Ben's Story: How it all Began. . .

My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter as I glanced at the clock: 9:57. My session was to begin at 10:00. I turned the corner and read the street sign: Knotty Court. How ironic, I thought; my stomach was filled with knots.

It’s always the same story. Last night I took out one of my therapy bags and dumped its contents on the floor. As I kneeled in front of the bag surrounded by toys, books, flashcards and reinforcers, I wondered what to re-stuff the bag with. What would Ben enjoy? Would he be high functioning, or on the more severe end of the spectrum? Would he cry when he saw me? Would he be yet another client that doesn’t realize I’m there to help? These were just some of the thoughts that flooded my mind. Frazzled, I threw in a set of picture flash cards, a touch and feel book, a peg board, and bubbles, then zipped the bag shut.

I drove down Knotty Court with my therapy bag safely stowed in my trunk. I looked at the clock: 9:59. Perfect timing, I thought, as I pulled alongside the curb right in front of the house numbered 26.

I gathered up my courage and walked up to the front door, clutching my briefcase and my therapy bag over my shoulder. I knocked on the door, gulped, then put on my best “therapy smile.” The door opened, and a cute little Vietnamese girl answered. “Hi!” I said, with my biggest smile. “Hi!” she replied. “I’m Sophia! Who are you? What’s in your bag? Can I open it? What’s your name? Why are you here?”

Geez, this was going to be a fun one.

“I’m five an a half,” Sophia flaunted, as she tried to hold up five fingers. I proceeded to tell her I was here to see Ben. “Is Ben your brother?” I asked. “Uh huh, he’s in here,” she replied, and then grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into the living room. The house reeked of smoke. A disheveled blonde woman entered from the kitchen. She was carrying a baby in her arms. "Emily, can't I put you down for one second?!" she barked, in desperation.

“Hi, I’m Mindy,” I introduced, as I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice, another child entered the room from the hallway. He was of African American descent, and appeared to be around eight years old. “I’m AJ,” he told me.

Then it dawned on me; these were all foster children. I stood there for a minute or so, taking it all in.

“BEN!” the woman called. “Get in here!” I sat down on the floor and laid my things next to me. As I was fighting for custody of my bag with Sophia, the cutest, most angelic child came running into the room. He came close to me, flashed his beautiful blue eyes at me, and smiled. I was completely blown away by his eye contact, but mostly by his intense beauty. He looked like a porcelain doll.

“Hi Ben!” I exclaimed. He giggled, then jumped on my lap. Okay, now I was officially confused; this child was supposed to be autistic. For the remainder of my hour and a half long session, Ben was able to keep focus. He was a quick mover, though, and I needed to keep up with his need to change tasks fairly quickly. Upon completion of the session, I let Ben run into the other room to play, and proceeded to write my end of the session notes. I took out my pen and began to write how our session went great; especially considering it was the first.

Ben and I connected right away. I was eager to come back and really implement some programs to challenge him a little bit more. For now, however, I was pleased. Ben was probably one of the only children I had seen in six years who hadn’t cried or tried to run away from my attempt at interaction.

Wow, this was incredible, I thought. Little did I know just how incredible it would be. Little did I know just how much Ben would accomplish in a year and a half’s time. Little did I know just what was in store for this little guy.