Geri, the kickass advocate, reorganized the disaster of an IEP and sent the revised version to my school district late on Thursday. The case manager responded Friday morning by stating that she wanted to go with the original, messed-up version. “That‘s the District’s offer.”

I didn’t want to sign a document that contained conflicting reports and left out important changes. I knew Geri would kill me if I even thought about it. But I was getting nervous. What should we do given the current stalemate?

At the IEP meeting on Tuesday, we had agreed that Katie would start her trial run in the Pleasanton classroom the following Monday. Pleasanton had already hired an aide for Katie, and we had scheduled a classroom visit for that afternoon to help ease the transition. But without a signed agreement, Katie couldn’t transfer to the Pleasanton School District.  Plus, when the case manager responded to Geri’s email, she confirmed the classroom visit—but at a different time than the one we had agreed to on Tuesday.

I called the Pleasanton teacher, the delightful Ms. Nav, and we decided to proceed as planned. She would visit Mr. F’s class that morning to do her observation. I would pull Katie out early and take her to Pleasanton to check out her new classroom and classmates. While waiting, I could fill out yet another stack of registration paperwork. Ms. Nav was thrilled that Geri had cleaned up the IEP. I think the term “hot mess” was used. Interestingly, Ms. Nav had been told the correct meeting time by the case manager.

I called Geri to fill her in and she informed me that the case manager was out sick. She said she would call the other case manager as soon as she got off the phone with me. She also sent an email, copied to everyone, that said she was “surprised at the case manager’s response.” A long paragraph filled with legal citations followed. The translation: We could file for due process immediately and you guys WOULD LOSE.

I picked Katie up at school as planned. Her aide, Tammy, walked her out to meet me so I never got a chance to say goodbye to Mr. F or the other aides. Tammy hadn’t been told it was Katie’s last day and she burst into tears when she tried to say goodbye. The speech therapist walked past and soon she was crying too. Later she would tell me that Mr. F was close to tears as well. I’m sure the children were confused and upset. I wondered if anyone had prompted Katie to say goodbye to them. I wanted to say goodbye as well. But it seemed the school had decided to pretend the transfer wasn’t happening.

We hugged Tammy and I took Katie to the office to sign her out for the last time. The Secretary managed not to cry, but she hugged Katie for a long time and Katie let her. The principal, who I hadn’t seen since the IEP meeting, came out and walked us to the parking lot. I told him about the IEP chaos and he asked me to forward him the entire email chain, as well as any future documentation I thought he might “have use for.” He said he was sorry that changes could not be made in time to help Katie. But, he promised, “I’ll do everything in my power to ensure this never happens again to another child in this district.”

I don’t know if it’s in his power to change this level of dysfunction, but if anyone can make it happen, the principal can. I wish all school administrators were as transparent and committed.

I cried as I drove to Pleasanton. It felt like I was admitting defeat. Katie, on the other hand, was bouncing with excitement. Ms. Nav had made a BIG impression during the classroom observation. Katie was so focused on visiting Ms. Nav’s class that she ignored all of the crying and sadness as she left her old school. She couldn’t stop talking about Ms. Nav. I felt bad for Mr. F, who’d been cast off like an old shoe. I also wondered when reality would set in.

To be continued… 

NOTE: For those of you who missed the earlier parts to this story (or simply want to refresh your memory), you can find them here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, and Part 8. My IEP stories are never short.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton