Bob's Bounce Back

When I was hired with my current agency, I was coming off a one year contract with the Red Cross. I had been with the Red Cross when Hurricane Katrina hit, and my agency was one of the first in town to offer assistance to the many survivors who drove until they could find an available hotel room

There was one man who worked with us, Bob Foster, who proved to be particularly challenging. He'd had a lifetime of mental illness and, except for the six years that Bob served in the Army as a mechanic, he had lived his whole life in New Orleans, safe in the supportive nest of family and long-time friends who understood his mental illnesses and could check up on him and assist him as needed. More importantly, his employer understood how to work with him, and he was able to live independently with the means to support himself.

On the morning after Katrina pushed over the region, Bob got up to sweep the leaves from his porch that had been scattered by the hurricane winds. Suddenly, he heard a loud booming sound that was very upsetting to him, as it sounded almost identical to bombs that he had heard in the military. In the half hour that followed, he noticed that a great silence had spread over his neighborhood, as the dogs stopped barking, the birds stopped chirping, and no cars sped by on the local freeway. Within another 30 minutes, he could hear the voices of his surprised neighbors as they discovered that the water pipes in their apartment complex had broken. Several minutes later, the electric power went off.

Confused and in the dark, Bob and his neighbors attempted to make sense of the domino occurrences. Then water began to creep into the street, the parking lot, the yard. The water rose from the ground to cover the base of the apartment, and then slipped uninvited into the building. Cold water stung unprepared toes as it seeped into individual apartments and began to cover the floors. Over the course of that first day, the water rose past the first floor and began to flood the second floor and into Bob’s apartment. At first he tried to mop the water up, however, he soon realized the futility of his efforts as the water climbed, unchecked, over his possessions. To escape, he climbed from his balcony to the roof of the building where he sat without food or water for two days until he was rescued by the Wildlife Fishermen.

He was airlifted to safety and then on to Illinois, where he learned that the deluge of water was not caused by broken pipes, but by a breached levee. In fact, the bomb-like sound that he had heard was the sound of the levee breaking. His entire neighborhood was underwater. He did not know where his family or neighbors were, he did not have the medications he required, he no longer had his job and he knew no one. Bob’s nest had blown apart.

Bob came to town to receive the assistance that was beginning to be made available to Katrina survivors by various agencies like mine. Furthermore, he took advantage of various programs available to him to secure permanent employment. Despite this, for many years, he struggled. He had to build a completely new home, and this took a lot of time and patience, particularly trying to get his medication in order and his symptoms under control.

So many years later, he still comes in for lunch from time to time, and we greet each other like old friends. I rarely have the opportunity to know my guys over time, particularly who have recovered so successfully. He is lucid and logical, and it warms my heart to see how well he doing, knowing how far he's come.

Simple day

Yesterday was a peaceful day. I took a puzzle to the dining room and began working on it, inviting others to participate. One man joined me, new to our program, newly homeless, and we talked and cracked jokes about his current circumstances. Next to us was a small group of people who like to draw. They had pulled out the Center's supply of colored pencils and paints, and were discussing color schemes and creating different pictures. At the next table over, another small circle sat drinking coffee together, telling jokes and tall tales.

There was no treatment, no talk of trauma or using, just laughing and imagining. Just people. Just a community.

Watch out - gorilla crossing!

One of my guys came back to visit me today. He has long since stopped coming because he started taking classes at a trade school. I helped him write essays for financial aid applications to begin there, several of which he received, and we worked hard together before he left.

When he first began with me, got some clean time and started to make plans about school, he kept talking about "attacking" his schoolwork with everything he could, with such strength that would completely change his life. He said, "Look Miss Sarah - I got enough things going against me. I'm a felon, and I'm black. I need to start stacking the cards in my favor. I'm goin' in there to attack like a goRILLa, (with the emphasis on the second syllable)." As I'm also in school, he frequently used that description as I told him stories about it.

Throughout the past year, he'd drop by for lunch on occasion, and we'd greet each other by raising our hands over our shoulders in a flexing gesture and growling: GoRILLa. He's at the top of his class, and he has gained a lot of respect, especially for himself. We'd swap stories about projects or classes we were taking, and this characterization would frequently came into our descriptions.

To do your best at something, to attack it vigorously. I hope that for all of us.

Six months later

I can't believe it's almost over, after six months. All the planning and worrying and hoping before my practicum, then the practicum itself - still working, taking a class, taking a pay cut, missing family events... Now it's over and I've been granted a two month reprieve before a new semester begins.

I've been reflecting on the first saturday that I was working in this new schedule, and a doctor stopped me to help a woman he found in the highway. I wondered if today would have a similar experience, kind of like bookends. When this first started, though I was anxious, I was incredibly and suprisingly relieved to be away from my current position, and I realized how completely involved I was with my clients and their world. It was scary to realize how wrapped up I was with the homeless circuit, because it was hard to get away from. It was actually kind of draining, and as I started this practicum, I felt revived, like wind had been put back into my sails. I started to remember other interests I have and feel like I could do something about them, an emboldening fire that drives me when I'm really amped about something. I felt that fire several times during my project, doing a little anti-payday lending work, organizing with other professionals, asking questions, thinking about the direction of my career. I like that fire, put trust in it and gravitate towards it. It was good to be reminded.

There are so many ways to work for social justice besides being 'with' people in their pain and their efforts to overcome and recover. It's good to be reminded, and I look forward to beginning new ways.

Unexpected privilege

How quickly a day can change, how quickly a life can change.

I was heading to work yesterday, Saturday, preparing myself to begin an overwhelming six months of work, internship, and a law class. I had just gotten a wicked speeding ticket from an extremely nice state patrolman, and the morning wind was bitter.

As I got out of the car on the side of the agency, a man in a dark blue jacket and the blue pajamas of a doctor met me on the sidewalk. His phone was open and I could hear the on-hold music through the receiver.

"Excuse me, do you work here?" he asked and I nodded. "Please help me; I... I don't... I'm a doctor at Barnes Hospital and I was working last night. I got off at 4 am and was driving home, and I found a woman in the middle of 64 (the local highway). I've been trying to get in touch with someone who can help," he pointed helplessly at his unanswered phone, "and somebody told me to come here - that you're a homeless shelter?" My agency isn't a really a shelter, but that wasn't the point. Again I nodded, noting his uncertainty and following his lead. He said, "Come and see; she's still in my car."

By this point, we began walking around the building to his car. The wind was whipping around us furiously, and bitingly cold. He continued, "I'm not a social worker, and I don't know what to do. I picked her up and just drove around; she couldn't talk. I didn't know what to do, so I just drove. I went to Hardee's and spent a few hours drinking coffee while she slept." he said. "I'm going on no sleep, and I didn't know what else to do."

He was clearly anxious and it seemed like he had about reached his stress limit, so I tried to calm him. "We're not really a shelter, just have a few cots for women, but it was the right thing to bring her here. We can help." He pointed again to his phone. "I heard that she can't get into anywhere without a referral, I'm just..." he began, and I again reassured him, hoping to settle his nervousness.

We reached his car, and I looked fruitlessly through the window for another person. He opened his driver's side door, and I saw see a bundle of coats slumped against the passenger door. We both stood by his open door, and he leaned in to wake her. "Maria? Maria?" After several moments, she was roused, and he circled around to the passenger door to help her get out and told her that he had found a place where she could receive help. Very groggy, she got out of the car and stumbled while trying to pull her too-big jeans up. I asked her a few questions, but she had trouble answering them. I told her my name, and told her where she was. "Can we go somewhere out of the cold?" she asked, one of the first coherent things I'd heard her say. As I led them both into the building, I asked her some basic questions, trying to learn about her and also trying to ascertain if she was under the influence or ill. The doctor was following behind us, juggling a sandwich and coffee he had bought for her with his phone.

We entered the building and I took them upstairs to the day center. I showed Maria where she could sit, pointed out the coffee pot, and told her we would be serving breakfast soon. I went back into my office where the doctor was waiting on his phone, and when I entered he asked me, "Do I still need to be on here?" I told him she could call herself from my building, that she would be warm and safe all during the day. He hung up slowly; tears were brimming in his eyes. "Let's exchange contact information in case you need to get a hold of me," he said, "and let me have your card; maybe my wife can call you when she asks where I've been all night," he finished jokingly, yet mirthlessly. I took his name and number and gave him my card.

He turned away, and then quickly turned back to me. "Do you guys take donations?" he asked, catching me off guard. After I told him we did, he quickly pulled out his wallet and selected several bills and gave them to me. I didn't really know what to say to this, after all he had just done for a stranger. I just thanked him, knowing that was inadequate.

He didn't say anything, but just stood staring blankly for a few seconds before quickly leaving my office. He might have been having trouble leaving Maria, especially after having cared for her all night. I caught up with him at the security lock and buzzed him through. I led him down to the hall to the stairway, and when we reached the top of the stairs, he slowed to a stop and turned to me, staring over my shoulder. Tears were again forming in his eyes, and he opened his mouth as though to speak. After a few minutes of not finding the words, he gave up and began to go downstairs. After a few steps, he again stopped turned to me, and again, stared over my shoulder. "I don't do this kind of thing," he said softly, shaking his head. "I diagnose brain tumors in children, but I don't..." he trailed off. He went down a few more steps, and again stopped and turned to me. We stood silently for another minute, after which he quickly went the rest of the way downstairs and fled the building without another word.

After saying a few words of prayer of thanks for being able to witness such humble and selfless care of another human being, a stranger, I went back upstairs to check on Maria and help her get settled. She ate breakfast and slept until lunch when she awoke and was able to speak more clearly. I finally got a better idea about what she might need help with. She told me she didn't think she could eat for fear of vomiting, and she was feeling more and more agitated, a token of the DTs of alcohol withdrawal. She said she'd never been in treatment before, and she said no. "I've tried to quit," she said, "but by the time I get to this point, I get another drink." She quietly stared in the distance. "I don't know," she said, "maybe this is God's way of telling me I should quit now."

As the day went on, Maria became more and more lucid and sober, though her legs began to jerk uncontrollably, another symptom of DTs. We took her to the agency clothing room to get her a change of clothes, and also some toiletries and a shower, after which we talked more about what was going on with her. "I don't even know how that man found me," she said, having completely blacked out. I said, "Maria, it was 4 am, and you were walking in the middle of the highway." Her expression became one of frozen disbelief, and I continued. "He stayed up with you for the rest of the night until he found us and could get you help."

*****

This is the kind of event that has the potential to change a person's life. I don't yet know what change this will have on Maria's life, though I suspect that it will, at the very least, stay with her, as it will certainly stay with the doctor, and me as well. What an unexpected privilege to have witnessed it and been a part of it.

Mental Health Hero nomination

A department within this state (I forget which one) runs a little contest each year for the Mental Health Champion in which the case worker writes about a client with a mental illness, their recovery, and the ways in which they inspire other people. There is a recognition ceremony
in the capital for them, and a little prize as well. Most importantly, they get recognized for how special they are to have not given up, to have continued working. There is a woman I've written about before on this blog, Shalle, who I nominated this year. I haven't yet heard if she's won, but I wanted to share what the nomination essay.

Shalle is a mental health champion for both the recovery in her own life and the effect her spirit has on others. Even without bipolar disorder, the forces that threatened Shalle’s successful life chances were great. Raised by a single addicted mother, she began abusing crack herself when she was 13, and for almost 20 years, perpetuated the family pattern of drug abuse and prostitution. In 2008, this combination left her pregnant with her second daughter. She felt compelled, for the first time, to seek a new way of life, foreign to her, in which her coming child would be spared the drama and trauma of her own childhood. She had no example to follow, but began to take tentative first steps towards adulthood.

She again quit using drugs, for the final time, the most important time, and moved into a homeless shelter. She began to access and utilize services available to a pregnant woman and prepare for her coming daughter. She tenaciously adhered to the medication requirements through the uncomfortable give and take of different combinations, and she faithfully attended 12-step meetings. Most importantly, in the face of loneliness and rejection, she began to seek out a different social support system, one that did not glorify the street life.

Upon her daughter’s birth, some well-meaning family members, unaware of Shalle’s budding transformation, involved child protective services for fear of possible mistreatment. There was little chance of this, however, as her motivation to succeed was renewed every time she saw her baby. With the help of local agencies, she secured an apartment, took parenting classes and maintained the many DFS requirements necessary to keep her child. She did such a good job that, at the end of September, DFS decided that she no longer needed their supervision.

During this time, she began to work small jobs, particularly around the mental health center she attends daily. They gave her a small job of doing other clients’ laundry in exchange for a small stipend, a position reserved for someone mature and trustworthy. During this time, she has grown in self-confidence and self-respect, and she treats every person she helps with dignity and care. She continues to fearlessly face her own emotions, insecurities, fears, and ghosts of the past that continually threaten her sobriety. Finally, she is also reaching out to her elder daughter, who followed in her own footsteps of life on the street.

She faithfully and bravely works to reach her goals of sanity and self-discovery. Even in the face of disappointments, she perseveres. She is a model for others of a successful transition from a drug abusing mentally ill woman wrapped up in prostitution, to an independent sober parent. The changes that Shalle is continuing to make in her life and the way she bravely shares them with others makes her the local mental health champion. People look up to her as proof that the sober life can be achieved. She has done it with perseverance, humility, dignity and class.

I knew I wrote him!

Kent is a man who has been around my center for many many years. His attempts for sobriety have been sporadic, and even now, is not total, however, he has stopped smoking crack and, though still drinking, doing it less. A simple man, its sometimes difficult to talk to him, and I have frequently mistaken this as a reticence to talk to me, but over time, I think I understand him a little better, and our relationship has solidified into one of humor. He's quiet and self-conscious about his missing teeth, which prevents him from smiling broadly, so it usually takes him a little while before he feels comfortable saying something.
My agency organizes Christmas giveaway for our clients who usually fill out an anonymous form with shoe and clothing sizes for themselves and their children, as well as special toy requests. For our department's guys, since they don't have any place to store gifts, we ask for gift cards, and each counselor gives them to their clients. We also ask them to write a thank you note for the donor. I caught Kent on his way through my office to give him his. I said, "Santa came and left a gift for you." He said, "Did he? I knew I wrote him!"
This was such a quick response and one so witty that it still calls up a chuckle and was a good beginning to the holiday weekend.