Peter Ullrich, Tutor

6 a.m. approaches quickly on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In June the sky has a touch of blue and the birds are singing, but the winter months prove more difficult as the cold tempts me to stay wrapped under the covers. Nonetheless, I rise, brush my teeth, dress, make breakfast—coffee and oatmeal—grab my keys, and head to work. A podcast on Misguided Medical History accompanies me as I pull into the Lange’s driveway. Christopher Lange is asleep when I enter his room, but he wakes when I turn on the light and tap him on the shoulder, and he greets me with a smile and chuckle. Christopher has cerebral palsy, and, though he is 19 years old, has the mental development equivalent to a roughly 19-month-old child. It’s an easy job because he is a person who, despite his disability, always seems to find joy in life—from the sheer awe of a grocery store errand to the true fascination he has in listening to music. While my role with him involves many operational tasks—bathing, feeding, changing, etc.—our relationship carries a certain bond that I share with no other person in my life. On one particular morning as I wiggle his jeans up to his waste, he grabs my hand and places it on his chest. I give it a small rub and a smile sneaks onto his face. His signs of affection were not always so clear to me, but after a few years with him I understand what he is communicating—I try my best to tell him that I enjoy being with him too. It's this bond that makes me proud to be his caretaker and teacher.