Life Happens Next by Terry Trueman Page A

if I might need him again. I think, “I’m okay now, Rusty—you can relax.” Rusty cocks his head as if he’s unsure, watches me for a moment, and seems satisfied as he rolls onto his side, takes a deep breath, and slides into a nap.
    Rusty defended me. He is my friend. A new feeling rises up inside me and overwhelms me— I have a friend! And I know that he feels it too. I now realize that I have nothing, nada, zilch, zippo, zero to fear from him.
    By adding this moment to my birthday realization, that I have more to be happy about than my pouty, crybaby attitude has been letting me see, I realize that there’re a few more pretty cool things about being me !
    Â Â Â Â Â  1. I’ve finally made a connection with another living soul. Unfortunately, that soul didn’t belong to another human being, but hey, it belongs to a dog! And Rusty, my protector and friend, doesn’t give a rip what I look like or act like—what I can and can’t do—Rusty’s a real friend!
    Â Â Â Â Â  2. Obviously, it feels good that Dad did not decide to kill me. Imagine how Dad would feel if he somehow knew that Rusty and I had found a way to connect. I mean, I’m sure part of Dad’s thoughts about ending my pain must have been tied to my loneliness. And with Rusty here I’m not alone anymore!
    You might ask, how can you turn a self-pity party into a positive? My answer is simple: Just pay attention to your world.
    Â Â Â Â Â  3. Cindy just played my favorite Mozart (Sonata for Piano in D, adagio movement).
    Â Â Â Â Â  4. A few minutes ago, I heard Mom laugh on the phone, her loud, happy, totally real laugh, which reminded me that she’s the coolest mom in the world.
    Â Â Â Â Â  5. Yesterday I saw two sparrows mating out on the railing of our deck—hey, gimme a break, a guy’s gotta get his jollies when he can.
    Â Â Â Â Â  6. A ton of self-pity lifts off my shoulders like a cloud of morning fog evaporating in the sunlight. A flood of thoughts races through my mind about how my life is great: the view from my window of Puget Sound, my sister’s sweet smile, Mom’s patience when she feeds me. And now about a billion more ridiculously random good things: Corvette automobiles, cool T-shirts, the wail of a sad saxophone, pralines ’n cream ice cream, soft breezes, and the way totally new socks feel when Mom first slips them onto my feet.
    Â Â Â Â Â  7. Thanks to Rusty, I can seriously jump-start my life and drop all this “poor-me” crap. There’re way too many things to enjoy.

17
    S ince I’ve been in special education classrooms for all my life, I’ve spent a lot of time around developmentally disabled people, including kids with Down. But I’ve never understood any of them the way I do now, living full-time with the Debster. She’s an adult like Mom but she’s stuck mentally with a young child’s mind.
    Debi doesn’t require a lot of attention. She doesn’t like to watch TV with the family or interact with us very much. She prefers to follow her own very rigid schedule: making her lunch in the morning, going to school, eating dinner as soon as she gets home at 4 p.m., then a shower and quiet time in her room. Whenever Mom invites her to join us, she always gets the same answer, “Shower now … bed … I tired.”
    But I gotta admit, things are not always sugar and spice and everything nice with Debi. She has bad moods that sometimes last for an entire evening and stretch into the next morning.
    Like yesterday. Debi brought home a flier for Summer Funshine Bible Camp for Special Needs Adults and demanded that Mom sign her up. Mom had asked, “Are you sure you want to go to this?”
    â€œYeth,” Debi said firmly. “My course is yeth … my choice.”
    Mom said, “Of course it’s your choice, Debi, and if you’d