But This Year, We Just Smiled.
Dylan’s last IEP meeting was somewhat anti-climatic.
It’s been twelve years. Twelve years of worrying about him. Twelve years of wondering why he didn’t like school, and trying to change his mind. Twelve years of fretting over what to do about his misery and his attitude. Twelve years of considering – and visiting and applying to – private schools, with a year of attendance. Twelve years of researching possible solutions, and researching the “usual” outcomes for kids with ADHD. Twelve years of considering medication, trying dozens of pills, and finally settling on helpful supplements and coffee to get him through.
And it’s been twelve years of discussing his progress, or lack thereof, in annual meetings. We set goals, considered outcomes, studied our options. Dylan had a battery of tests that took us from the simple, one-page “504” (whatever that means) to the 18-page Individualized Education Plan, announcing that Dylan had – not quite a disability but – an “other health impairment” that could result in his not succeeding in school.
Every year, we talked about what Dylan was doing in class, and then we set goals. Every year, we mentioned disorganization and lack of attention to details. Every year, we discussed Dylan’s apparent inability to complete his work on time. Every year, we made one goal a priority: Dylan should complete and turn in his work on time. After 267 different aims to achieve that goal, it still hasn’t quite been met.
We spoke with everyone from principals and guidance counselors to special ed coordinators, psychologists and case managers. Nearly every administrative person in every school building has known Dylan’s name – and considered, at least briefly, his issues – and possible solutions.
Every year, Bill took a few hours away from work to be there for the meeting. Every year, I filled out my parental report and attended with my usual file folder full of paperwork. Every year, Dylan attended – briefly at first, then for longer periods of time as he got older. Every year, teachers attended and told us how bright Dylan is, how much potential he has, and how he needs to find a way to focus better, to pay attention more in class.
And this year was no exception. Everyone knows he’s been accepted into college. We’ve come a long way since our first meeting, when we had to prepare for an all-out battle with the dementia-addled elementary school principal. In high school, the special ed team has been delightful – spectacular even – in every way. This year, I wished I’d purchased something meaningful for Dylan’s case manager: a car maybe, or a house. She deserves so much for all she’s done for Dylan in the past four years.
But this year, we just smiled and chatted and reviewed and said, “okay!” And then we all went our separate ways. Bill and I went home – and so did Dylan, since his half-day was complete. We didn’t worry a lot about anything that was said, since we’d heard everything before. We didn’t tell Dylan what he needed to do, since he’d heard it all before.
We just went home. We turned the page to the next chapter, silently and without much fanfare. Because that’s the best way to do it, for everyone.
My heart is a little bit broken, knowing that there will be no more need for the services of a special ed team in Dylan’s future. At the same time, Dylan’s graduation from special education is such a huge, positive step forward that it’s hard to be sad.
I guess I just wanted to be needed for a little bit longer.