Sunday, April 19, 2020

Vicky's Toe

I had decided to go down to school at eight o’clock to sign in library books for some classes and get in some extra time tutoring my students. By the time Patricia was ready and I was able to leave the house, it was almost nine. Story of my life these days. 

I dropped Patricia off at daycare, went to the library and signed none book, then realized I had forgotten my planner at home. I went home to get it. When I came back to school, I found six-year-old Vicky standing outside watching some vocational students fix the tractor. 

Vicky came as a three-year-old, and from that time is was already clear she was special needs. The older she gets, the bigger the gap between her and other children of her age and the more apparent that becomes. Her knees are crooked. Though she can walk and even run, it looks awkward and uneven. She talks—sometimes a great deal—but to understand the bulk of her speech takes a keen ear and a relationship with her. And mentally… when you show her a picture of a cat and identify it, then do the same with a dog, then ask her which one is the cat, there is a less than 50 percent chance she will get it right because she could choose either animal or she could get distracted and not answer the question at all. They promoted her to primary school this year, but not because she is capable. I think no one knows what to do with her. 

There is a volunteer who takes Vicky out of school and to the special needs building twice a day, where they can play developmental games and do more hands-on activities than what she gets in school. A missionary works with her in the library developing her pre-reading and -writing skills. I don’t know if Vicky spends any time in class because most of the time when she is not with them I find her outside. 

Which is where I found her that day. 

I have tried sending Vicky back to class before, but she doesn’t listen. Usually she ends up on the swings. Rather than try forcing that again, or punishing her for not being in class, I decided to invite her to the library. At least she can look at the pictures in books. I called her over, but noticed she was limping when she walked. Her toe was bleeding, as if something had shaved off the layers of skin at the end of her big toe. 

“Oh Vicky, how did this happen?” I asked. 

She looked at me with sad eyes and said nothing. 

I’m honestly not sure what a teacher does when they see something like this. Send the kids to Auntie Deborah, the secretary, I guess. I considered telling Vicky to go there. I was way behind in my work plan for the day and she needs to learn to listen for her own good. But then I thought, “What would I want someone to do if this were Patricia?” and I grabbed Vicky’s hand and told her that we were going to see Auntie Deborah. 

She deserves to know she is valued. She deserves to know she is worth the time. 

We reached the school office. “Auntie Deborah, Vicky’s toe is bleeding. It’s not serious, but do you have a first aid box to clean it up?” 

She laughed a bit. “No,” she said. “We don’t have anything, not even a single band-aid.” 

I inspected Vicky’s toe again. It seemed stupid to go to the clinic for such a minor thing. Could we just leave it? But no, if we left it it could get infected. Better to take care of it while it is still small. 

“Okay Vicky, we are going to the clinic.” Hand in hand we walked up the hill. On the way, I asked her two or three more times what had happened, but she kept quiet. 

When we reached the clinic, we were greeted by the receptionist. “Oh no, Vicky, are you sick?” (Everybody knows Vicky.)

“Not sick,” I explained, “but she banged her toe and it’s bleeding and the school had nothing to clean it so we just want to get it cleaned up and covered.” They directed us to the treatment room, where I hoisted Vicky onto the examination table. She sat with her legs dangling off the side while we waited for the nurse. I tried to ask again what had happened, but to no avail. I contented myself to staring at a graphic poster of how to stop major bleeding. 

After a few minutes, one of the volunteers entered. “Vicky, you got hurt?” she said. It doesn’t take long for everyone to get to know who Vicky is. “Let’s take a look at your toe.” She knelt next to Vicky’s leg and looked closely. 

“What happened to it?” 

Silence. 

“Did you fall?” 

Blank stare. 

“Vicky, did you fall down?” 

She waited. 

“Okay,” the volunteer surrendered, “the first thing we are going to do is clean your toe, so let’s get your legs up here on the table.” She shifted Vicky’s position and I shifted my chair, trying to get out of the way. Vicky watched in interest as the nurse put some medical supplies on the table and explained again that she was going to clean it. She continued to watch as the nurse worked, wincing or moving her leg once in a while from the discomfort. When her brows furrowed and she started to look scared, I considered standing by her and holding her hand or giving her a hug. But would she actually like it? Would it help, or would it only make her more uncomfortable? She and I don’t have much of a relationship. Did she have a close relationship with anyone, big or small? 

I watched this six-year-old sit on the table by herself. This wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. She deserved to have someone. 

The volunteer bandaged Vicky’s toe and wrapped it in an extra layer of tape. 

“Thank you,” I said. “She didn’t wear any shoes to school so hopefully this survives the day.” 

“Vicky, let me take a look at your other toe, the one I treated last week,” said the nurse. Was this a regular thing for Vicky? Was it possible that she was hurting herself, either to get out of class or to get attention from the clinic staff? Was she clever enough for that? Or was she just clumsy? 

When the nurse was finished, I set Vicky on the ground again and she immediately reached for my hand. I was carrying two sets of keys, a mug of tea and my phone, but I juggled everything in my left hand to free up my right. I would not refuse her this.

She limped less on the way back to school. I didn’t have any more time for the library, so I passed that and walked her back to class. At the door I told her to stay in class until an auntie came for her, and she nodded in understanding. I turned to leave, but not before I saw the first smile cross her face. 

“Bye, Auntie Katie!” she said, waving. 

I smiled back. “Bye, Vicky.”