I still miss the snowman in the freezer. He lived there nearly one whole winter. Every time I open the door his button eyes would be there waiting. It has been several years now since the winter the snowman lived in our freezer but his image and the lesson he taught me remain.
It was the winter Maddie was six. The first snow fall came silently during the night leaving a blanket of wet white wonder all around. It brought fond childhood memories of snowmen, sledding, and snow forts and snow ball fights. I remembered the magic ice cream my mom would make mixing milk and sugar with a bowl of fluffy white snow.
I stood by the window longing to play in the snow. I imagined taking Maddie out to the playground nature had made during the night. But it was impossible. There is no way I could keep her warm. Dressed in long underwear, a sweat suite, two pairs of socks, and a hat and covered with blankets, she struggled to keep her body temperature above 95 degrees inside where it was warm. The furnace continually set at 72 degrees. A deep suddenness washed over me. It was for Maddie. It was for me. I turned away from the window and began the morning routine.
Once Maddie was up, her medications given, breathing treatment done, teeth brushed, body washed and dressed, the day stretched before me. There would be no outings and likely no visitors. It was going to be one long quiet day! We could read books, watch educational TV, play with Maddie’s switch toys, and blow bubbles. All of it seemed so boring compared to the snow outside the window.
I several times through the morning found myself at the window again. Maybe if I ran an extension cord from the apartment to the little front lawn, I could put Maddie in her wagon with the heating pad and bundle her completely she could go out for a few minutes. But how safe was running an extension cord through the wet snow? I could not take a chance of giving her an electrical shock. Besides that by the time I had her bundled for warmth, she would not get to touch or feel the snow. How fun would that be?
Shortly before lunch a thought struck me. Maybe Maddie couldn’t go out to play in the snow but what was stopping me from bringing the snow into her? We could build a snowman inside! I found her mittens and scarf. Buttons for eyes and mouth, a little carrot nose, a scrap of fabric for a scarf, and one of Maddie’s doll hats, perfect for our creation. I situated Maddie’s tray on her wheelchair and got her mittens on. All the while I babble to Maddie about playing in the snow and building a snowman. Outside I filled a large bowl with snow.
On a small cookie sheet, we began making our first snow ball. At first Maddie wasn’t wild about touching the snow. But as the first snowball took shape, she started getting into it. She didn’t resist me helping her to pat the wet snow so that it went from fluffy wet stuff into a firm slick mass. We had to work fast because inside the snow was melting fast. The first ball was done and then the second. I made another trip outside for more snow. The third ball for the head came together quickly.
I put the eyes and mouth in place because Maddie’s mitten fingers were not able to help. But Maddie held the carrot nose until it was firmly in place. We put the scarf and hat in place. We were finished. “Look Maddie! We built a snowman!” I exclaimed like a child myself.
Maddie’s eyes danced as she stared at the snowman. She was smiling big! The miniature snowman stood less than a foot high and he was melting fast. I wasn’t ready to let him go and Maddie didn’t look like she was either. So I put him in the freezer. There between the packages of frozen peas, broccoli, and hot dogs, he lived the winter. Every so often I would bring him out for Maddie to see.
I learned an important lesson that day. Maddie is not so limited by her physical body as she is by my difficulty seeing around her disability. I am the one who is limiting her by saying she can’t do this or that. Instead I can ask the question, how can I make it possible for her to do whatever it is she wants to do?
Every time I opened the freezer that winter, there was Maddie’s snowman smiling at me. He became a symbol of hope, possibility, and freedom. Every once in a while Maddie will want to do something, like ride an elephant, and the word impossible flashes in my mind. Then the vision of that little snowman comes to mind. And impossible becomes possible. And, yes, Maddie has ridden an elephant but that is a story for another day!
It was the winter Maddie was six. The first snow fall came silently during the night leaving a blanket of wet white wonder all around. It brought fond childhood memories of snowmen, sledding, and snow forts and snow ball fights. I remembered the magic ice cream my mom would make mixing milk and sugar with a bowl of fluffy white snow.
I stood by the window longing to play in the snow. I imagined taking Maddie out to the playground nature had made during the night. But it was impossible. There is no way I could keep her warm. Dressed in long underwear, a sweat suite, two pairs of socks, and a hat and covered with blankets, she struggled to keep her body temperature above 95 degrees inside where it was warm. The furnace continually set at 72 degrees. A deep suddenness washed over me. It was for Maddie. It was for me. I turned away from the window and began the morning routine.
Once Maddie was up, her medications given, breathing treatment done, teeth brushed, body washed and dressed, the day stretched before me. There would be no outings and likely no visitors. It was going to be one long quiet day! We could read books, watch educational TV, play with Maddie’s switch toys, and blow bubbles. All of it seemed so boring compared to the snow outside the window.
I several times through the morning found myself at the window again. Maybe if I ran an extension cord from the apartment to the little front lawn, I could put Maddie in her wagon with the heating pad and bundle her completely she could go out for a few minutes. But how safe was running an extension cord through the wet snow? I could not take a chance of giving her an electrical shock. Besides that by the time I had her bundled for warmth, she would not get to touch or feel the snow. How fun would that be?
Shortly before lunch a thought struck me. Maybe Maddie couldn’t go out to play in the snow but what was stopping me from bringing the snow into her? We could build a snowman inside! I found her mittens and scarf. Buttons for eyes and mouth, a little carrot nose, a scrap of fabric for a scarf, and one of Maddie’s doll hats, perfect for our creation. I situated Maddie’s tray on her wheelchair and got her mittens on. All the while I babble to Maddie about playing in the snow and building a snowman. Outside I filled a large bowl with snow.
On a small cookie sheet, we began making our first snow ball. At first Maddie wasn’t wild about touching the snow. But as the first snowball took shape, she started getting into it. She didn’t resist me helping her to pat the wet snow so that it went from fluffy wet stuff into a firm slick mass. We had to work fast because inside the snow was melting fast. The first ball was done and then the second. I made another trip outside for more snow. The third ball for the head came together quickly.
I put the eyes and mouth in place because Maddie’s mitten fingers were not able to help. But Maddie held the carrot nose until it was firmly in place. We put the scarf and hat in place. We were finished. “Look Maddie! We built a snowman!” I exclaimed like a child myself.
Maddie’s eyes danced as she stared at the snowman. She was smiling big! The miniature snowman stood less than a foot high and he was melting fast. I wasn’t ready to let him go and Maddie didn’t look like she was either. So I put him in the freezer. There between the packages of frozen peas, broccoli, and hot dogs, he lived the winter. Every so often I would bring him out for Maddie to see.
I learned an important lesson that day. Maddie is not so limited by her physical body as she is by my difficulty seeing around her disability. I am the one who is limiting her by saying she can’t do this or that. Instead I can ask the question, how can I make it possible for her to do whatever it is she wants to do?
Every time I opened the freezer that winter, there was Maddie’s snowman smiling at me. He became a symbol of hope, possibility, and freedom. Every once in a while Maddie will want to do something, like ride an elephant, and the word impossible flashes in my mind. Then the vision of that little snowman comes to mind. And impossible becomes possible. And, yes, Maddie has ridden an elephant but that is a story for another day!
RSS Feed