EMOTIONAL RESCUE by Lisa Stathoplos
Eli!!!!!!!! I have a stressful IEP meeting this morning! GET UP!!!!!
My 14-year-old son has trouble getting up, washed, dressed and into a car by 6:30 am to ride twenty-five grueling miles five days a week. Hello, Divorced Life. Of course, like many kids, Eli has trouble wanting to go to an institution that does not see him, cannot understand the way he learns, does not know how bright he is or what social skills he needs help with so that, one day, he can succeed. Middle School is a special purgatory for a lot of kids.
Every day, all four of us, Stella, my nearly feral teenager, Eli, Michael, my love and life partner, and now my colleague in Special Ed, too, and me, cram into my Emerald City Green Passat and hurtle down Route One to school and our jobs. Living two towns away, we are typically a few minutes late, but NOT on IEP days.
Michael calmly wheels into the parking lot of Anytown High School.
Jesusmotherfuckingchrist, it’s 7:28.
Oh, great, I’m leaping out of a moving vehicle again.
I fly into the foyer. I have two minutes before I am expected to run a contentious IEP meeting with twelve-plus professionals, two downtrodden parents, and one surly teenage boy. A surly teenage boy who sits on the edge of an out of district placement that I don’t believe will help him. Not this boy. Our program is helping him.
“Hey, Lisa, Eddie’s Dad just called and wants a call back ASAP. Oh, and Angel’s Mom thought she would stop by to check in. She’s in the blue conference room.”
Jesus, Eddie’s dad is gonna be sitting on the hood of his Jeep in the parking lot at two thirty grinning his slightly demented grin and will capture me for an hour of gobbledygook having absolutely nothing to do with his son if I don’t call him back before noon. It’s not Eddie, but Eddie’s DAD who needs an IEP.
Janie, at the front desk, shouts sympathetically as I rip off my ski parka while racing up the ramp.
“Lisa, Marty said she can wait!”
Calling back to Janie:
Marty’s here?! Did she make an appointment?! What the hell?! Tell her I’m in a meeting that I’m not in yet! Yeah, tell her exactly that!
My anxiety’s making me giddy and I stifle an urge to laugh uncontrollably. I know Marty will get it. I’m too late to wait for Janie’s response.
Bill, my incredibly supportive principal, perched in his typical morning greeting spot, half-sitting on the rail at the top of the ramp, gives me a knowing nod and a small empathetic smile as I lurch by, dragging my backpack full of paperwork and the reams of test results I’m hoping will help this kid.
Streaking to a halt just before Bill’s conference room, I quickly smooth my wild hair and wipe a strip of sweat from my upper lip. Then, like Norma Desmond herself descending her winding backlot staircase, I glide into the packed conference room where the anticipated antipathy is palpable. I’m not sure I’m ready for my closeup.
I shift in my shift that feels askew. Mr. DeMille, why is my dress stuck on one side? Where is Costume and Makeup? Ugh. Did I put on deodorant? Could we get a window open in here? Oh, yeah, there are no windows. Menopause sucks. Could we do soft focus for this shot? Do we really need ALL these Extras for this scene?
Shut up, Lisa. Act like you know what you’re doing.
In real life, I suck at acting. There’s friggin irony.
Oh, crap! Did I print out the Seven Day Waiver? My internal frown must’ve made it to my face; Ms. Bolsaneros arches an eyebrow at me from her seat at the far end of the conference table.
Shit! I don’t think I did! Print out the Seven Day Waiver. I don’t think I printed out the Seven Day because I’m pretty sure I never even wrote it.
Can we hit the Omega 13? Thirteen seconds, that’s all I need. And to be living in the film Galaxy Quest.
Everyone is chatting. I glance at the clock, hands grasping for 7:35, and, ducking back out of the stuffy conference room, slip discreetly across the hall to the shared Special Ed Office. I grab the nearest phone.
Michael!!!!!!! Get me a copy of the Seven Day Waiver for Craig’s meeting today! What? Yeah, SEVEN. DAY. WAIVER. Christ, could we get any more legal documents in this bloody profession?!
No, no, get a life, Michael, I TOLD you — the conference room in Bill’s back office, don’t you remember?!
Screaming into the interoffice phone, my mouth forms a crooked, slightly demented smile as my colleague, Ellen, sidles in, grabs a Wilson Reading printout from the whirring copier, and gives me a sidelong questioning and questionable look. I’m sure she thinks the world of me.
Michael?! Now!!!!!
God, how our relationship survives me is a mind-blowing mystery.
I’m sure I need the Seven Day because I know I didn’t get the friggin Form 30 in on time. That’s it! We’re screwed. No goddam Written Notice. For that matter, maybe I didn’t even shoot out the Parental Consent to Test or the Advance Written Notice — never mind the Determination of Adverse Effect or the Dreaded Form Seven! Jesus. What IS the Dreaded Form Seven? Did I even print the current IEP — Individualized Education Plan??????!!!!! All twelve or 28 pages of it or whatever nightmarish length it is now? Craig’s challenges are myriad but, dammit, what’s his coding? Emotional Disturbance? Specific Learning Disability? Autism? No! Other Health Impairment — that’s it! Or is it me who has an Other Health Impairment? Perhaps several. The mind reels.
I snap myself out of a common special ed case manager waking nightmare: walking into a highly charged IEP meeting only to discover you are missing some crucial piece of your already voluminous stack of paperwork. There are just too many legal forms and protocols in special education. One could drown in a sea of legalese while rifling through a seemingly benign file cabinet. Oh, brother. We are definitely headed to Due Process on this one. Well, that’ll be fun. And new. For me.
Rushing back across the hall I glance down to straighten my skirt. Perfect. It’s inside out. Jesus Christ. Too late, Lisa. I skid into a second entrance. Megawatt smile.
Good morning, everyone. Thank you for coming today. I’m Lisa Stathoplos, Craig’s Case Manager, and I think we should begin with introductions. Gina?