Dear Future Special Education Teacher,

First, I thank you for your courage in embarking on this journey. While special education is not a field that promises riches in material terms, I believe it offers rare rewards for the soul. You’ll work with the most endearing people, and will enrich their lives with your skills and your attention.

Some of you chose this path because you have a sibling or a relative or a friend with disabilities. Many possess a generosity of spirit or a desire to make the world a better place. A number share all of these motivations, among others. But whatever the reason, you will become part of a unique guild.

Our family has met a lot of special education teachers, many of whom have taught our daughter. They’ve had different strengths and instincts, but all encouraged us with their caring and devotion.

Whether in a few months or a few years, when you begin your first job as a special education teacher, please consider the following thoughts, from one parent’s point of view.

You are our child’s learning champion. When we put him or her on the bus to start the day, the destination is your classroom. We know it is our role, above all, to advocate for our child. At the same time, we trust you to design educational experiences geared to their situations. Sometimes, this is primarily academic; in others, more social or even focused on basic living skills. And for most of our children, it involves a combination. Their IEP will provide the goals we’ve agreed together, and you’ll bring those objectives to life. It’s important in doing so that you look for the potential each student brings.

You’re also the leader of a team. In our experience and in the experiences of other parents we’ve spoken with, the special education classroom includes dedicated aides to support the teacher in care and learning. The aides we’ve met are not in this field for the money, but because they want to share their love with these wonderful children. Many of these kids will have access to other amazing professionals as well, nurses and physical and occupational and speech therapists. As in the corporate world I worked in for three decades, some of these people will work for you and others won’t, but you will be an important leader of the “team” that supports each child. And we, the parents, are another key element of that team, looking for you to give direction but knowing our own kids better than anyone else. This can be a challenging situation for a new college graduate, but take heart that it will become second-nature over time. At first, it often best just to listen.

Early in your career, before you’ve earned experience as a teacher, you’ll offer few things as important as your enthusiasm. We’ve known new special education teachers who wow us with the excitement they bring to their classrooms. We have also worked with seasoned veterans who have maintained that passion for teaching after decades in the field. Our children become energized by their teachers’ enthusiasm. We see it each afternoon when they get home.

They say patience is a virtue, and this is true for special education teachers. We know the frustration that comes with not understanding what our kids are trying to communicate, including basic needs such as hunger or pain. We’re also aware these children don’t always advance as quickly as any of us would like. Each of them has a distinctive life-path, and in times of darkness you can shine a light to help them (and our families) along.

As the parent of a beautiful daughter with multiple disabilities, I can only admire and thank you for choosing this direction. Like any career, sometimes it will feel bureaucratic or will leave you weary. But you will make a difference for these singular people, and for their families. And in the end, I believe the experience will transform your life not only for the better, but for the best.

Sincerely,

Paul

This week, I once again have the privilege of participating on a panel of parents and professionals speaking with underclassmen in the Seton Hall special education program. This letter is intended for them, and for the many thousands of young people like them across the nation and around the world.

From the beginning, one thing that surprised me was the paperwork. For an industry filled with so many intelligent people, the bureaucracy is incredible. And one striking example is the medical history.

In Gabriella’s first three years, we spent a lot of time in hospitals. Sometimes we scheduled the appointments in advance, as for her many surgeries; other times, we rushed her to the ER. In every case, a resident or a med student met us with a clipboard.

“Can I ask you a few questions?”

They inquired about her diagnosis (or lack thereof) and the different ways her condition manifested itself. As a physician assistant, Lisa is comfortable with the language, and she would list them out – bilateral hip dislocation, hypotonia, osteopenia – and I would nod and pretend I remembered what those words meant. The resident would dutifully scribble on his pad, a kid younger than us, and I would wonder whether he knew either.

Then he’d move on to medicines, prior hospitalizations, surgeries, allergies (even I had this one after a while: “Lamictal. Yes, only lamictal.”). Luckily, they never asked me what lamictal was.

They would ask about Gabriella’s doctors. “What does she see her for? Do you have a phone number?” At last the resident smiled and nodded, and off he went.

A few hours later, another young person in scrubs would come in with a yellow pad. “Can I ask you a few questions?” Again? It didn’t matter that we pointed out that the medical student had gathered answers to all the same questions. She was just doing her job. With a regretful face, she would sit and inquire after the diagnosis.

As the hospitalizations piled up and the process became more wearying, there was also more to talk about. More surgeries, more pediatric specialists, more meds, more more.

One day, driving home after another stay, exhausted and complaining about the interns and nurses and med students with their legal pads, Lisa said, “What if we just printed out a copy of her medical history?” And that’s what we did. We’ve maintained both a detailed version and a one-page summary for nearly twenty years, including:

• Diagnosis – while Gabriella has an undiagnosed genetic syndrome, we include the many manifestations of her condition
• Past Hospitalizations and Surgical History (organized sequentially with dates) – hospital, doctor(s), reason
• Test Results – sleep studies, upper GI endoscopies, overnight oximetry study, etc. – again, date and location and relevant practitioners
• Current Meds – including current dosage for each
• Allergies and Sensitivities – not only the allergy to lamictal (still the only one), but her difficult airway
• MD List – specialty, address, office phone number

Lisa takes it one step further by keeping what is essentially a medical chart, a notebook capturing the salient points for every one of Gabriella’s medical appointments, supplemented by a detailed seizure log. That becomes the source of updated information in the medical history.

We recommend to others who make frequent hospital visits (whether for a child, an aging parent or themselves) that they document the medical history in a similar fashion.

Now when the young person in scrubs peeks into our room and says, “Can I ask you a few questions?” we reach into Gabriella’s bag and produce the medical history. “Oh!” they say. After a quick scan, they dash off to enter the relevant information into their system.

I don’t know who’s happier, them or us.