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Health & Fitness

His Name Was Earl: The Story of a Patient Child

His name was Earl.  He went by Mikey, and I called him Bob.  He called me Bob too, and I have thought of him every time I’ve seen a rainbow for the last ten years.

In 2001, I was living in Boulder, Colorado when I took a job as a paraeducator in the public school district.  The school I worked for was the centralized location for all elementary special ed students in the district.  Special ed classes were held in a separate hallway, and (even though the students took lunch and recess with everyone else) they were largely ignored by most of the faculty. 

As a paraeducator, I was assigned to a couple of the second and third grade classrooms and had lunchroom and recess duties as well, but I took the point of view that as a member of the faculty, I had a responsibility to all the students.  I was drawn in particular to students whom I felt were ignored or were in danger of getting lost in the cracks regardless of what classroom they belonged to – including (perhaps especially) the special ed students. 

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Bob had cerebral palsy and was confined to a wheelchair.  He was in third grade and was new to the school.  He could get around pretty well with his chair’s electronic controls, but had some difficulty with tight spaces like the cafeteria food line and rows of desks in the classrooms.  He couldn’t speak very clearly, but you could understand him pretty well if you took the time to.  He loved to chat.  His mind was sharp as sharp, and he was very patient with the kids and adults alike. 

Bob wanted nothing more than to be in the mainstream classroom.  He spent as much time there as teachers would let him get away with.  Still, though, I would occasionally find him parked out in the hall waiting to be pushed through the food line at lunch.  I always took him through the line when I saw that situation.  That way, he got to go first and didn’t have to deal with the crowd.  He was very gracious.

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One day he called to me across the cafeteria.  “Hey Bob,” he said.  I looked at him.  “Are you talking to me?”  “Yeah,” he called, “You’re Bob.”  “What?”  I replied.  “I’m not Bob, you’re Bob.”  He laughed and laughed.  From then on, we were always Bob to each other, and to no one else.

Before the end of that school year, I was splitting my time between that school and helping a Montessori school in the area through a difficult time.   Bob and I chatted on the playground in between my tours of the soccer field and the swing set.

I said good-bye to the school that June as I headed over to the Montessori school on the other side of town.  I felt much more at home there in general, more comfortable amongst the materials and the philosophy. 

Later that summer I was called by the head of the special ed department.  She told me that Bob had died at home a few days before, and she thought I would want to know.  She knew that he and I were close.  I knew I would not be able to make the funeral, and I felt kind of alone, so I went for a walk.

It was kind of a cloudy day, just after the rain.  In Boulder, in the foothills of the mountains, you often get sun and rain together.  The rain will often blow in from the east and bounce off the mountains so you get the same storm twice.  It’s a perfect recipe for rainbows. 

That day there was a double rainbow. 

Even in that area, a double rainbow is a marked occurrence.  You notice something like that, but, though it was plain as day to me, I could not find anyone else who saw a double rainbow that day.  I called my soon-to-be-fiancée, talked to my roommate, chatted around at work, but no one else saw any more than one rainbow. 

I’m sure there are plenty of very reasonable explanations for something like that – wrong angle of view, watching TV at the time, picking up milk at the grocery, something –  but I like to think that somewhere in all of that was Bob, just letting me know that he was alright, telling me that I didn’t need to worry.  He was fine, and I would be too.

When I track back to the landmarks in my journey as an educator, Bob always comes to mind.  Bob had such a great love for life that it carried over past his death and into my life and career a decade later (and more to come).  His patience with us as we worked with him was nothing short of inspiring.  I try to cultivate the patience of Bob waiting in his chair.  There is a peaceful place for me to think about Bob, a place to rest and remember.  He is there, waiting patiently as he did his whole life. 

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