My first full-time job after college was working at an art center for developmentally disabled adults.  These adults were people who had disabilities ranging from seizure disorder to mental retardation to autism.  It was my first time teaching, and I got to teach everything from life skills like budgeting and hygiene to creative writing to a senior class with the older clients, where we’d play Bingo and go to the Dollar Tree and just hang out.  I worked there for about a year and a half, and I loved it.  Sadly, this job coincided with the most difficult time of my life and the stress I felt affected my job performance, and because of that, combined with some other issues there, that they decided to eliminate my position.  It was awful.  After a year and a half  of forming relationships with staff, with clients and with people, I was gone in an afternoon.

It broke my heart.

During my time there, I had my heart softened and my life changed by the amazing people who went there more than once.  But one person taught me one of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned in my 26 years.

James was a great man who was wheelchair bound.  He was a talented artist and a really sweet guy.  Yes, he had his “moments” when he could be difficult, such as the afternoon I spent coaching him in our recycling center where he cried with every paper he shredded.  But, for the most part, he was an absolute delight.  I loved talking with him in the morning when he got off the bus.

When I was having a hard time, one of the side effects was a debilitating stomach issue.  I had to undergo a battery of tests and was off of work for a few days.  James had recently been out with his own stomach issues, and when I returned he was SO HAPPY to see me.  He told me all about his medications and we sympathized about how awful heartburn and the associated medications could be.

James then asked me to go to the ceramics studio with him, where he proudly presented me with two bookends he’d made me while I’d been out.  He had painted them pink, and told me how carefully he’d worked on them, since he knew I loved to read.  At the end of our conversation, James took my hand and said, “You know what, Amy?  I was worried about you.  I love you, Amy.  I am so glad you’re here.  I just love you.”

I froze.  See, when you work with the developmentally disabled, there are rules—parameters for THEIR safety.  Often, people who are abusive or unhealthy attach themselves to those who are disabled.  As staff, we were forbidden from being TOO affectionate; from saying things like, “I love you” or anything that would convey a serious attachment.  Though I understood the reasoning behind it—to keep them from crossing boundaries that were not appropriate, the truth was that I LOVED many of my clients.  When James said he loved me, I wanted to reciprocate, to tell him that I loved him too.

Instead?  I thanked him, and went on about my day.  It hung around in the back of my mind for the next few days, especially when I’d see his pink bookends on my bookshelf.

When I arrived at work a few mornings later, the staff was pulled into an emergency meeting, where we were told James had died.  Apparently, it wasn’t just heartburn, it was an infection that was killing him.  I remember sitting in our staff room, staring at the fake wood grain, unsure of what to say or do.  A friend of mine stroked my back as I re-told the story of our conversation, in hushed tones.  I didn’t cry.

At James’ memorial a few days later, we released white balloons at my suggestion.  All of the staff and clients wrote messages, put them in the balloons and sent them up, up, up—our way of saying what we needed to say.  I remember pausing to write mine, unsure of what to express to this precious man I’d cared so much about.  I’ll never remember what I wrote exactly, but I know that I made James a promise: that I’d never, ever falter when it came to telling someone I loved them.  That I’d never, ever hesitate, even if I was scared, or if it was messy, or if it could be risky.

I wish I could say that I’d always kept my promise.  For the most part I have.  I try and tell those I love exactly what I feel, as often as I can.  And yes, it’s scary and sometimes I still clam up, and sometimes it comes out wrong.

But, sometimes, I see a white balloon, and I think of James, and then?  Then I’m not so afraid.

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