This year, let's give thanks for integrity

$8,135.26.

That was the amount of the check addressed to Choua Yang and her husband, Xiong Xiong. The check, a government tax credit for the purchase of a home, arrived at their St. Paul address several weeks ago, a princely sum that could lighten the unbearable load they have carried since moving to the United States four years ago.

But Yang, who speaks little English, didn't cash it. She knew it was a mistake. Last week, in front of her teary-eyed social worker and a Hmong interpreter, Yang learned how to write a new word in English: VOID.

"Often in my job, I feel helpless," said Rose Sheggeby, a social worker at Gillette Children's Specialty Healthcare in St. Paul, who has been assisting Yang, 32, and her family of four children, ages 17, 8, 5 and 2.

Sheggeby said she has never seen one family facing so much heartache. "It embarrasses me and makes me feel sad," said Sheggeby. She said that Yang has followed up on nearly 10 leads for potential assistance and, yet, still comes up empty. "She's tried to do everything she can," Sheggeby said.

Yang, who was born in Laos, came to Minnesota to join extended family who promised her and Xiong a better life. They found their way to Gillette because their 8-year-old daughter, Panhia, has cerebral palsy, seizures and is a quadriplegic. They rented a duplex in St. Paul where a bug infestation became so bad that they had to get rid of all their furniture and sleep on the floor. Yang would hold her infant son and Panhia on her chest to protect them.

Two years ago, at a medical clinic where Panhia was receiving treatment, Yang's purse was stolen. Gone: $600 in cash for rent, her Social Security card, the family's Green Cards -- and enough information for someone to steal her identity.

Yang begged Sheggeby to find them "a house where I can take care of my kids." She is, Sheggeby said, "a great mom." They found another duplex in St. Paul to rent. It is tiny and has no ramp for Panhia's wheelchair. Sheggeby found them some couches, circa 1970. Not surprisingly, the couple's relationship is strained. They continue to live on eggshells.

Then the $8,135.26 check arrived, dated Oct. 25, forwarded from their previous address.

Yang opened it and felt afraid. Not because of anything she had done, but because she had never seen a number so large. Of course, she could have gotten into miserable trouble for trying to cash it. Or maybe no one would ever have known.

The point is that it never occurred to her to try, Sheggeby said. "Choua doesn't understand identity theft," Sheggeby said. "Her read on it was that this check belongs to someone else and she wants to try to find the person who is supposed to have this money."

A week ago, Sheggeby and the interpreter took Yang through the steps of making things right. Yang wrote VOID on the check. In between, she gently cooed to Panhia, wrapped in blankets in her wheelchair.

"You have done nothing wrong," Sheggeby assured her.

And then, out of Yang's earshot, Sheggeby shook her head. "If I had $8,000 given to me, what would I do?"