Dyscalculia is usually inherited and can be inherited even from, as in my case, family members who are math geniuses or have a lesser form of Dyscalculia. My Mom is an ICU nurse, my Dad has his B.S. and Master's degree in Engineering and a PhD, my Grandfather was Dean of Engineering at Purdue University/University of South Carolina, accomplished much in his career, and still writes out trig problems for fun, my Grandmother retired from nursing, my Uncle is one of the top nuclear physicists in the world, my Aunt is a gifted math and science teacher, and the list goes on and on. So how and why did this happen? I have no idea besides inheritance, but I developed a form that is much more severe than the people in my family who have it to a lesser degree. I am the only one out of the three cousins to have this (I do not have any biological siblings), but from observations within my family, it seems to effect those of us that are the first born of a new generation. I am the first born out of the three of us.
Here is my story.
"Sarah, please, distinguish between your left and your right hand," a preschool teacher asked me at the vulnerable preschool age of 4 after six or seven times.
"No." I said as I shook my head in utter defiance.
I knew that this very nice lady was trying to make me pass a test, but I knew, even then, that I did not know my left from my right, even though I'd gone over it a billions times with my preschool teachers. After struggling with me for the past couple of tries, she gave in and checked the "passed" box. I thus progressed to kindergarten.
It was nap time in kindergarten, which I hated; not because of the sleep, but because I was always too cold to sleep on the mat, despite my blankets. My kindergarten teacher knew this, so she would always make me take my tests during nap time. I distinctly remember one afternoon when she called me up to her desk and asked for me to count to as high as I could.
"1....2...3...4...5....6....7...8..9.........10. 11. 12." I recited.
"Keep going. I want you to stop when you think you can't go any further," she said.
My eyes glazed over.
"That's how far numbers go. Those are the only numbers that my Daddy tells me when I ask him for the time," I replied, completely puzzled.
"Sarah, you need to be able to count higher before the first grade. You should at least be able to count to 100."
One hundred? Huh? What's that?
Right after me, another nap time insomniac was called up to take his number counting test. I remember sitting up on the mat, legs crossed, and listened to him count, as if he was the one teaching me.
"1.....10....60.....100.....120.....130.....200.....210..," and he kept going, filling in every number in between.
I didn't know what to think. To be honest, I was really sad because I felt that the numbers that Daddy used to tell time had their own personalities; their own colors, really. My mind suddenly stopped when I heard other numbers past 12.
First grade went by pretty smoothly, besides having a tonsillectomy, a ruptured tonsillectomy, strep throat 21 times in 6 months, and the chicken pox. I had an amazing first grade teacher that was always willing to help. Most of my math problems were word problems, therefore I did not have that much trouble with them. However, there were times that my sister, a math wiz, would have to sit down and help me after school.
I remember sitting in my second grade classroom, looking at addition and subtraction timed tests, wondering which symbol was which and what rules applied to what. My second grade teacher was also an amazing lady who really taught the material in a very understanding manner and would help me any time I asked. However, this would be the beginning of my acknowledgment of my problem that would also turn into a reoccurring night terror following my high school graduation.
Stay tuned for The Beginning Part 2 where I will discuss when Dyscalculia really started to show through.
Once again, Happy Dyscalculia Day. Speak up and Raise Awareness!
Sarah
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