Becca was a little girl I knew. Her mom'd been in an accident when she was pregnant with her. Becca was subsequently born with mental retardation. There wasn't much she could do, the poor thing. She couldn't talk, move her arms or legs, and certainly couldn't play with her cousins. She had some limited control of her eye movement, and sometimes I noticed her eyes moving around the room, following the other kids or her mom or her aunts or grandparents.
Being near Becca filled me with a strong sense of helplessness. Other people seem able to look on someone and decide to do nice things for children and adults with such severe handicaps, but I--well, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I never fail to shy away from people like Becca. I clam up because I feel as though I need to do something for them, I need to talk to them--but what do I say?
What on earth do I say?
Nothing I did around Becca ever felt like the right thing to do. When I talked with her, everything I said felt inadequate, because, after all, she didn't know me. Who was I to her?
On the fourth of July last year, Becca came over with her cousins. I saw her lying on the couch in my dark livingroom, while all her cousins and my two kids were outside watching the fireworks. Instead of going outside with my children, I stopped to sit on the edge of the couch.
"I really like your outfit."
Nothing.
"Pooh is one of my favorite cartoon characters. Is he one of yours?"
Still nothing but a lot of sweat on my palms. A short stretch of silence while I decide whether to give up or tough this out. Inadequacy choking me. I wasn't cut out for this. And then:
"Maybe I can read you a book sometime. Do you like books? I really love your hair. Have you had it cut recently?"
The screen door in the back whirred open, then slammed shut, and Becca's grandmother came in without a word, scooped her up, and dashed outside to show her the fireworks. Disappointment and relief fought for control of me, each ripping my emotions to shreds--each feeling a shameful, difficult thing to bear.
I saw her again a couple of months later, on Labor Day. We'd all assembled at her grandmother's house. All the other kids were either playing in the back yard or watching the adults play cards in the kitchen. Becca was propped in her special wheelchair in front of the TV, watching Scooby Doo and the gang trying to figure out who the man behind the mask was. Not much of a social butterfly myself, I decided to try talking to her again, so I laid a hand on her shoulder as I walked around to talk to her.
"I love Scooby Doo," I said. "I used to watch him all the time when I was a little girl."
This time, Becca used her jerky eye movements to look at me for a few seconds, at which point I clammed up. Say something else, dummy, I thought to myself. "So you like Scooby, too, huh? They always get their man in the mask." Becca seemed to lose interest in me and jerked her eyes back over to the TV.
I lost my nerve and sat back down on the couch behind her. Anyone walking in probably would've thought I was watching the lovable dog and his people catch the bad guy, but I was mostly lost in thought. I like to imagine she knew I was there, and that we watched Scooby and the gang catch the bad guy together in companionable silence.
That was the last time I saw Becca alive. A few days later she fell over onto her stomach while sleeping and suffocated.
I have mixed feelings about Becca's death. Part of me is happy that she no longer has to suffer such a difficult life, while the other part of me wishes she could live any life at all. They're two very difficult emotions to reconcile.
I know I didn't have much of an effect on her life, but she certainly had one on mine. I'm not entirely sure how to define her impact on me, but it's undeniably profound. More undeniable is the fact that one day, when I'm ready, I'll figure out what it was.
For now, I merely regret having never read that book I promised to read her.
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3 comments:
I think you were kind. That's usually the best you can do with someone like Becca. While there is something to be said for living the life you have, merely surviving is not living. One can hope that she was able to get the most good out of life that she could, but from your perspective of knowing how much she lacked there is no shame in feeling some relief at the end of what was a tragedy.
Wow, I kind of didn't expect any readers. It's been so long. Thanks for your comments. I've been conditioned to believe that, as they say in Bee Movie, all life has value. It's hard not to be a little ashamed.
I'd say the value is up to the person living it...hence my hope she got the most out of her's that she could.
But I know how you feel.
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