Every Picture Tells A Story - A Teacher's Story

     5:30 a.m. Monday. No alarm clock. No need for one. Her internal clock lets her know that it is time to rise and face whatever the day may bring. She showers, picks out her wardrobe, and gets dressed. Presentable. Professional. She has eyes on her everyday. She makes sure to look her best. She exits the bedroom and heads to the living room to retrieve her schoolbag that she had left there the night before. It's heavier than usual today. It is loaded down with the essays she brought home with her after school on Friday. She picks up the few scattered papers on the couch, stacks them up, taking care to keep them tidy, and then slides them into the already overloaded bag. 

     She hoists the bag strap over her shoulder and makes her way to the kitchen, dropping off the bag on the table along the way. She walks over to the coffee maker, and reaches for her large coffee cup. It is covered with school pride. It dons the colors and mascot of her alma mater, Hatley High School. The place she couldn't wait to leave at graduation, but has found herself there once again. Things are different now, though. She's on the other side of the desk. She's an adult now, and she strives to act like one every day, as hard as it may be.

     She fills her cup, adds a little creamer for flavor, and prays that it will wake her up before the kids arrive. She grabs her small lunch bag, and fills it with enough bottled water to get her through the day. Her lunch bag is covered with kitty cats and rainbows, because even the most responsible adults have to connect with their inner child from time to time. Plus, it helps her connect with her students. It allows them to see that she is a real, genuine person. After all, most students believe that their teachers are edu-bots that are locked away in the closet overnight, only to be released the next morning to teach once again. 

     Bag of papers? Check. Coffee? Check. Kitty bag? Check. Now, kiss the husband and load up the car. She drops all her gear into the passenger's seat, and walks around to the driver's side and opens the door. She slinks into the driver's seat and reaches for her keys. Keys? No check. Aggravated, she goes back inside to retrieve her keys. She reenters the house to find her husband standing just inside the doorway, with a playful grin on his face, holding out her keys ready for her to snatch them away. This is not a good start to her Monday! Back in the car, engine started, she reaches for her cell phone. She turns on the bluetooth, and syncs her phone to her radio. Good music. That's what she needs. Something peppy to get this Monday back on track. Needtobreathe? Not today. Colony House? Maybe later. She decides to go with For King and Country's "Fix My Eyes."  It should do the trick. She turns up the volume and backs out of the driveway. 

     It's dark still. Her headlights come on as she puts the car in drive and starts down the road. She sings along with the radio for the first mile, then the song starts to fade out of her mind. There are too many other things drowning out the music this morning. She begins thinking about students. She worries over grades. She gets anxious knowing that that one kid that has been giving her a hard time lately is in her first class. Before she knows it she is pulling into her parking spot. With all the thoughts in her head she doesn't even remember the drive from home. 

     She has a prime parking spot, because she is usually one of the first ones to get to the school. She has found that the extra time spent in her classroom each morning better prepares her for the day. She unloads her gear and lugs it to the high school building. With her shoulders loaded down and beginning to ache, she makes a quick stop by the office to sign in, and then strolls down the lonely hall to her room. 

     Her fingers reach for the light switch, and with a flip, the lights flicker on. The bright glow illuminates something that she had forgotten. She left school Friday without sweeping her floors. It was the weekend, and she was tired, but now she was wishing she had just taken the time to tidy up a bit. She walks over and drops her things in her desk chair, sits her coffee on her desk, and then heads to her closet to grab her broom. As she begins sweeping beneath the various desks she is amazed with the amount of dirt her students can track in each day. "They apparently don't know how to use a floor mat," she jokes to herself. Grabbing a dust pan, she bends over and sweeps up the piles of dirt and debris, and dumps them into the garbage can. She places the broom back in the closet and closes the door to conceal the untidiness found within. That's one job that will have to wait for another time. She has too many other things on her plate for now.

     She goes to her desk, unloads her bags from her chair, and sits down. She is already tired, and the day hasn't really started yet. She chugs down the last drop of her coffee and turns on her computer. While waiting for it to boot up, she starts unloading the tests and essays that she graded over the weekend. Progress reports are due on Wednesday, so she knows that she has to get her grades put in as soon as she can. Her computer desktop pops up while she is sorting out the papers on her desk. She turns her attention back to the computer, and pulls up her email. Two pages of correspondence. As she scrolls through her emails, weeding out and deleting the junk, she comes across an email from one of her coworkers. He lets her know that he is battling a nasty virus, and he isn't going to make it to work today. He doesn't want to infect anyone, so he asks her to print out some classwork that he has emailed to her and take it to his room for his substitute to hand out to his students. She is behind with getting her own things together, but she is happy to do it for him. She has had to ask others to do the same for her, and she doesn't want to let him down. 

    She emails him back to let him know that she is taking care of his request, and then prints out the paperwork he sent. She stacks them up, rises from her chair, and walks down to the copier room at the other end of the hall. She places the stack of papers in the top of the copier, inputs the amount of copies, and presses print. As the copier begins to whine and whir, she sits at the table in the room to try to finish grading the last few papers she had left from last week. Before she can get through the first paper, the copy machine stops printing. She investigates the problem and finds that there is a paper jam. Opening all the doors on the side of the machine, she finally locates the jam, and strategically removes the torn paper. With the closing of the machine door, the copier begins spitting out copies again. Before she can take her seat, the copier stops again. This time she finds that the copier has run out of paper. She grabs a new ream from the boxes of paper in the corner, removes its paper wrapping, and drops it into the paper drawer. The drawer closes and the machine goes back to work. She prays that she will have no more problems as she picks up her pen and begins grading again. After a couple of minutes the machine stops again, This time, thankfully, it's because the copies are done.

     She takes the papers back down to his room, sorts them, and sets them out with instructions for his sub. She sprints back down the hall to her room to continue getting things ready for her class. Though she didn't sweep her room on Friday, she was relieved knowing that she had already made all the copies for her classes in preparation for today. She gets everything sorted and stacked on her desk, and then reaches for the remote for her projector and powers it on. The projector begins to light up the wall where her smart board is located. Slowly her computer desktop is projected onto the board and she begins to pull up the lessons she plans to present to her students today.

    Before long, the bell sounds, and teenagers, like herds of wild animals, begin to file in. Her face quickly forms a smile. That one student that has been working so hard to raise his grades is the first to enter and take his seat. She could not be more proud of him. It's the kind of initiative that he has taken lately that makes her feel like she is doing something right. Sometimes she has trouble faking a smile with all the things she is dealing with in her own life, but he caused a genuine grin this morning.

     As more students make their way to their desks, one kid slowly walks in as the tardy bell rings. He has his head hung low. It's obvious he doesn't want to be here. He speaks to no one and saunters to his desk at the back of the class. He looks up and spots her at her desk. The smile isn't quite as big as it was before. This was the one. The one that made her so anxious on the way to work. She could tell that he was in one of his moods. She worries that he is going to cause trouble today...again.

     Forcing her smile back to her face, she rises from her desk and walks to the front of the room. She tries to settle everyone. It's early. She knows she has to allow them to get all their daily greetings out of the way. It's not like these kids don't see one another every day, but they somehow act like they haven't seen one another in years. Some of them, anyway. Some others are not so rambunctious in the mornings. A few have their heads down on their desks and have begun to drift back into sleepyland. She quickly nips that in the bud, and calls the class's attention to the smart board at the front of the room. Before long, education happens. Most of the students are absorbing the lessons that are being hurled at them. Most. 

     She begins to walk up and down the rows of desks. She has learned that the students tend to react better to her teaching when they feel a closeness to the her. They enjoy the one on one interaction. It lets them know that she really cares about them. Not just as a class, but as individuals. They feel like she truly wants the best for them. As she strolls down the last row, she spies HIM in the back with his head on his desk, and his hoodie over his head. She moves in closer and gives him a gentle nudge. Nothing. She tries a gentle shake while saying his name. Nothing. Finally she gets on his level and quietly shouts his name. Like a shot, his head jerks up as he yells, "WHAT?!" He is obviously annoyed, but not nearly as annoyed as she is. She points to the door and tells him to meet her in the hall. He springs to his feet. His momentum shoves the desk aside, almost hitting her in the hip. He rushes to the door and slams it as he exits. Some of his classmates begin to snicker while others sit with a look of shock on their faces. She tries to quickly calm them down, and then exits the room, gently shutting the door behind her.

     She tries to compose herself. These are the moments she dreads the most as a teacher. As usually happens when these trials come up, she steadies herself with one thought. She is a Christian. It is not something that she gets to advertise to her students, but she doesn't hide her faith either. If a student asks her a question about her beliefs, she answers it. Every time she faces these types of issues she reminds herself of all the times that she has disappointed God, but yet He continues to forgive her and hold her close. If God can do that for her, then surely she can do the same for her unruly students.

     She walks over to the boy. He is leaning against the wall, his back to her, and his hoodie hanging over his face. She slowly walks toward and stands just in front of him. She can barely see his face, because of his dangling hoodie. She can, however, see the faint trace of a tear trail on his cheek. She gently tells him to look at her, and he slowly raises his head. His face is flush, and his eyes are red. She can tell that he has been crying, but he is trying hard to hide it. Normally, she would make him pull his hoodie off of his head, but this time she offers him the compassion that he is seeking. He is trying to conceal his emotions from possible passers-by, and she is happy to accommodate him this one time. 

     "What's going on with you," she quietly asks. He boisterously denies her an answer as he brushes by her, attempting to wipe away his tears with his shirt sleeve. She patiently turns to confront him again. She lets him know that he doesn't have to tell her anything, but that he did have to act appropriately in her classroom. He tentatively agrees, and marches back into the classroom. He sits back down in his desk, crosses his arms, and sits there quietly for the rest of the class. When class ends he begins to slowly gather his things. He isn't in a hurry to leave. He doesn't want to be close to everyone else as they are leaving the classroom. He finally begins to leave once the last person makes their way to the door. As he nears the doorway, she calls out his name. He stops dead in his tracks, and hesitantly turns to see what she wants. She lets him know that she is there if he needs her. He timidly nods his head, then turns to exit the room.

     She sits there at her desk, her heart broken. She can tell that he is dealing with some major issues in his life, but she feels so powerless since he would not accept her help. Her face runs warm as a tear begins to well up in the corner of her eye. So many kids. So many problems. She can see it on their faces every day. It is so agonizing when she has to watch her kids, who don't know how to regulate their own emotions, sit in pain and sadness. But this was only first period. She knows she has to compose herself before the next class comes in.

     Her second period class flies by with very few problems. Her students in this class are pretty attentive today. More attentive than usual. She wonders what has made the difference. The bell rings and the kids bustle to the door. They enjoy her class, but every ringing bell means they are closer to the day's end.

     She has one straggler. A young girl shyly walks over to her desk. She can tell that something is weighing heavy on the student, so she offers an attentive ear. The girl tells her about her cousin. He has been having trouble at home. She shares that his dad has left home, and his mom has lost her job. These things have caused him to become very angry and sad, and she is really concerned for him. She knows that he has experimented with cutting in the past, and fears that he may start doing it again, or something even worse.

     The teacher's heart drops in her chest, and a lump wells up in her throat. She knows the young girl's cousin. It is HIM, the boy that has been giving her trouble. She knew that he was battling something, but didn't know what. Now she has a better understanding of the torment that he is under. She thanks the young girl and tells her that she will keep an eye on her cousin, and comforts her by telling her she is always available if she ever needs to talk again.

      The young girl smiles and thanks her. She can tell that this teacher truly cares, because she is always willing to listen. She turns and walks toward the door, her spirits now slightly lifted. As she closes the door behind her the next bell rings. It is now the teacher's planning period. No kids. She is glad. She is feeling very raw at the moment. Trying to hold back her tears, she folds her arms across one another as she leans them onto her desk. She places her head softly on her arms and she begins to pray. She asks God to take care of her students, especially this one that was weighing so heavy on her right now. She asks for the patience and the wisdom to handle the situation with love and grace. She thanks Him for allowing her to take part in the lives of these children, while in her mind she wonders if she is really making a difference. She finishes her prayer, rises from her desk, and tries to compose herself.

      She leaves her room for a moment. She has to make a bathroom run. This is the one time in the day that she has the opportunity to do so. She sometimes laughs at her husband for having to make so many pit stops when they go on trips. She has a teacher bladder. She can go without a bathroom break for hours, because she usually has to. As she walks toward the restroom she spots her administrator strolling her way. He stops her with a reminder that her evaluation is scheduled for Wednesday. He lets her know what period he plans to be in her room to monitor how she conducts her classes. This is something that she has grown accustomed to having to do, but she still gets that nervous feeling, knowing that she will be scrutinized on how she does her job. She thanks him and continues her journey. Along the way, a thought enters her mind. Wednesday. That's the same day she has to hand out progress reports. As if that day wasn't going to be stressful enough, but now she has to worry about her eval on top of everything else.

     When she returns to her room she grabs those last few papers that she didn't get graded earlier in the morning, and she puts her red pen in motion. After a while she finally marks the last paper, and turns to her computer to begin inputting grades. She goes down the line of student's names, one by one, keying in the various test scores. Some are high. Some are low. She notices some improvement in grades, and some that have allowed their grades to slip. With each grade variance she wonders why. What is causing their grades to go down? Is it complacency?  Is it trials that they are facing? Is it her? Of all the possible factors, this is the one she usually lands on. Is she doing enough? Is she teaching as well as she could? She constantly questions her teaching ability. The stress of such thinking is draining, but little does she know, her constant questioning is part of what makes her a great teacher. She always wants to do better, therefore she does.

     As she sits there pondering, she is snapped back to reality with a rapping on her door. She looks up to see one of her neighboring teachers pop her head around the corner of the door frame, and offering a reminder. They had swapped duties this week and she doesn't want her to forget that she is supposed to take her place in the cafeteria during lunch. They converse for a moment and then her neighbor leaves. Looking around the room, she realizes that she needs to move her desks around before the next class comes. The next gang will be working in groups, so she has to maneuver the desks into clusters of four. Though the shifting of heavy desks is taxing, she is glad to do it. She enjoys teaching to groups. She is amazed by how much easier it is for the students to grasp the lessons when they work together. The exchanging of thoughts and ideas really helps them understand things better, because they are allowed to discuss the lessons with their peers. While pulling the last desk into place she notices the drag marks through the dirt on the floor. She just swept! She wonders how it could get this dirty after only two classes. No time to sweep now, though. The bell rings. Here she goes again.

     After that class ends, and the children file out, she grabs her lunch bag and trudges to the cafeteria for duty. She enters the lunchroom through a side door to prevent being trampled by starving children. She spies one of her fellow teachers sitting at the teacher's table in the center of the room. She heads toward the table, greets her friend, and sits down. Other faculty begin to strategically sit around the table. They make sure that there are eyes on every corner of the room, and that any tomfoolery will not go unseen. As they all attempt to eat their lunches, hoping this lunch period will be harmonious, they begin to talk shop. Students. Grades. Learning Strategies. Test Scores. They are teachers. I'ts what they know. It's what they do. It's always on their minds. Suddenly they hear the sounding of the bell. It signals the end of lunch, but more importantly, it signals that half the day is done.

     She gathers up her trash, drops it in the garbage receptacle, and begins the trek back to her classroom. Along the way she hears the cheers and screams of children from around the corner of the building. She picks up her pace to investigate what the commotion is all about. As she rounds the building's edge, she spots a small group of immature bodies huddled around one another. She knows exactly what is happening. It's a fight. She drops her lunch bag on the dirty sidewalk and lunges into the crowd to try breaking up the scuffle. As she reaches to halt the flow of an incoming blow, she gets knocked to the ground. Everything stops. Fighting is one thing. Causing a teacher harm is another. The horde of onlookers disperse in every direction. As the dust settles, she looks up at the two offenders. They both stand there staring at her, petrified. She is shocked when she sees who the young men are. Even more so when she sees one of them offering his hand to help her up. It is HIM. She braces herself with the nearby railing and lifts herself to stand. She glares at them, her mind quickly assessing the situation. She points at HIM, and commands him to go wait in her classroom. As he enters the building she turns her attention to the other boy. She didn't think the fight was as serious as it seemed. The group of onlookers was more impressive than the fight, so she sharply reprimands him, offers a warning, and sends him on his way.

      She bends over to retrieve her lunch bag, that is now covered in dirt, and calmly gathers her thoughts as she walks toward her room. This confrontation could be bad. It could be good. She braces herself for the worst. As she enters her room, he is very quick to apologize. He felt awful for knocking her down. This teacher, just hours ago extended an offering of support, and now he is in anguish for possibly hurting her. She can see the sincerity in his eyes. Now knowing the trials he is facing, she is quick to accept his apology, and offers him a seat. She knows she doesn't have long before he must go to his next class, and another class would be interrupting her room. She again offers a listening ear. This time he accepts. He quickly pours out his heart to her as the tears begin to stain his face. She listens. She consoles. She supports the best way she can. She so wants to wrap her arms around him, squeeze him tightly, and show him just how much she cares, but she can't. Student contact is against the rules. She tries to comfort him with her words. It seems to help. As he wipes his reddened eyes, he looks at her with a slight smile, and thanks her. He knows that he is experiencing the comfort and support that he isn't getting anywhere else. She is making a difference in his life, but as he stands to leave the room, she wonders if she could have done more.

     The rest of the day she does what she does best. She teaches. She inspires. She loves. She gives every ounce of herself in every class. She deals with the fact that only a rare few of these students, that she serves every day, realize how much she puts into her job. How much she works. How much she prepares. How much she cares. It's draining, both physically and emotionally. Yet, she continues to do it. It's what she was born to do. It's her calling. She knows that God can use her in this position, if she only allows Him to. So she relies on Him for strength, and she presses forward.

     As the day's last bell sounds, she sits at her desk, takes a deep breath, and then picks up her pen. She is thankful to have finished grading the stack of papers she had taken home over the weekend, but now there are more. She had administered two tests today, and had students do worksheets for a couple of her other classes. Now they lay before her, waiting to be graded. She grasps the first paper and begins to scan it, marking mistakes, and writing encouraging words where needed. Before she knows it, the clock hits 4:21. She decides it's time to go home. She's tired. She misses her husband and cats. She's ready to get home to the ones she knows love her. She packs up the rest of her papers and prepares to head home. 

     She arrives back home to find her husband has cooked supper. At least that is one thing she won't have to do today. They prepare their plates and go to the living room to settle in and get comfortable. They begin to watch one of their favorite shows that was saved on the DVR, and enjoy their supper together. Her cat jumps on the couch to greet her. He has been waiting all day to snuggle with her. Although he is interrupting her meal, she welcomes him. She has been waiting for snuggle time herself. He helps to relieve the stress of her day.

     Once she finishes her meal, she sets her plate aside, and picks up her laptop. The show they were watching isn't over yet, but she has to make out two tests that are planned for tomorrow. She sits there in the glow of the monitor, her cat by her side, typing away. Her head begins to ache as she finishes up the last test. She is so glad to be done. That is one less thing for her to deal with tomorrow. It's only Monday and she is already looking forward to Friday, but then she realizes that she will have more papers to bring home this weekend, too. As she lays her computer aside she remembers something that she had forgotten to do. She had planned to go to town after school to pick up some supplies for her classroom. She was planning to change her bulletin board tomorrow and needs a few things to complete it. She looks at her husband. Before she can say a word, he knows. He knows that look. She may be at home, but there is still more work to be done. He agrees to go to the dollar store with her so she doesn't have to go alone.

     They hop in the car and hit the road. She is exhausted, so he offers to drive. She begins to fill him in with all the happenings of her day. She tells about the breakthrough she had with a student in her second block class, and the boy in her first class that had begun raising his grades. She speaks of her kids with such pride. She has always told people that she didn't have any children of her own, because she has hundreds of kids that she cares for every day. It was always meant as a joke, but there is so much truth in it. She loves them. All of them. She rejoices with them when they succeed, and she mourns with them when they fail. 

     Her husband doesn't understand everything she is talking about when she starts to use her "teacher speech." She uses all of the technical words that only teachers understand, but he listens anyway. He knows that this helps her get things off her mind. As they pull into the parking lot of the dollar store she stops talking. She just sits there quiet for a moment. Her husband asks if she is OK. She just needs a minute. Another student just crossed her mind. It was HIM. Although things seemed better with him when they last spoke, she still worries about him. 

     Her husband tries to divert her attention. He can tell that she is upset. He promises her that she can buy some pens and pencils for herself. Her eyes widen, and she perks up a little. He knows that one thing that makes a teacher happy is pens and pencils. He opens the door for her as they step inside the store. She grabs a shopping cart and makes her way to the school supply aisle. She picks up the few things she needs for her bulletin board and tosses them into the cart. Then a notebook display catches her eye. The notebooks are on sale. She knows that her husband has them on a budget, but she gives him the look. With her eyes she directs him to look at the display. He knows what is on her mind. He gives her the nod and she grabs a couple of stacks of notebooks and drops them into the buggy. As they turn to go back down the aisle, they pass by the pens and pencils, but she continues to pass by them. He stops her and asks why she isn't getting any. She lets him know that the notebooks are for her kids. Sometimes they can't afford to buy them for themselves, so she wants to make sure she has some extras just in case. She knows that he worries about money, so she had decided to not buy herself any pens. Her students are more important. As they walk away, he grabs a pack of pens and tosses them over her shoulder into the cart. Pens make her happy, and he can tell that she needs a little happy right now. After all, she deserves it.

      As they step to the register to check out they see one of her former students. It's a girl that graduated two years ago and is currently going to college. The student spots her and runs across the store to greet her, because it has been so long since they have seen one another. They wrap their arms around one another and squeeze tightly. They release their embrace, and the student quickly begins to fill the teacher in on how her life is going. She relays that she is in her second year of college. She is working part time to make ends meet. She met a boy, and she thinks he's the one. As the stories continue, the teacher's own college memories begin to flash through her mind. These stories eerily mirror her own life in some ways. Being the teacher, she asks the student what her major is. She remembers how outgoing this student had been in high school. She knew that she could do or be anything she set her mind to. The student's cheeks upturn, and her smile widens as she tells her that she is studying English. As the teacher stands there, looking surprised, the student looks at her and says, "I want to be a teacher, because of you."

   

   This story is a work of fiction, but it is based around things that happen in the lives of teachers each and every day. I know first hand. My wife has been teaching for over ten years. I have heard the stories. I have seen the amount of work and care that she pours into her job every single day, including weekends. I have seen her beam with pride, and I have seen her cry with fear, because of the decisions that are made by kids who may see her as nothing more than a teacher. She sees them as so much more than mere students. She really considers them her own.

The day that is written of here may not have taken place, but every incident that is described in it has. The picture above is of my wife. When I saw her sitting in the dark, illuminated by the glow of her laptop, I quickly grabbed my camera. I knew that it would be a perfect snapshot of a teacher. Always working. The job of a teacher extends well past the chalkboard. Their work reaches everywhere.

Now you know the story behind this picture.

 If you have enjoyed reading this story, thank a teacher. Without them, you would be unable to. 

     

     

Every Picture Tells A Story - Mark's Story

    

    The year was 2004. Mark had experienced occasional days of back pain while working in the shipping department of Action Lane Furniture. He was responsible for catching furniture as it dropped off the conveyor. Sofas, love seats, recliners. Heavy objects. All day. Every day. 

     The sofas and love seats would be stood up on end and moved aside in preparation for the next guy to come along, scoop it up with their cart, and haul it into the trailer to be shipped. Recliners were a little trickier. They came off the conveyor in boxes. Many weighing over a hundred pounds. He would place his fingers in the holes cut into the sides of the box, prop the box against his knee, and then heave the heavy box into the air with the momentum of his leg. Three recliners high, retrieved by the next guy, then disappeared from his drop zone, and were wheeled into the trailer. 

     No wonder he had occasional back pain. This was grunt work. Heavy grunt work. From time to time he would have to be put on light duty, because the pain was just too much to bear. His fellow workers would pick on him. They would accuse him of faking an injury just to get out of work. It was all in good fun, but Mark wasn't laughing. He wasn't faking either. Sometimes these innocent ribbings would hurt. He didn't want anyone to look down on him for not doing his job. To make matters worse, his "light duty" was what was known as "pushing a button." The name was pretty self explanatory. He would literally sit in a chair, directly across from those men he worked with every day, pressing a button to make sure the furniture came off the conveyor in the correct zone.

     There he would sit, watching them sweat. He would watch them struggle to do the job that was normally done with an extra man....him. As if the back pain wasn't enough, now he was relegated to sitting in shame, because he was making life harder for his coworkers. It was awful!

     After a few months of back and forth from the grunt work to the button something changed. His problem went from mere back pain to tingling in his legs. Now, he was no doctor, but even he knew that couldn't be good. 

     His wife talked him into seeing a real doctor. Like most smart husbands, he listened. Better safe than sorry. He made an appointment to see his family doctor, Dr. Michael Richards. No, not Kramer from Seinfeld. This was a different Michael Richards. He did some simple tests. He felt Mark's feet. He banged his knee with that little hammer thing. He pressed around various spots on his back to see if it caused any pain. After a thorough examination, Dr. Richards decided it was best to send Mark to see a specialist.

     Enter Dr. Louis Rosa, neurosurgeon. Bedside manner...eh. Was he the friendliest guy? Not so much. He was small in stature. He was a little rough around the edges. He usually looked like he was mad at the world. Mark liked him! Dr. Rosa was quick to the point. He pulled no punches. He told it as it was. When the appointment was over, Mark knew exactly where he stood, and it wasn't the answer he had hoped for.

     Turns out Mark had some disc problems. Dr. Rosa suggested that he change jobs. He told Mark that if he continued to do the heavy work that he had been doing that his problems would probably progress, and that he could cause some serious damage to his back.

     Much to his chagrin, Mark put in his notice at Action Lane, and prepared to take things a little easier for a while. He quickly realized that desk jobs aren't that easy to come by. Especially without a college education or experience. He ended up jobless for a while. Unemployment was not a fun thing. After about six months without an income he decided it was time to get a job. Any job. 

     Thankfully, He did have some experience and skill. During high school, and his short stint in college, Mark had worked as a butcher. Although it had been a while since he picked up a knife, he called up an old friend that was managing a local meat market. Thankfully, there was an opening, and Mark was hired on the spot.

     Butchery was a more strenuous job than he remembered. Of course, the last time he worked as a butcher was at the age of nineteen. Apparently age does make a difference. And then there is the fact that he had a bad back, and butchers stand on their feet all day. Also, meat is heavy! Sure, when you buy retail meat it comes to you in a small package, but that small package started out as a huge slab of heavy meat. Standing all day. Heavy meat. Bad back. Things were bound to get worse. 

     He had trouble seeing things getting worse, though, because life was getting better. His buddy, the manager, had decided that he was going to open his own butcher shop. What he was leaving behind was a management position. Mark was definitely management material. It did help, of course, that he was the only other butcher in the meat department at that time. 

     So Mark quickly eased into the role of manager. It was awesome. With the promotion came a pay raise. A salary, no doubt. He had never worked on salary before. Six hundred dollars a week...after taxes! That was nearly double the highest paycheck he had ever taken home in his life! He was so excited. Life was looking up. But....

     Four days into his new position, on January 5, 2006, Mark had put in a rough day. He was tired. He was sore. He was ready to get off work and get to his couch. Toward the end of the work day, he had noticed a slight pain in his lower back. No big deal. It just felt like a slight catch or a muscle spasm. No more than he had ever dealt with before. But things were different. Much different.

     He arrived home from work, laid down in the floor, and stretched out in the hopes of easing the stress on his back. Nothing new. He had done this many times. However, as he rolled over to spring back to his feet, there was no spring. There was nothing. His legs didn't seem to want to work. As his wife likes to describe it, his legs were like wet noodles. He was able to pull himself up, but his legs were so weak that he could hardly stand on his own. 

     He and his wife, Tanya, decided it would be best to go to the emergency room. She helped him load up into his truck and away they went. As they sat in the waiting room, anxiously waiting to be called back, the pain grew ever more excruciating. He couldn't get comfortable. Every move caused more pain. Finally, a nurse arrived to wheel him in to be seen by the doctor on call. Once the doctor heard that Mark had been seen by a neurosurgeon, he basically prescribed him some pain pills, sent him home, and told him to call Dr. Rosa. After a night of writhing in pain, Tanya called Dr. Rosa's office early the following morning and they were quick to get him in to be seen.

     Dr. Rosa was baffled. From Mark's previous history, the symptoms he was showing didn't make much sense. Rosa quickly admitted Mark into the hospital for further tests. Day after day. Test after test. Dr. Rosa was finally able to find the source of the problem. He had ordered a myelogram test to be done. A dye was injected into the base of Mark's spine. He was then strapped to a table by his hands and feet, as the table stood him up and then flipped him upside-down. X-rays were done as he was flopped around. Normally, the injected dye would flow up the spinal column as the patient is flipped upside-down. Mark had never been described as normal. There was no movement. The dye did not flow anywhere. His spine was too narrow.

     Dr. Rosa diagnosed Mark with a form of Spinal Stenosis and Congenital Spine Disorder. Layman's terms: his spinal column was too narrow to house his spinal cord. This was causing pressure on his spinal cord, which caused him to lose the use of his legs. Surgery. The only option. Problem? It was a 50/50 chance of him regaining the use of his legs. He didn't really have the use of his legs at that moment, so he figured there was nothing to lose.

      January 11, 2006. The day of the surgery. The procedure was supposed to take around four hours to complete. It was a rough day. Family and friends waited together to hear how things were going. Many prayers were offered up on Mark's behalf. Hour five passed. More prayers. Hours six and seven. Still praying. Eight hours later, the surgery was finally over. Dr. Rosa shared with Tanya, and the rest of the family, what he found once he opened up Mark's back. 

     He had to gently raise Mark's spinal cord away from the column and chisel out a channel the length of his spine to make room for the cord to move without constriction. He also found something he had not expected. Mark had six calcified discs that were crumbling. He had to chip them away, remove a portion of his pelvic bone, and use the bone to replace the discs. Rosa then bolted two titanium rods to Mark's spine for support and closed up the twelve inch incision in his back.

     The surgery was over. All was well, right? Wrong. Mark woke up on the bad side of the 50/50. He had lost total use of his legs. He awoke from the surgery paralyzed from the waist down and in extreme pain. He laid in an intensive care hospital bed and stared at the large digital clock on the wall. Day in and day out. He had been given morphine for the pain. The morphine kept him from sleep. He would close his eyes to attempt to doze off. When his eyes would reopen the harsh reality of the clock let him know that only five or ten minutes had passed. Life was slowly changing, just like the numbers on that clock.  

     Nurses would tend to his wounds. They would periodically roll him from his right side to his left side, stuffing a pillow under his back to hold him in place. This was to keep bed sores from forming. After all, it wasn't like he was going anywhere. He was poked and prodded daily. Draw blood here. Take blood there. As if things weren't bad enough, while he was in the hospital, it was determined that he was a diabetic. Within one week, Mark had gone from one of the highest points in his life to the absolute worst. One thing that he did realize, however, was that since he was stuck lying flat on his back he only had one way to look, and that was up. He looked to God to help him through this. Mark knew that only God could give him the strength he needed to face the challenges ahead.

     Mark spent the rest of January in the hospital being watched to be sure that he was healing properly. Near the end of that month things were changing again. He had been lying in the hospital bed for too long. It was time for him to get up. He was fitted for a full form back brace. It was an ordeal every time the nurses tried to put it on him. They would roll him to one side, place the back of the shell on the bed behind him, and then roll him back into it. After some painful, jerking adjustments to get the shell in line, the front portion was then strapped to the back. Finally that ordeal was over, but the real pain was only about to begin.  

     Physical therapists entered Mark's room one day. One grabbed his feet while the other one grabbed his shoulders. They quickly spun his limp body around until his legs fell lifeless off the side of the bed, and then lifted up his torso to a sitting position. This was the first time he had sat upright in nearly a month. His body was not prepared. His blood pressure suddenly dropped to a dangerous number. The room began to go dark. His head began to swim. His breathing quickened. His body slumped in the therapist's arms as he passed out on the side of the bed. 

     What happened next? He isn't really sure. He just remembers opening his eyes to see Tanya sitting in the corner of the room, her face lost of all color. It was at that point that he really realized he wasn't in the fight alone. She was experiencing her own kind of pain. The pain of seeing her husband in pain. The pain of seeing her husband completely helpless. The pain of knowing their lives were probably never going to be the same again. For a brief moment, Mark's physical pain didn't exist. His heart was broken for his wife. At that moment his fight truly began.

     After many attempts, the therapists were able to get Mark in a sitting position. Eventually, they hoisted him to a contraption that held him upright, in a standing position. When he thought he had experienced every pain possible, the therapists proved him wrong. Being stood up by the power of others, not able to do anything himself, was one of the lowest points for him. Was it painful? Definitely. But it was the overwhelming surge of uselessness that hurt the most. Men are supposed to be strong. At this point Mark was the antithesis of strong.

     February rolled around and it was time for a another change. Mark was moved to the first floor of the hospital. The rehab section. He was blessed with the opportunity to be placed in a special room by himself. That room was set up similar to a small apartment. It had his bed, of course. It was equipped with small kitchen and dining areas, as well as a private bathroom. Other than constantly being bugged by nurses, it was a pretty sweet setup.

     The very first day in the rehab wing showed Mark exactly what he had to look forward to, though. Rehab. Rehabilitation. It's a big word that can be summed up by a smaller word: WORK! There was no longer the gentle pampering by the nurses. Mark had barely gotten settled in his bed before someone came busting through the door of his room. Lisa. Physical Therapist. All business. Things were about to get real. Really real!

     Lisa forced herself through the small crowd of family that had followed Mark down to his new room. She was a presence everywhere she went. She was a tall, stocky woman. The kind of woman you took one look at and knew you didn't want to mess with her. She was boisterous. She was demanding. She scared Mark to death.

     Lisa walked right up to the side of Mark's bed and said, "You ready?" He wasn't. He didn't know what he wasn't ready for, but something told him he wasn't. "We're gonna get you outta that bed," she said, with a smile that said she really enjoyed her job. Mark let her know about the blood pressure problems he had had while sitting up. Without missing a beat she exclaimed, "Well, if you pass out you pass out. We don't know until we get you outta that bed."

     She raised the head of Mark's bed, shoved one of her arms behind his back, and grabbed his legs with her other hand. With one quick motion she swung his legs around, and yanked his torso up to sit on the side of the bed. Mark started to get dizzy and let Lisa know that he felt like he was going to pass out. "Aww, don't be a baby! You gotta push through it!" She wrapped her arms around his limp body, and hoisted him up onto her shoulder. She turned quickly around and gently slammed him into the wheelchair by his bed. Mark's head was spinning. He fought to catch his breath. Yet, the longer he sat there, the better he felt. Progress. He was making progress.

     Lisa wheeled Mark down to the rehab room to introduce him to the therapists that would be working with him. As he rolled by the large, padded tables, the exercise equipment, and the various toy-like apparatuses hanging all around the room, he became increasingly anxious. Then his eyes locked onto the other patients scattered about the room. Some had minor injuries. There were others with amputations. A few were elderly. To Mark, the saddest part was not the various injuries, but the overwhelming look of defeat on the patient's faces. Apparently this was the place where people come to give up. Mark wasn't going to let that be him. 

     Rehab began. One of the first things that he learned how to do was to transition. Chris, one of Mark's Occupational Therapists, walked into his room carrying a wooden slat. Mark wasn't quite sure what to expect by this. He had previously met Chris, after all, and he was a bit of a character. So, he really could have had anything in store. Chris moved the wheelchair to the side of the bed, helped Mark raise up, and then placed the board on the bed next to him. He slid the board underneath Mark and positioned it toward the wheelchair. He then showed Mark how to slide himself from the bed to the chair using his arms and the board. It was tough. It was scary. Yet, as is the case with most things, once he figured out how to do it right, it started to get easier. Mark felt very accomplished. He knew that this was the first step, or slide, toward making more progress.

     After a few days, Mark's therapists saw his commitment. Each morning the therapists were responsible for making sure their patients were awake and ready to come to therapy. They would have to help them out of their beds, wash and clothe them, and then push them in the their wheelchairs to the the rehab room. They stopped coming to Mark's room after a while. They didn't need to. He was getting himself up, transitioning himself to his wheelchair, and wheeling himself to the rehab room. They knew, at certain times of the day, they should keep their eyes open, because Mark could be soaring down the hallway in his chair.

     After spending over a month in the hospital, Mark experienced something that made him realize that he was going to be OK. February 14 rolled around and he wanted to do something special for Tanya. She had been through so much during his down time. She was working everyday and driving seventy miles almost every night to come be with him. Plus, she had completely taken over the responsibilities at home, cleaning, taking care of the animals, making sure the bills were paid, etc. He was so proud of how strong she had been and he wanted to show his appreciation.

     During his therapy session, Mark pulled Chris aside and asked if he could do him a favor. He wanted Chris to pick up something special for Tanya since he was stuck in the hospital. Mark just knew that Tanya would be surprised if she got to the hospital to find flowers, balloons, a card, or anything waiting for her. Chris had something better in mind. That afternoon Chris rounded up a couple of the other therapists, Jana and Christy, to help with a special mission. Jana and Christy were both students. Jana was from Louisiana. Christy was a Tennessean. Mark had gotten to know them pretty well, as they were the ones who worked the closest with him. Between them and Chris there was never a dull moment. They were about to take Mark on a mission that would boost his confidence in his independence. 

     Chris and the other therapists took Mark outside. It was one of the few times he had breathed fresh air since entering the hospital. Chris pulled a car around and they taught Mark how to transition from his wheelchair to a car. He was so excited. He was going somewhere! Chris drove to a nearby store and they all filed out of the car and headed inside. When they entered the store, Chris grabbed a shopping cart and wheeled it over to Mark. It was a special cart that was designed to be easily pushed by someone bound to a wheelchair. Mark thought it was amazing. Not just that that kind of cart existed, but also that he had never noticed them in stores before. He realized that there are so many things that people overlook and take for granted. His world had become so much larger from the view of his wheelchair.

     He sat there behind the cart waiting for Chris to lead the way. Chris looked down at him and said, "You better get going. We don't have all day," while smiling from ear to ear. Mark couldn't believe it. FREEDOM! He felt like an uncaged bird flying up and down the store aisles. He knew he had to make this opportunity count. He picked up all the ingredients to make Tanya's favorite meal, spaghetti, and tossed them in the cart. He scooped up a box of Tanya's favorite candies, picked out some balloons, flowers, and a nice card, and they loaded up and headed back to the hospital.

     When they returned, Chris took all the food to the kitchen in the rehab area while Mark, with the help of Jana and Christy, wheeled all the Valentine goodies down to his room. Mark set up the balloons and flowers in the little dining area of his room and then speedily wheeled back to the rehab room. Chris showed him where he could find all the pots, pans, and utensils he would need to prepare the special meal and then he just walked away, leaving Mark to do everything by himself. He stood only a short distance away, talking to the other therapists, but he was keeping a close eye on Mark just in case he needed help. Mark filled a pot with water to boil for the noodles, and crumbled up the meat to start frying. Chris was a good therapist. He knew what he was doing. Mark was quickly learning that he would be OK with his new life. If he could cook spaghetti, then he could do anything.

     Mark took the plates and utensils, placed them in his lap, and wheeled them down to his room while Chris and the others followed with the food. They set everything up in a hurry, because they knew that Tanya was on her way and could be there at any moment. Chris looked at the plates of food and thought it needed something. He ran to the rehab room fridge, and grabbed a block of fresh parmesan cheese that he had used with his lunch earlier that day. As he sprinted back, he was shocked to see Tanya down the hall in front of him, walking toward Mark's room. He blew past her, ducked into the room, quickly grated the the parmesan over the spaghetti, and darted back out of the room just as Tanya was about to open the door. She was surprised by Chris's quick exit, but not nearly as surprised as she was by all the gifts she found as she entered Mark's room. It was the best Valentine's surprise ever, and Mark would probably never be able to top it. Better yet, Tanya was able to see that Mark would be able to take care of himself, and she didn't have to worry anymore.

     Toward the end of February Mark had another breakthrough. About two weeks before he was scheduled to go home, during a regular rehab session, one of Mark's therapists, Lisa (a different Lisa) had him lay flat on one of the exercise tables. She asked him to try to move his foot. He laid there for a moment trying with all his might to make his foot move. It had been so long since having mobility in his legs that he wasn't even sure if he knew how to make it move anymore. But then it happened. The big toe. That fabulous big toe! It moved. It barely moved....but it moved! All hope wasn't lost.

     Mark's therapy regimen changed after that. Rather than just teaching him how to live independently with his disability, they began working toward helping him walk again. They hoisted him into a another contraption that would stand him upright to help get blood flowing to his extremities. Then he was placed in a large mechanism that looked much like an adult baby bouncer on wheels.  It was designed to help him slightly move his legs while being held up. There was movement. Slight...but movement.

     The day came for him to finally go home. It was bittersweet. He was excited to go home. He was excited to get back to his wife. But he had grown pretty close to all his therapists. The hospital had been his home for two months, and they were all like his roommates. Before leaving he wanted one thing to happen. He wanted a picture of him with all the people that had helped him. It was an awesome moment. He wheeled over to the parallel bars. He didn't want to be sitting in that chair when the picture was taken. Two therapists on each of his sides braced him as he pulled himself up by the bars above his head. He stood there, struggling to hold himself up between those bars, as his new family huddled around him to have their picture taken. It wore him out. It took all he had to do it. It was worth it. He wanted the therapists, Tanya, and especially himself to know that he was going fight this and he planned to win.

     The work didn't end after arriving back at home. Rehabilitation = Work. He had home health therapists that would come work with him. It was actually fun. After a few weeks they had him standing and they helped him stumble across the house. They drove him to do more, and so did Tanya. His home therapist made the mistake of telling her that she needed to push him. She took it quite literally. Once Mark was able to stand, wobbly on his own, she would nudge him from time to time just to see if he would tip over. She wasn't being mean. She was doing what needed to be done to help him stand on his own again. 

     One of the things that his home therapist helped him to do was to transition from his chair to his truck. The tricky thing was that his truck seat was on eye level when he was in his wheelchair. He would have to pull himself up by the door and seat, then turn his back to the seat, and pull his body up into the truck with his arms while grasping the door and the handle above it. By this time his upper body had become pretty strong. Once in the truck he would reach down and disassemble his wheelchair, one piece at a time, and pull them up into the cab of the truck. He would then reverse this process to get back out. After a few tries he was able to do it pretty well on his own. 

     This new independence brought about the next phase of his journey. His truck had been equipped with an apparatus that would allow him to work the brake and accelerator with his hands. Now that he was able to pull himself up into his truck, and drive himself, he no longer needed home health to come to him. He could take himself to therapy.

     He began to work with outpatient rehab in his hometown. Their main focus was to help Mark walk. They pushed him. Even when he didn't think he could handle any more, they gave him more and more. Leg stretches. Exercise bike. Treadmill. Free walking. From wheelchair, to walker, to cane, to using only the power and support of his own two legs, Mark was mobile again. Seven months of immobility had been wiped away with hard work, dedication, and most of all, the grace of God. Mark knew that none of these things would have been possible without God's help.

     A few months after the surgery, having moved up to walking with only the support of a walker, Mark went back to see Dr. Rosa. Dr. Rosa shared something with him that he had never shared before. He looked Mark straight in the eyes, with a look of overwhelming amazement, and told him that, medically speaking, he never expected him to walk again. He expected Mark to be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. Turns out God and Mark had other plans.

     The picture above shows what God can do. He took Mark from his lowest of lows and lifted him up again. It has been ten years since all of this happened. Today, Mark enjoys life with his wife, his cats, and his mobility. I have taken up photography and writing and I am enjoying every minute of it!

Now you know this picture's story.

     

Every Picture Tells A Story - Abbott's Story

     I'm sure you have heard the old saying, "A picture speaks a thousand words." Or, as I like to put it, "Every picture tells a story." Since I have taken up photography, I have seen first hand just how true that is. 

     What does this picture say to you? To me it speaks volumes. Of course, I know the little fellow captured here, and I know his story.

     This is Abbott. He is our cat. He is a special cat. OK, let's be honest, he's our baby boy. Six years ago, on a cold, wet Sunday morning, my wife, Tanya stumbled upon him in our front yard. He was tiny! He couldn't have been more than a week old. In fact, he still had his umbilical cord attached to his little belly. Tanya brought him inside, tears streaming down her cheek, fearing that he wasn't going to make it.

     Tanya is a cat person. At that time in life I would tolerate them, but Abbott changed me. I was the one responsible for feeding him at all hours of the night. I was the one who tended to his every need. I was the one slowly becoming the father of a cat! It was worth it. He has become the center of our family. He is now fat, sassy, and the most lovable, adorable kid cat you will ever find.

     So, to me this picture says, "Peek-a-boo! Ready or not, here I am!" That's how he entered our life and we are so glad he did.

     What about you? Do you have a story that you would like told? I would like to start a series of photos/stories to share with the world. I'm looking for people in North Mississippi that are willing to let me photograph them and share their story. If you are interested in being a part of this adventure, just let me know.

You can contact me at hortonphoto@hotmail.com or through facebook at www.facebook.com/HortonPhotography77

Everyone has a story. I really want to hear and share yours. I hope to hear from you soon!