I’M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU?

Veribeth Brinker

I’m apprehensive, but a little hopeful, too. I’m meeting Bruce Cushna today for psychotherapy at the Child Development Clinic, University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics. I park my car in the parking lot next to the clinic and crunch the leaves underfoot as I slowly walk toward the front door. The director of the clinic offered me a few therapy sessions. I think I can use the therapy. I’m having a hard time managing my two hyperactive, mentally retarded, forever children, sons, plus my other four children. Kris (4) and David (11) are my two retarded sons, while the other three sons and daughter range in age from six to fifteen. Goodness, that is six children in eleven years. The rhythm method didn’t work.

Therapy is new to me. I walk thorough the sliding doors and take a seat in the small reception area to the right. Soon Mr. Cushna beckons for me to come into his office. I follow and sit in the seat across from the desk.

He is tall, blonde, and soft-spoken. He doesn’t wear a white lab coat or a suit. He leaves the top button unbuttoned on his shirt. I like that in him. I’m so focused on problems I’m almost oblivious to the surroundings, but I notice steel shelves containing psychology books at his right side; the only window is located near the ceiling. Good thing. Seeing people walk past would be distracting. Why isn’t he saying something, like a comment on the weather or he’s glad to see me? A little small talk would help put me at ease. Nothing. Just awkward silence. He’s sitting in his chair gazing in my direction. Finally I get the idea. I’m supposed to speak first. I can go in whatever direction I want “Nice fall day,” I say “Thanks for offering me some therapy sessions.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t know what you want to talk about, but I’m ready to listen. We have fifty minutes and you can talk about whatever is on you mind,” he says.

“Right now I’m focused on the horrible fund drive for the Iowa County Association for Retarded Children. I get a tightness in my chest every fall when the drive comes due and I know I have to find volunteers to go from door-to-door for two townships and take some of the territory myself.

Mr. Cushna shifts in his chair and silently encourages me to continue.

“It’s humiliating. I dread it. The money supports transportation for the retarded to the one-room country school that my son David attends. Sometimes when I’m working on the fund drive, I think I see people peering from behind drapes when I come into their drive, park my car and walk to the front door to ring the doorbell. Occasionally no one answers. Most of the people are nice but I still hate to bother them or ask for help.”

“It hard to request help even when it’s for you son,” he says.

“Yes, and it would be different if David and Kris were retarded but well-behaved, like Down’s syndrome children, who are often pleasant, smiling and affectionate. Dave and Kris prefer you don’t touch them or hold them. They’re like perpetual motion machines, so active they can’t sit still. They swear and use violent words. Where did they get that? Dean and I don’t’ talk that way, nor do their older brothers. I remember talking David into the local hardware store. We went up on the balcony section where they toys are kept and the first thing David did was pick up a toy gun and tell at the people below that he was going to kill them. I remember scooping him up in my arms, not looking at anyone as we left the store, thrusting him in to the he back seat of the car and just sitting for a while. Talk about feeling like a nobody.”