"Die Sexia"

After Marky [Mary's son who had spina bifida] was placed [in a nursing home] and I no longer had to spend so much time at the hospital I found that I needed a social outlet. I felt like the Six Million Dollar Man in the TV series when he pursued someone at high speed. I felt like I was moving at high speed in slow motion. I felt as though I wasn't doing anything because I'd been doing so much for so long. There was no outward reward in what I was doing. There is so much gratification when working with the handicapped. All that was gone. I did not have the social outlet of the hospital or the nursing home. I had housewife friends whose biggest problem was whether or not to change the color of the bathroom curtains while in my mind I had been circling the world.

I joined a faith-sharing prayer group from our church. This was not too stimulating except for the fact that if I ever did want to share I would always start crying. One woman referred to me as the lady with the high bladder. She eventually became a very dear friend in my life's new adventures.

She had problems, and at one meeting she finally gave in and shared them. She had adopted a little girl who was now in fifth grade, wasn't reading, doing math or spelling very well. She never got her homework finished on time; she was being harassed by other students about how dumb she was. Her mother asked us all to pray for her daughter. I didn't respond with, "Oh, you poor thing. I feel sorry for you. You have a handicapped child," as the others did. I just said, "Oh, Mare. She sounds like me."

And this mother of the little girl who was failing in school asked, bluntly, "Why? Are you dyslexic? Do you have a learning disability?"

A light bulb went off in my head. I don't mean a dinky little refrigerator light. I mean one that could have lit up Soldier Field.

"What does that mean, 'die sexia? ""I asked. She pronounced it two or three times trying to get me to say it right. Then she said, "What do you mean, you're like my Mary?" I told her my story, all the problems I had in school, all the harassment and tears, all the terrible names I'd been called, and how I had survived.

I told her my story about how things did not compute. She was amazed and fascinated that I had taught preschool, worked on the reservation, had gotten married and was raising,! family. This friend was active in an organization for children with learning disabilities. In fact she had worked to get classes for children with learning disabilities in the public schools, ground work, legislation, etc. to help these children. She had been to numerous psychologists, neurologists, medical doctors, and she was now hearing things from me that she had never heard from any of them.

She said, "You will have to come and talk to the parents and give them some hope. They want to know if their children will survive on their own out in the world, if they will ever hold a job, if they will ever fall in love and get married. They need to hear it from you."

And here she was talking to someone just like her daughter who had held many jobs! Failed at them, but at least had been able to get jobs!

I told her I didn't have dyslexia or even a learning disability. I insisted that I'd just had a hard time in school. But she said, "From the way you describe it I think you had a learning disability, but either way, you could help parents because you have a positive attitude."

Everyone who knows me realizes that I have a "missionary" attitude--if I could make people feel a little better and if I could be of help to their kids I was all for it. I always loved being on stage.


From Mary Grigar, A Day to Cry, pp. 63-65