Religious Educator's Memo by Sierra-Marie Gerfao

[Memos from Rev. Barbara Merritt and Rev. Tom Schade]

R E L I G I O U S   E D U C A T O R’ S   M E M O

In this season of thanks, I give thanks for my two-and-a-half year old son
Marcus, who is in many ways, a typical toddler. Marcus is a
mechanically-minded problem-solver. He is a little engineer. He has the most
incredible memory of any person I have ever met. He is sweet and loving,
energetic but affectionate. He gets concerned when his little sister cries,
he snuggles and gives kisses, and like most kids his age, he gets into
anything and everything.

I met my son Marcus when he was one-and-a-half days old. When I arrived at
the door of the “special care nursery,” his nurse said “Let me introduce you
to your baby,” and walked me over to his bassinet. It would be six more days
before I would see his eyes. Until he came home from the hospital, like a
newborn kitten, Marcus kept his eyes tightly shut, even when he cried.

When you meet Marcus now, you too may not see much of his big, beautiful
brown eyes. It is difficult for Marcus to coordinate the converging and
diverging of his eyes necessary for tracking moving and unpredictable
objects like faces. If he also wants to be able to pay attention to what
people are saying and doing, he naturally chooses to focus on that (the
saying and the doing) rather than on coordinating eye movements to make eye
contact. It would simply overwhelm him to do both, and he’d risk a
neurological meltdown, which would be counterproductive. He uses his
peripheral vision very efficiently, however, so if Marcus doesn’t look like
he is paying attention, you can count on the fact that he is.

In fact, he might also be running all over the place at the same time. In
most cases, this isn’t misbehavior. This is how Marcus prevents a total
system-shut down. If you will, imagine in your mind one of those glittery
children’s batons. You may know the kind: it is a clear plastic baton filled
with a glitter emerged in fluid. If you shake the baton from side-to-side
fast and furiously, what happens to the fluid? It stays put. However, if you
move the baton slowly, the glittery fluid also moves, collecting in
whichever side of the baton is lower. Vestibular fluid in the body functions
in much the same manner. Our vestibular system is responsible for balance,
one of the most basic elements of human functioning. It also has an intimate
relationship with sensory processing. Sensory processing is difficult for
Marcus, so he prevents sensory overload by keeping his vestibular fluid as
still as possible. He does this in a most ingenious fashion: constant
movement. It is in this manner that Marcus can remain alert and engaged in
the world.

He does a similar thing in a more specific manner to control his auditory
system. His auditory-processing system is one of his most fragile, in part
because he had hearing loss during his first twelve months. Marcus-- who now
has the entirety of his hearing-- turns down the volume of unpredictable
sounds by making sounds of his own to focus on, sometimes loud and
startling, some-times low and constant. To communicate, Marcus uses a
combination of American Sign Language and spoken word. Recently, he has been
focusing more on spoken word, but the coordination of neurological impulse
and muscle movement is particularly challenging for him, so his articulation
may be unclear to you until you get to know him. Another way Marcus copes
with unpredictable sensory input is by controlling those elements of his
environment that seem most unpredictable to him. Doors open and shut as
people come in and out of a room, lights are switched on and off, and
machines make noise (microwaves beep, coffee makers whir, and so forth).
Marcus concerns himself with doors, light switches, and machines. To the
extent that he is able to open and close doors, and turn on and off machines
and light switches, he isn’t startled by those events and can keep his focus
on other things.

There are things we do to help Marcus remain involved in the world in ways
that are comfortable for him and acceptable to others. We might, for
example, narrate toward the future to help Marcus predict unexpected input.
We might say, “Marcus, we’re going to the kitchen. The lights will be on.
They will stay on. Some people will come in and out of the kitchen, but the
doors will stay open. People will be making lunches. They will be walking
around. They’ll turn on and off the water. They might use the microwave. The
microwave will hum and beep.” Or we might say, “Marcus, I am going to walk
across the room and turn on the lamp.” At home, we do exercises to help
Marcus strengthen his vestibular system so that he won’t have to rely quite
so heavily on his peripheral vision, constant movement, his own noises, and
controlling his environment. But Marcus will always be Marcus, and he is one
little boy for whom I am very thankful.

In the warmth of faith

Sierra-Marie

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