To See a Volcano
By April MacNeil
My son sits across the aisle from me, his whole body
beaming with anticipation. Playfully puts on the
headphones handed to him by the stewardess. He turns to me
and signs, "I didn't know there were movies on planes."
I just smiled, wanting to laugh-and cry.
You see, Kevin is a handsome, blonde, blue-eyed
fourteen-year-old, who has been deaf since birth. But
throughout his life, I have tried to teach him not to give
up. And he hasn't, excelling in both academics and sports.
In the fall of 1997, I received a phone call from his
teacher. She suspected that Kevin was having problems with
his vision. We took him to the doctor and they told us
that he had Usher's Syndrome. His peripheral vision will
get narrower and narrower until eventually, he will be
completely blind.
"How? This can't be true," I cried. How could my
dear, sweet son be both deaf and blind? It was
incomprehensible to me.
When I finally was able to muster up enough courage,
the counseling staff at his school helped me break the news
to Kevin. He sat quietly, paying close attention to this
diagnosis-a deaf person's worst fear.
He is a brave young man but, from his body language, I
knew that he wanted to cry. However, he made sure the
tears waited. With all of his strength and smile he simply
asked, "Can I please go back to class now?"
Kevin's world was closing in on him and I struggled
against the rage and injustice of it all. A short time
later, after putting some of my anger and fears of the
future aside, I asked Kevin, "Before things really change,
what one thing do you want to see more than anything else?"
He thought for quite a while and then said, "A
volcano...I want to see a volcano, in Hawaii."
I choked back my tears and responded simply, "I'll see
what I can do," all the while knowing that short of a
miracle, there was no way I could take him to Hawaii.
I spoke to everyone and asked everywhere and just when
I was about to give up on Kevin's dream, I heard about an
organization that works to fulfill the wishes of
chronically and critically ill children. So with great
hope, I crossed my fingers and phoned them.
In a couple of weeks we were interviewed and three
months later we were sitting on the plane bound for
Honolulu.
On the morning of the big day, we climbed into a
helicopter and headed towards the volcano. We were all
excited. While hovering over the cinder cone, we could see
the vibrant red, yellow and orange colors sluggishly moving
around. We could feel the immense heat on our faces. We
could smell the pungent stench of sulphur seeping in. As
we hovered, I was struck not only by the volcano's raw
beauty but also by its strength and I thought of Kevin's
strength.
Looking over at my son, there was a peaceful glow
about him. I tapped him on his shoulder. I wanted him to
look back so I could sign and ask him what he was feeling.
He signed back, "Not now...if I look away, I'll miss it."
He was right. He needed to see all he could see-now.
Kevin had an offering for Pele, the fire goddess. It
was made of tea leaves, her favorite and a symbol of good
luck. He stuck out his hand and dropped his gift. Then he
bowed his head and signed, "I wish she can be strong for an
eruption."
As we watched the leaves fall into the lava the most
amazing thing happened. The sluggish mixture began
swirling around and started popping-a tiny eruption began
before our very eyes-Pele's gift to Kevin.
With permission from the gods, we brought some lava
rock home. Every now and then, I catch Kevin sitting with
the same peaceful glow he exuded in the helicopter that
day. When I look a little closer, I notice the small piece
of lava rock in his hand.
I pray that our journey will last forever in his
mind's eye, especially when the disease finally consumes
Kevin's eyesight. Then I'll know that my son still sees
the swirling hues of red, yellow, and orange, and not just
blackness.
By April MacNeil
My son sits across the aisle from me, his whole body
beaming with anticipation. Playfully puts on the
headphones handed to him by the stewardess. He turns to me
and signs, "I didn't know there were movies on planes."
I just smiled, wanting to laugh-and cry.
You see, Kevin is a handsome, blonde, blue-eyed
fourteen-year-old, who has been deaf since birth. But
throughout his life, I have tried to teach him not to give
up. And he hasn't, excelling in both academics and sports.
In the fall of 1997, I received a phone call from his
teacher. She suspected that Kevin was having problems with
his vision. We took him to the doctor and they told us
that he had Usher's Syndrome. His peripheral vision will
get narrower and narrower until eventually, he will be
completely blind.
"How? This can't be true," I cried. How could my
dear, sweet son be both deaf and blind? It was
incomprehensible to me.
When I finally was able to muster up enough courage,
the counseling staff at his school helped me break the news
to Kevin. He sat quietly, paying close attention to this
diagnosis-a deaf person's worst fear.
He is a brave young man but, from his body language, I
knew that he wanted to cry. However, he made sure the
tears waited. With all of his strength and smile he simply
asked, "Can I please go back to class now?"
Kevin's world was closing in on him and I struggled
against the rage and injustice of it all. A short time
later, after putting some of my anger and fears of the
future aside, I asked Kevin, "Before things really change,
what one thing do you want to see more than anything else?"
He thought for quite a while and then said, "A
volcano...I want to see a volcano, in Hawaii."
I choked back my tears and responded simply, "I'll see
what I can do," all the while knowing that short of a
miracle, there was no way I could take him to Hawaii.
I spoke to everyone and asked everywhere and just when
I was about to give up on Kevin's dream, I heard about an
organization that works to fulfill the wishes of
chronically and critically ill children. So with great
hope, I crossed my fingers and phoned them.
In a couple of weeks we were interviewed and three
months later we were sitting on the plane bound for
Honolulu.
On the morning of the big day, we climbed into a
helicopter and headed towards the volcano. We were all
excited. While hovering over the cinder cone, we could see
the vibrant red, yellow and orange colors sluggishly moving
around. We could feel the immense heat on our faces. We
could smell the pungent stench of sulphur seeping in. As
we hovered, I was struck not only by the volcano's raw
beauty but also by its strength and I thought of Kevin's
strength.
Looking over at my son, there was a peaceful glow
about him. I tapped him on his shoulder. I wanted him to
look back so I could sign and ask him what he was feeling.
He signed back, "Not now...if I look away, I'll miss it."
He was right. He needed to see all he could see-now.
Kevin had an offering for Pele, the fire goddess. It
was made of tea leaves, her favorite and a symbol of good
luck. He stuck out his hand and dropped his gift. Then he
bowed his head and signed, "I wish she can be strong for an
eruption."
As we watched the leaves fall into the lava the most
amazing thing happened. The sluggish mixture began
swirling around and started popping-a tiny eruption began
before our very eyes-Pele's gift to Kevin.
With permission from the gods, we brought some lava
rock home. Every now and then, I catch Kevin sitting with
the same peaceful glow he exuded in the helicopter that
day. When I look a little closer, I notice the small piece
of lava rock in his hand.
I pray that our journey will last forever in his
mind's eye, especially when the disease finally consumes
Kevin's eyesight. Then I'll know that my son still sees
the swirling hues of red, yellow, and orange, and not just
blackness.
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