a runaway train…

Back in April of this year, I wrote a post entitled the little battlefields, which detailed the visual and emotional struggles of my little friend, T.  She was then 7 years old, was ‘beaten down’ (her mom’s words) about school, learning, and life.  I remember the first day I met T and asked her how school was going, and she just started crying.  She had essentially been told by her first grade teacher that she was stupid, and never recovered. When she came to us, she was halfway through second grade, and as you may notice in the original post, we had our work cut out for us.

T has worked hard, and we have worked hard with her. Finding a balance between pushing the envelope of her visual skills and softening the blow when she came upon something she realized was too hard was not always easy.  She shed many tears, but slowly, at times microscopically, she was noticing progress. We made every effort to remind her of how smart she was both with words, and by setting her up for success.  We knew she was smart, and in working her visual skills made every effort to convince her that she was successful yet again. Every activity was calculated, and every interaction discussed both before and after her sessions. Our failing her was not an option.

Of late, T has been smiling more and more.  Her little sense of humor is starting to show itself and her confidence level grows, seemingly by the day. And yes, by no small coincidence, her eyes and visual processing have improved significantly too.  She walks in with a smile, brags about her day in a third grade classroom, and her smile and affect brighten more and more with every successful move in the VT room.

Last week I bumped into T and her mom in the hallway while transitioning patients. They both were smiling ear to ear. Before I could ask what was going on, T extended her arms as if to offer a hug and I noticed that she was beginning to tear up.  I returned the hug, made eye contact with her mom who said “the doctor just told her she’s graduating…and she doesn’t want to leave”.

I knew this was coming.  I caught a glimpse of T’s perceptual re-testing the day before (we retest all our kids at the end of a full VT unit) and her scores were off the charts. I also heard from her mom recently that her school tested T’s reading level and she scored above the 99th percentile for her grade, and estimated her fluency, comprehension and decoding levels to be 7th grade level.

I pulled T and her mom into my VT room, let them sit for a minute and I asked…

“T, remember when you first started here, and I told you that my job was to prove to you that you are smart and that you can do anything you set your mind to?”

She nods yes.

“Do you believe me now?”

Again, she nodded yes through her tears.  T’s mom went on to explain that her mind is amazing, and she’s learning and growing like a runaway train that no one can catch or slow down.  Quite a different kid from the beaten down little girl we met 8 months ago.

This coming Thursday, T will be graduating from our VT program. I’m sure there will be more tears, probably from most of us this time, because saying goodbye to this little girl will be tough.  Her life truly changed thanks to Vision Therapy and I feel so lucky to have been a part of it.

I’m proud to say that we were able to have an impact on T’s life.  I hope somewhere, somehow she understands that she had an impact on ours too.

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Posted on October 14, 2014, in From My Perspective... and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 6 Comments.

  1. There were some tears here in San Diego also, Robert…..
    Thanks for sharing this.

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    • Robert Nurisio COVT

      Thanks, Linda. It’s hard to watch someone go through this level of growth and not feel changed yourself. Thanks for reading! 🙂

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  2. What a lovely story – those of us who have experienced this many times still get teary when such a story is shared. Keep up the good work and know we are privilaged to be in this wonderful profession!!!

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  3. Jenni Roeber, COVT

    Robert:

    I had one of those occasions this week too….it’s so hard to let them go when you are part of them, and they, part of you. In some ways, it’s worse than letting your own child go off into the world, because you have a pretty reasonable chance of still being in their lives. Some of our patients (or maybe most) we won’t have continued contact with, at least not in the way we did in VT. And then we pick up the chart (which quickly becomes a person to us…and a history, and maybe a person that needs to be “rebuilt” from underneath….) and it all starts again. Are we lucky, or what!! Thanks so much – beautifully written as always.

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    • Thanks, Jenni. I have found ways to keep in touch with many former patients, and now with the wonders of social media, checking in on them has become easier. T’s mom is wonderful and she has promised to keep us posted. I can’t wait to watch her soar in the next several years.

      As you say, there are more patients on the horizon who need us. That thought is what keeps you and I, and so many like us, going strong. Thanks for reading! 🙂

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