It felt so much like when Rhia started pre-school.
But this time, it was the first day of her day-program.
I came to support communication between her and the staff using my basic, adapted-for-Rhia, Sign Language. She sat in the art room with several other Disabled adults and three aids. When Rhia saw me, she held out her arms and smiled. Holding her tight, I felt her relief as her muscles relaxed. Then we strung colorful beads onto a plastic thread to make a necklace. She chose beaded letters to say “Rhia” and “Mom.” I hoped she’d give it to me as a precious memento from her first day, like when she gave me a drawing she’d made on her first day of preschool.
The instructor worked with Rhia beading, learning the signs for colors while I interpreted. When Rhia became fatigued, we were given a tour of the center. Rhia briefly joined a dance class, waving her hands back and forth to the rhythm while sitting in her wheelchair. I kept interpreting, supporting Rhia as she met the staff and other adults in the program.
Rhia stared into space, becoming unresponsive a few times during our tour, a sign she was overwhelmed and overstimulated. It looks like she’s having a seizure but she’s not; these episodes allow her to shut off her senses to process sensory information she’s already gathered. It can last twenty seconds sometimes, but when the sensory overload passes, she reengages with a smile.
Back in the art room, we finished her necklace. Then she said loudly, “I remember this place. We came her to meet new friends!”
“You’re right. We did,” I said, nodding.
“I know.” She grinned.
Then I asked, “Are you okay now? Do you want me to stay more, or should I go?”
Rhia glanced at the table where colorful beads were scattered, then looked back at me. “I’m okay. You can go.”
Before I left she asked when she’d see me again and I promised to take her to lunch on Saturday. I then realized that she’s now okay when I’m gone, just as long as she knows when I’ll be back.
Walking to my car, I felt tearful and amazed, just like I did when she started pre-school. On that day, 26 years ago, Rhia took her teacher’s hand and said, “Bye, Mom, ” then walked to her classroom without looking back. I had walked to my car and cried in the parking lot for an hour.
This time, I wiped a few tears from my cheeks, then I took myself out for a celebratory mocha, feelign more awe than sadness. Rhia has adapted to her new life better than I had imagined. She is an independent woman now who still needs help to live safely but is perfectly capable of making her own choices and expressing her needs. She is learning to trust her new caregivers and teachers. And she knows I have her back.
She knows she is loved.
She’s okay now.
In time, I’ll be okay too.