pray and we have a cake.  I am very proud, that we had him, and that we could give him back.   I know he takes care of us from Up There.

M's mother relates all of this clearly in a sincere expression of love and understanding, devoid of irony or sorrow. Her life is full of meaning, as her son's death continues to be.  

I listen.   I am awed and bewildered by her clarity of purpose.  

And then, at that moment, life goes on.  Two women come into the room to say hello, and a mother's conversation ensues.  A joke about M's diaper peeking out from over her pink jumpsuit flows into an earnest discussion of the deplorable popularity of low-rise jeans that do little to cover one's undergarments.  No one is embarrassed these days, they lament. What is the young generation coming to?

I excuse myself to go on with my workday, and, eventually, M returns home, still in her mother's arms.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Home in Turmoil

(No, thank G-d, the home in question is not my own, only the artwork).

This piece, Home in Turmoil (28x28x5 cm, mixed media), culminates my reflections of a year's work with a family struggling to hold itself together despite aliyah, divorce and remarriage + kids, financial struggles, and mental health challenges.  (This therapy took place not in the hospital but in a private family clinic where I also used to work).

At the center of the therapy, at least in the beginning, was the couple's school-age son, a bright and creative boy whose sense of calm and wholeness was disrupted by the fear and aggression that constantly threatened to overwhelm him and his family.  He could not focus in school; his bizarre behavior mostly defeated his desperate efforts to make friends and keep them.

Home provided him relative but sporadic feelings of safety, but even that was not enough to contain him and frequently his anger would burst through the boundaries, leaving him and his family powerless and enraged.  He relied on his acute sensitivity to discern when to trust someone enough to reveal that it was not him, not really him, rather the evil voices in his head who were responsible for igniting a mental anguish despite his will and far beyond his control.

Time progressed, therapy continued.  The physician's repeated attempts did not manage to keep the boy's multiple prescriptions in check with his fluctuating, pre-adolescent body-mind.  A three-week period of relative quiet and stability would be harshly interrupted by an unpredicted, unwelcome burst of fury, attack and withdrawal.  

Focus shifted to the parents as they struggled with their son, and with one another, to contain the damage.  Hospitalization was considered, disregarded, reconsidered. Financial factors, family issues, additional medical options -- all discussed.  The boy withdrew further and further into his dark, painful world until he refused altogether to return to therapy, leaving behind feelings of chaos and helplessness for the boy, his parents... and his therapist.

I wish I could say the answers are always out there, that it all works out in the end.

Sometimes, despite everyone's best efforts, it just doesn't.  It's true, the successes outnumber the failures.  But the failures, the if only's, are what stick in the mind, the heart, and sometimes, the artwork.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Imperfect is Normal

I began a comment responding to a post by Conversations in Klal entitled "We, the Perfect People," then realized that the topic is definitely worth a longer response.

Klal, you're absolutely right.  

After all, the Seven Laws of Noah require all other societies to set up a legal system and solve their interpersonal disputes... and we can't admit we have problems?  The only way to solve them is to accept that it's about time we become a fully normative society, by yanking our problems out into the light, even when they are excruciatingly painful.

This one hit me hard: A couple of years ago I worked with a young boy who was being physically and emotional abused by his Rebbe. His parents knew about it and felt powerless, especially his mother, who felt unable to physically enter the school, a domain of men. Many in the community knew about this Rebbe, including the school administration. Community members were afraid, or unwilling, to do anything about it, either because they subscribe to that horrific "spare the rod" principle (does someone have the Pirkei Avot on that?), or more likely, because they understood that their families would be socially isolated, and their kids would not be accepted into any of the private religious schools, if they were to earn a reputation as whistle-blowers.  

This kid was traumatized. His expressions of fear, sadness and victimhood were overpowering. Throughout his life he had been taught that his Rebbe is the most important person in his life, after his parents. That his Rebbe was to be respected and obeyed. Except that this Rebbe was hitting him, grabbing him by the neck, and yelling unspeakable things -- in the name of G-d and the Torah, so how could he be wrong?   This boy was being abused on so many levels, caught between the supposed "authority" of G-d, and the private hell of his own suffering. 

It was painful to watch. Worse yet, I identified with this boy's feelings of powerlessness, since I, too, felt that my ability to help him was limited. The family did not want me to say a word ("The Rebbe is old, he's near retirement, his wife is ill, he's under a lot of pressure. We don't want our daughters being refused acceptance into good schools because of this."). My workplace, a small, nonprofit development center, was in a bind because they knew they would be censured - i.e. lose their clientele - if they single-handedly took on the educational system. This was way beyond a business consideration; it was an understanding that the center would no longer be able to help many, many children in need if their schools forbade families to use our services.

I continued to work with the boy and his family, offering counseling, strength and support so that they could feel empowered and work through their options. My professional supervisors spoke with people of influence within the community. The family eventually chose to speak to the school about the problematic Rebbe, and to move the child to another school, where he could begin the process of learning to trust a new Rebbe. I felt relief for the child, but a complete lack of satisfaction with the larger picture.

And yet, I believe change is happening... slowly. In Israel, special education is more accepted than ever before. There is an entire branch of the school system, both formal and informal education, dedicated to children with physical, mental and emotional challenges. As Conversations in Klal pointed out, Special ed., and all the various paramedical fields (physical therapy, occupational therapy, expressive therapies, etc. etc) have become some of the most popular fields of study, especially for religious young women of all types.  I don't know about the graduates of Touro and similar places, but I would suspect that the young Israeli graduates, especially the Haredi ones, are working within their communities, since they are most unlikely to work outside of them. (Maybe we have it slightly "easier" in Israel, since we are all living together in this country and we cannot send the problem away as easily. But I'd love to think that it's something a little loftier....)

On a personal note, my Haredi relatives have a child with Down's Syndrome who takes part in public and private family life in every way, and always has. When I asked her mother how her community sees it, her reply was, "The kids in our neighborhood see it all the time now -- she's not the only child with Down's. They know R. is a little slower than the others, but she joins in all their games, and everyone is patient with her." And go figure: two of R's older sisters have already gotten married to very fine young men, and she was dancing out there with the rest of the ladies. (Let's not celebrate yet. This same girl's 12-year-old sister, when hearing that I work with kids with cancer, asked earnestly, in astonishment, But isn't that contagious?!).

So, Klal, I'm sending you some optimism.... You're right: there's not enough change out there, but there's definitely change. Meanwhile, our work is cut out for us, and the question remains:  What are we gonna do about it?

Keep the balance,

ALN