Hannah’s Legacy

Hannah’s Legacy

Hannah was the sixth of ten siblings born to my youngest sister’s family. Hannah was special, she was autistic. My sister and her family were visiting Mom (Grandma), a marvel of logistics, timing, and preparation with so many kids involved. Grandma had rearranged the house to accommodate all the extra house guests. While all the other kids were bedded in shared bedrooms, stacked to the brim with giggling girls or rambunctious boys, Hannah had her own room. This room had been a walk in storage closet about six by eight feet. It had a half door with a latch on the outside so Hannah could be heard and observed. A small bed had been placed in it to make it as comfortable and as much like home as possible. Anyone familiar with Autism will understand the precautions that have to be taken to keep autistic children from stealthily disappearing in the night.

One by one the children gave up the excitement of being at Grandma’s house until the din settled in to the whispers of children sleeping. Her mother checked on Hannah one last time as she always did. Although still, Hannah was not asleep. Mom knew she might not sleep. A strange place, a strange bed, and so much excitement around her might be just too much. Mom worried about her Hannah and what would become of her. Autism caused Hannah to miss so much. To Hannah a touch on the cheek could be a slap in the face. A normal voice could send her into audio arrest. Sometimes the other children couldn’t understand Hannah’s actions or reactions. Mom hugged her and stroked her hair but Hannah didn’t respond. She stared into space trying to process the day’s events. Mom kissed her and silently left the room   and locked the door behind her.

Sometime in the quiet of the night Hannah ventured out of her shell. She just had to find a way home to her own space in her own bed in her own house. She wondered about the room lighted only by the street light shining through the small window. Like the blind she used her fingers to traverse the walls surrounding her. Her fingers came upon a small crack in the otherwise solid wall. She began to pick at it. The paper was the thickness of construction paper. Behind the paper was smooth one by three inch boards nailed horizontally to the wall studs. With an autistic obsessed rush of adrenaline the little girl picked at the paper using only her fingernails. She worked by streetlight fighting for her freedom. Sometime in the night the obsession faded as narcotic exhaustion washed over her. With one hand still on the wall she retreated into the place in her brain that only she knew. The place she felt safe. The place no one else was allowed to go.

The next morning Grandma and mom were sitting on the bed in Hannah’s room looking at the Hannah’s artwork. Two corners were picked clean almost four feet high. The wall in between resembled the hilly landscape outside of the small town in Tennessee where Grandma’s house was, the paper missing on the bottom of the wall exposing the wood. The other children were starting to stir. One at a time they filed into the bathroom heeding nature’s morning call. As they passed Hannah’s room and peeked in they too witnessed the artwork.

“Hannah is in BIG trouble!” they whispered among themselves with the reserved glee siblings express for punishment metered out to other siblings. To their dismay, no punishment was mentioned. Grandma and mom only talked about how to administer first aid to Hannah’s cracked and broken fingernails. They were incensed! Why didn’t Hannah get in trouble? They had to find the reason for the seemingly double standard. Although they all knew of Hannah’s condition it still wasn’t fair! A spokesperson had to be appointed. One that still had the Grandma eyes, the one that grandma wouldn’t (couldn’t) punish. The smallest sacrificial lamb was appointed. As they all watched from a distance, but still within earshot, the lamb was pushed through the door with explicit instructions on what to say. Grandma listened to the gripe, took the small child by the hand and led her into the next room. Eavesdroppers scattered everywhere, trying to become inconspicuous. Grandma and the lamb disappeared into a nearby room. When they came out of the room Grandma had a handful of colored pencils and crayons. She handed each conspirator a marking device.

“Draw me a picture on the wall in Hannah’s room.” She commanded.

The little ones attacked with glee, drawing on the wall with mostly scribbles but the older kids held back not quit believing they heard right. As Grandma stood in the doorway with her hands folded the crayons flew.

“Look what I drew! Grandma come look!” they all exclaimed.

“I see!” Grandma exclaimed with that Grandma look of approval. She could hardly contain her laugh. In the wisdom and psychology only a Grandma possesses she had made them all complicit in Hannah’s “crime”. Instead of alienating Hannah to her siblings she had made Hannah a hero!

From that time on any family member that graced Grandma’s door wrote on the wall. Mostly they put the date and a short note, or wrote a note, or drew Grandma a small picture. Today that tradition continues. Grandma is gone but Grandpa still lives in the house. A small bag of markers hangs on the wall beckoning any and all to leave a note.

Hannah’s world was torn apart through no fault of her own. The family was scattered and we haven’t seen Hannah for many years but our family will always remember Hanna and her legacy. Anyone can walk into Hannah’s room and feel the family connection. People who wrote on the wall as kids can reminisce of times gone by and write again. Thanks to Hannah we can all connect any time without the phone or the internet on a level most families can’t. Thank You for the legacy Hannah.

Dan Fulton 11/23/17