Monday, January 30, 2006

Just call me Lumpy

This morning, I bumped this crap out of my head while at work. It immediately led to a lump like they show on cartoons. I’m not kidding. By the time I picked myself up off the floor, the lump was already taking over my head. I saw cartoon stars, too.

While holding ice on my head, I thought about all the weird injuries I’ve had in my life. My ex-father-in-law (that’s a whole ‘nother story) used to say that if there were a door slamming shut within a 25-mile radius, one of my fingers would be in it. God love ya, Wes.

Did I mention I whacked my head on the overhead garage door yesterday? Maybe I'm supposed to be getting a message from the universe....

I'm NOT proud to say I’ve been knocked silly more times than I can remember. (My poor brain.) I knocked my head so hard on a tampon machine once I couldn’t get up for a few minutes. That was a work-related injury. Thank god I didn’t need any workman’s comp for that—can you imagine filling out the forms indicating I hit my head on a tampon machine? Sports injuries I can understand. I’ve been kicked in the head while playing softball and have been knocked unconscious when the male short stop beaned me in the back of the head when I was running to third base. I’ve needed stitches & got a concussion after getting hit in the face with a softball—and, I was coaching, not playing. I’ve had a broken jaw and wrist in softball and a broken sternum from basketball. (I didn’t even know you could break a sternum.) I burst a bursa in my knee when I wasn’t paying attention during softball practice—took a softball right to the knee. Yeow! Sports injuries are to be expected. But things like hitting hit my head on a wall when knocked over during a panty raid, I don’t understand. That’s right—a panty raid.

One of my favorite sports injuries led to a herniated disk in my neck. I was jogging to work one morning—being healthy, I guess—carrying time cards to the office while jogging. I tripped over a curb and went flying. Now, I didn’t trip on some side street. No, I tripped on the corner of one of the town’s busiest corners during the busiest time of the morning. I was airborne in front of all these cars waiting for the stoplight. Time cards went flying everywhere. I came down on my face. I’m sure it was very entertaining. I just about had to crawl to work after that one.

Part of my problem is that I don’t have peripheral vision—I’m so near sighted I can’t see anything not directly through my glasses in front of me. Part of the problem is that I’m a klutz and don’t pay attention to things like tampon machines and curbs.

My head’s fine, thanks for asking. Yeah, I know you’re saying “Hope it knocked some sense into you.” Don’t worry—it didn’t.

Friday, January 27, 2006

A Day in the Life: What Frecks and Lucy do all day

Beg, beg, pee, beg, eat, walk, beg, eat, beg, poop, sleep, beg.The end.

How Stella Got her Groove Back...at Walgreens

(Okay, so that's not a photo of Stella. It's my great-great-maternal something or other. Use your imagination and pretend it's Stella. Both have passed on, so I don't think either will mind I'm using this photo to represent Stella. They might come and haunt me tonight, but I'll take my chances. And, there's nothing really funny about a Xanax addict, but I couldn't resist blogging about Stella....I loved Stella. Think of it as my tribute to her.)

Stella was a 72 year-old, short Italian Xanax addict on my caseload. She looked so meek, mild, innocent...but, when I say Xanax addict, I mean it. Stella's life revolved around taking her Xanax and avoiding constipation. She may have been short and elderly, but that didn't stop Stella from getting what she wanted. Nothing else in life mattered but those two things.

For those not in the know, Xanax is an extremely addictive anti-anxiety medication used for those with panic attacks and/or anxiety. In this case, it was staff that needed Xanax after dealing with Stella. I don't know who started Stella on Xanax--it wasn't our agency--but, whoever it was should be slapped. Stella LOVED Xanax. She doctor-hopped to get what she wanted.

As Stella's Case Manager, my job was to make sure she got her prescriptions from our agency as prescribed (not as she liked, which would have been an unlimited supply of Xanax). I'd accompany her to the psychiatrist appointments, drive her to the pharmacy and then take her home. She was a terror in those appointments--demanding more Xanax for the prescription. Stella was fierce. Demanding. Desperate. Focused. She could wear down the strongest of professionals. Still, our psychiatrist held firm. Stella would scream, yell, cry, threaten. You haven't lived until you've seen a 72 year-old lady jones for Xanax.

Stella did everything in her power never to be constipated. To her, if you didn't have three bowel movements in a day, you were constipated. It didn't matter what any doctor said. She was determined to keep things moving down there. Poop and Xanax, poop and Xanax. I got my Master's Degree for this?

I never went in to the pharmacy--I sat in the car and waited for her. I figured it was safer that way and she was definitely able to take care of herself.

One day, for some unknown reason, I decided to accompany Stella into the Walgreens. She needed to fill yet again another Xanax prescription. As we entered, I swear I saw staff run... kind of like the parting of the seas or like when you turn on the light and cockroaches go flying. I saw sheer terror in the eyes of staff when the saw Stella. She walked boldly toward the pharmacist. I saw sweat start to bead on his forehead before we ever even got to to the counter. Stella boldly shoved the prescription to the man. He trembled. "Stella, you know I can't fill this," he meekly spit out. Stella stood taller than I've ever seen--she was 4'9" but she looked like Goliath. It was very obvious Stella knew this man and he knew her. "I WANT MY XANAX!" she screamed. I don't mean a little scream; I mean a big, loud, blood-curtling scream. She took control of that Walgreens. I was horrified in a "can't-look-away-from-the-train-wreck" kind of way. She basically threw herself on the ground, cried, and screamed. The pharmacist kept repeating himself; she kept screaming. Stella was going for the gold.

I was able to talk to the pharmacist between her screams, asking what the hell was going on. Seems Stella had it going on...she was doctor-hopping and this was her umteenth prescription for this month alone. She would have to pay in cash if she wanted this prescription and she didn't have cash.

I was stunned. I had no idea. Naughty Stella. No wonder she couldn't get her prescription filled. Stella announced she was taking the Walgreens hostage. Really. She screamed she wasn't leaving until she got her Xanax prescription filled. She meant it.

I have never felt so helpless in my life. I couldn't pick her up and carry her out. She wasn't budging. Stella took control of the situation. No staff was in sight. Should I call the police? Run while I could? Ask for Xanax myself? No, I thought I'd wait it out.

Big mistake. Stella didn't move. She had the power. She was in control. She had Walgreens by the balls.

Turns out the only thing that worked was the pharmacist calling her daughter. This savior of an offspring came to the store and removed her mom--after paying cash for the Xanax. Ah, the hero enabler! I have never been so happy to see an enabler in my life. Stella was banned from that Walgreens from that moment on. She also dropped out of sight and off my caseload after she was denied a prescription for Xanax...doctor hopping is not a good thing to do in the mind of the psychiatrist....

Stella's passed on since then. She was an addict right to the end and she pooped three times a day, come hell or high water. I loved Stella. She taught me NEVER to take Xanax for any reason and that it's good to be regular. Words to live by.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

Photos from the Addiverse: January 2006

What up, dog? Freckles ALWAYS closes her eyes when I try and take a picture of her. It's like a talent. Lucy is seen guarding the favorite mitten; and, FWP wondering why LBP has the "Boodah" doll.
(For the more stories about Frecks and Lucy, go back to December & January entries. They are what the Addiverse revolves around. Woof!)

Photos of the Xenaverse, not to be confused with the Addiverse. Just a few shots of one or two Xena collectibles. It's an illness. From bobble-head Xena to autographed photos, Xena hoards tons of space in the basement. It's a good thing.

Here's some scary art I've been working on. It's more art therapy than art, but it's cheaper than going to therapy and it looks good on a coffee table. Yes, those are trolls. These two pieces are part of a tryptic--I call the piece "Tri-cycle" because there are three pieces to the whole and because of the word cycle, which relates to the cycle of mental illness and the number three is my favorite number. I'll leave the rest up to you to decipher. My artwork is almost scarier than the Xena collecting thing, but not quite.


Shoe-be-do-be-do....here are some photos of the wife's shoes. Why? Why not, I say. Shoes are mighty important, aren't they? She's got a lot of them, but here's a quick selection of the ones she wears more often than not. And, here's yet another photo of Freckles with her eyes closed. How does she do that every time?

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Couch Potato with Chin Hair

Now that I have a new and improved attitude about work (read: I'm not working 24 hours a day, don't bring work home, make sure to take lunch, leave on time, if not a wee bit early), I have all this time on my hands. I get home from work around 4 PM and go to bed around 9 PM. That leaves me five glorious hours to watch TV and be a couch potato.

This couch potato thing is very foreign to me. I'm used to spending my evenings working on this or that. I never watched very much television--just Xena Warrior Princess and the Weather Channel. The well-earned free time has left me watching daily reruns of "Charmed" (who knew those witches were entertaining and so scantily clad?), "Pardon the Interruption" on ESPN and whatever fluff is on during Prime Time. I'm even learning what to wear on "What Not to Wear." If only Xena reruns were on when I am not at work. Here's me with the remote, flipping back and forth from "Charmed" to "Pardon the Interruption." What a life!



I'm sitting so long in front of the TV each day that I'm growing pimples on my butt. Step away from that remote!

On a stranger, even sadder note, I have discovered that my chin hairs are out of control. (They don't tell you about all those weird hairs you get as you get older.) Since crossing the border of the big Four-Oh, I've had a chin hair here or there. On this new medication, I'm sprouting them like they're on Miracle Grow. Whenever I'm not watching TV, I'm in the bathroom plucking yet another chin hair or two. Where the hell do these things come from? Why are they so THICK? Why are they so black? Will I get so many that I have to shave? Where else will I develop this devilish hairs? I'd ignore them but they scream out for attention.

Besides, I can't stop playing with those nasty hairs when I am watching all that TV.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

YOU SPIN ME ROUND AND ROUND

It's a nice, quite, snowy Saturday. I thought I'd take this time to tell another on-the-job tale. (Remember--I tell this story with no malice toward the mentally ill. I'm right there with the clients I serve--crazy. Have a sense of humor and leave your PC at the door. And, the photo is from megpickard on Flickr. Makes me wanna puke on the merry-go-round.)

On the Mental Health-related job, I have been faced with many situations (um, mostly focused on client activity, but some because of staff behavior—it’s a fine line between staff and client): a naked client living in a port-a-potty; a young man wearing nothing but a washcloth (strategically placed) in the emergency room; a client purposefully shitting all over the bathroom walls and floor; telling someone he needs to wash his very stinky butt crack. But, I don’t think I have ever been as traumatized as I was the day a client got stuck on the merry-go-round at the area amusement park.

Why I agree to take a busload of clients to Great America in the first place is a mystery to me. I loathe Great America, with its crowd, hot weather and high prices and long lines—and, that part is only after surviving a long, painful school-bus ride with whining about wanting to stop and smoke and fill up on cholesterol. Imagine standing in line waiting to ride Batman while hearing voices and experiencing paranoia, then imagine spending your week’s allowance on lunch. But, that’s what they want to do, so that’s what we do.

I volunteer to stay with the “don’t-want-to-ride-the-rides-I’m-just-here-to-shop-and-eat-I’m-too-overweight-to-walk-far-got-developmental-disabilities-along-with-mental-illness” group, as I figure this to be the simplest use of my time and it would be the most fun. Of course, I never imagine we’ll never get beyond the park’s front entrance with the two story carousel, but that’s a different story.

Our first stop is—as always--the bathroom because everyone’s bladders are demanding attention. On the way to the bathroom, Mary announces she wants to ride the merry-go-round; I tell her we can do this after we shop a little and eat lunch. She asks again and again as we walk slowly to the bathroom; I continue to assure her we will ride the carousel as scheduled. Mary looks mad but she keeps walking to the bathroom—a good sign, as she could have thrown a huge hissy fit instead of following the group and refused to go to the rest room. She is still muttering about the ride as we enter the john. No sooner than I sit down to take advantage of my time in the bathroom, Mary starts screaming that she can’t get her pants untied without staff assistance (another case of polyester pants with a tie at the top, waistband pulled up to the boobs), even though she lives in an apartment by herself and has worn these pants for the last forty seven years of her life. Mary isn’t asking for help—she is screeching at the top of her lungs from within the stall, voice reverberating off the cement walls of the bathroom. I zip my pants up and go to her stall, assuring her I am right outside the stall but she insists she cannot get the knot out of her pants and thus can’t get her pants off to go to the bathroom. Patrons are staring at me, so I politely smile and whisper, “she has a disability;” they smile back with sympathy and stop staring so much at me and the stall with screams blaring from below. Mary announces loudly, “I have my period” and that she needs help with her Kotex. No, no, no. I got my master’s degree for this? I admit I roll my eyes and swear under my breath. I don’t have a god-blessed Kotex with me. Mary opens the door and I have no choice but to untie her pants and to try and calm her. She is already sweating—probably from all the yelling—and she’s got herself quite a knot in the pants. She tells me I have to stay in the stall while she goes to the bathroom; I politely decline but she insists, yelling that she needs my help. By now, we’ve cleared out the bathroom, which actually is to our advantage—no long lines, no problems finding a stall for anyone, no worries about getting to the sink. Mary pulls down her pants and I’m almost knocked unconscious with the stench that wafts my way. What is it with my clients and their polyester pants, unchanged underwear and poor bathing habits? I ask, “Mary, when is the last time you took a shower?” and she says something under her breath about last week. I believe her. I turn and gasp for air, backing slowly out of the stall. “Don’t you leave me,” she cries. I assure her I am just giving her privacy and breathe surreptitiously through my nose. I figure this will be the worst part of the trip—a fatal error—and wait for her to complete her duty. She hands me the used Kotex—my god, my god, why have you abandoned me?!—and announces she is done and needs help pulling her pants up. For god sakes, she knows how to do this and thus I refuse. This pisses her off but for some reason, she indulges me and doesn’t argue about it.

I stay with the remainder of the group while they use the facilities and take my eyes off of Mary for the moment. When I’ve counted my little group—all five are present—we turn to go shopping. Wait a minute—all FIVE are present? I had SIX when we came into the park. Mary. Mary is missing. With a heavy sigh, I tell everyone we are going to the merry-go-round, as I am sure that this is where she has gone. We stand staring at the ride, watching the horses go up and down, lights spinning in a circle, round and round and round…but, I don’t see Mary. It’s kind of hard to see as we are basically looking into the sun, so I figure we might have missed her. I instruct the group to go stand by the exit, as she’ll have to get off when the ride is over and we can meet her there. The ride stops, the people get off….no Mary. The ride starts, we stare at the horses, the ride stops, no Mary. After the fourth ride completes and everyone exits, I decide to ask the attendants if they have seen Mary, describing her in the nicest, most politically-correct-manner possible. The two young men laugh and point to the second level of the ride. “She’s up there,” they say, as they allow me on the ride. “We can’t help patrons—we can’t touch them.” I stopped to stare at them—what on earth are they talking about? “She’s stuck, says she can’t get off the horse,” the younger guy adds. “We can’t touch her—policy rules.” I’m incredulous. How does someone get stuck on a merry-go-ground horse?

Sure enough, I walk around the circle and there she is, on a white horse in the inner ring of the ride. No wonder we couldn’t see her from the ground. “I’m STUCK!” she screams. She is crying and sweating and her nose running all over her face. “I can’t get off the horse,” she adds, as if I can’t tell what she’s doing. She stands up on the horse, death grip on the gold pole. She sits immediately back down and begins screaming again. Parents are directing their children from the area. I go over to her and ask her to calm down and listen to me. “I can’t get off I can’t get off I can’t get off” she laments loudly. I tell her if she can get on the horse, she can get off the horse. I ask how she managed to get up there, anyway, but she has no answer. Mary is only focused on getting off the ride. I scratch my head, as she is indeed rather stuck. I am not strong enough to lift her off the horse by myself and the attendants can’t help me. I tell her to stand up and I step toward the horse—unfortunately, her crotch is directly at my nose level when she stands. I gag noticeably and my eyes automatically water. Jesus H. Christ! This is one smelled-up girl. I can barely hear her screaming any more because I am too busy just trying to stay conscious. I feel the room spin, then realize it’s just that the ride has started again. Now Mary is going up and down and is truly worked herself into a froth. I ask her to sit down and just wait for the ride to end. What the hell am I supposed to do? What seems like three days later, the ride ends and I begin to work frantically. I tell her to stand up; she does, then she sits right back down. I tell her to stand up and stay standing; she does and as I move toward her, I am gassed. I put my arms around her waist, bringing my face right smack dab in the danger zone. I tell her to lift her leg; she says she can’t. We do this THREE MORE TIMES; finally, by the grace of god or some other being, her leg makes it over the saddle and her weight falls on to me. I groan and my knees buckle but I’m so happy her crotch is no longer in my face. She hangs on to my neck and squeezes tightly. We work our way off the ride and meet her waiting peers. I am in no mood to talk to anyone and instead just point toward the parking lot.

After a two hour ride home, Mary announces she needs a ride home. I am fed up to THERE, irritated that Mary somehow has overlooked the need for transport home from the office. I tell her she can ride in my car and so she hops in the back seat. While driving, Mary complains of a smell in the car. I bite my tongue. She complains more, “this car really has a smell. What is that smell?” I open the windows and bite harder. I think my tongue is bleeding. The fourth time she says something I scream out, “IT’S YOU!” That shuts her up. It’s a very quiet ride home after that…until we pull up to Mary’s apartment and then asks if she can go to Great America again next year. I’m not sure what happened after that—I think I blanked out and hit my head repeatedly on the steering wheel......

Friday, January 20, 2006

Crusty Tattoos and More Dog Poop

The new tattoo is now at the point of being crusty, flaky and scabby. Mmm Mmmm. As you can imagine, the wife is NOT pleased about being asked to put some soothing balm on this mess. It's itchy. Way itchy. I have moments of wanting to rub my back on a tree in an effort to make the itching stop. (This is a photo of Freckles demonstrating how to scratch my back.)

The tattoo represents my three nieces. I'm all for NEVER tattooing ANYONE's name on your body, so I stick with representations (not that my nieces' names would ever be a worry) in cartoon fashion. (Immature? Probably. But, I'm a cartoonist and I love cartoons. One can never have too many cartoons, can they? Will I care when I'm 80 that I have all these cartoons all over my body? Probably not. I'm a weirdo now, I'll be a weirdo then).

Anyway, the tattoo is of Mickey (for niece #1), Spongebob (niece #2) and Goofy (niece #3). They'll always be with me this way--permanently. I like that. Now, if it would only stop ITCHING so damned much.

As for the dog poop, poor Lucy is back to having the runs (not that you really need to know this, but my life revolves around poop...truly). The reason is a mystery but the result is quite visible and stanky. (This drives the wife mad. What if poop shoots all over the house while we're gone?) Worse, Freckles managed to get a poop halfway in (or is it out?) of her butt during our morning walk today. Makes for a long walk. I reached down (I kid you not) and, using a baggie, pulled that little puppy right outta there. Managed to get some poop on her tail, so that didn't go as good as I had planned, but she seemed much happier when walking without that thing hanging out of her anus. (Dogs do have anuses, right? They don't have a doggie technical term for butt hole, do they?) The wife looked a bit terrified about the poop on the tail but never flinched when I was helping Freckles with her other problem. Now, the dogs are at home, probably sleeping--hopefully not shooting poop all over the new but de-virginalized rug. If that is happening, I guarantee the next blog will be about.....poop. More poop.
(where the poop comes from....)

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Lucy: Back in the dog house

Another day, another pile of poop on the new carpeting. As you can imagine, this does NOT go over well with the wife.

Poor Lucy. When she goes to the kennel, she cannot figure out how to poop on the cement; thus, she holds it all in (literally) until she gets home....then, she just let's it fly. Being the good dog that she is, she does everything in her power to hold it until she gets outside, but sometimes, it is impossible. Of course, if you are going to poop inside and you are a dog, you should always poop on the newest carpeting you can find. And, if you've held your poop long enough, it tends to fly out in diarrhea fashion. Woof. (That's a photo of Lucy lying--laying?-- on my new Marcus Allen throwback jersey. When you're sick, you can get away with almost anything. The jersey is a whole 'nother story.)

Berber is a you-know-what to clean poop out of....the wife has been scrubbing and using all sorts of luscious products in an effort to remove the very visible stain. Even I can see it and I don't usually notice things like that. The OCD-inflicted wife laments, "why can't she poop on the old, crusty carpeting?" But, it is to no avail. The new carpeting is stained and it is not a pretty site. The berber was supposed to hide stains from pee, poop, puke and other messes.

It does not.

I'm glad that Lucy is the culprit this time, as I am usually the one to drop something or spill something or stain something. This episode thus gets me off the hook and I no longer need to live in fear when crossing the new carpeting. An additional stain will be no big deal at this point. I won't win any points if (make that WHEN) I do spill something on the carpeting, but it won't be as bad as if I were the first one to de-virginalize the carpet.

I must admit that I am the reason we had to get new carpeting in the first place. I had a glob of greasy oil in the tread of my shoes and managed to blop oil marks all over our beige carpeting. Every time we cleaned it up, it would look good for a few weeks...and, then oil would seep back up to the surface and leave black circles. It wasn't good. (I thought it was the man fixing the water softener, but my shoes incriminated me.) Had I followed the house rules and taken off my shoes when I got home, there wouldn't have been blops of grease everywhere.

I'm not good at following rules. Lucy and I are working on that.

I'll let you know if the poop stains ever are satisfactorally removed from the rug. Until then, please pray to St. Jude (saint for hopeless causes) so Lucy can get out of the dog house.

Sunday, January 15, 2006

Traveling the with LLL

Here are some photos from the most recent excursion to Lake Geneva with the LLL (if you have to ask, you probably aren't a friend, a card-carrying member of the LLL) January 2006.






Above: the home-made cheescake, the snack table; the gang. Now, eating all that food without our LLL sisters Jeanne, Jane, Kathy, Paula and Andrea was painful, but we had to maintain our high food consumption standards. The cheesecake weighed about 20 lbs, I swear.











Here, we have the fans, the our favorite penguin (complete with closed eyes) and the action. Since Jeanne and Trott couldn't come to us, we went to them. Trott's team won the game, 3-0. (We did NOT have time to go to Peru to visit Kathy, tho.) Prior to the game, we were able to gather for dinner at a restaurant near the hockey rink. Much food was consumed, as is the requirement of LLL participation. All that food helped us maintain our strength to cheer loudly for skating great #11. She's hockey-licious, as Tammy says!

A new activity for the LLL was going to tattoo parlor, with yours truly actually getting a tattoo (left). Other LLL-goers hung out with the tat crowd and picked out designs for future love lofts....
We enjoyed having a guest LLL-er from Florida and hope she had as much fun as we had in Lake Geneva. We really didn't grill her too badly but we did acknowledge knowing about the split pair of leather pants. Anyone who wears leather is all right with us.
To those of you who weren't able to be there, please know we really missed you and only talked about you a little bit! It's not the same without the entire group present. It really wasn't the same without any parchment paper-wrapped meals, either.
Here's to the next LLL in the Summer 2006. I hear we going to be visiting a certain cottage...
Mr. Winkle or Ms. Lucy?

.....If you don't know who Mr. Winkle is, check out www.mrwinkle.com so you are in the know.... he's a world famous dog with a tongue bigger than his head. Here's a photo from his website, as taken by Lara Jo Regan. (If this is a copyrighted photo, I apologize to both Mr. Winkle and Lara and ask you don't send me to jail.)

Now, Lucy LOVES Mr. Winkle and often tries to do imitations of him whenever possible. She seems to do the best rendition when she is asleep or on the verge of waking. Here she is posing as a Mr. Winkle wanna-be (left):



Not exactly a pretty site but you get the idea!



I don't think Mr. Winkle has anything to worry about...

Monday, January 09, 2006

Hampster Heaven: Godspeed, Cloudy

I was busy babysitting for my nieces this weekend when I heard A (niece #2, ten years old) scream, "H won't stop poking her hamster with a marker!" This sounded like a call for action, so I ran to the scene of the crime, only to find H (niece #3, nine years old) crying hysterically. "Something's wrong with Cloudy!" Sure enough, I peered into the cage to see a hamster in deep distress: bent in a sickening, almost backwards way, tongue protuding, little feet twisted in a not-normal way.

This is going to suck, being the aunt on duty with a dying hamster during the overnight shift.

I command D (niece #1, 12 years old) to get a clean washcloth. I carefully remove poor ol' Cloudy from the cage. He's cold and he's gasping for air and his poor tongue is a mess and he just looks miserable. H is sobbing, wailing, crying. We all know death is inevitable. She cries out, "this is my EIGHTH hamster to die!"

It takes everything in me not to laugh. It's not funny at all to H, but EIGHT hamsters! This girl should invest in some other animal. Her sisters have much better luck in the critter department.
"We've got to get him to the emergency vet!"

I gently wrap Cloudy in the washcloth, trying to warm his cold little body. I feel his mishapen back and then make the executive decision to bend him into a more "normal" looking shape. He immediately looks better, although his little feet are still shooting every whichway. I break the news gently as I hold Cloudy close to my chest. "Um, it's too late for the vet. H, Cloudy is dying. I want to make it as wonderful as possible for Cloudy in these last few minutes." (The photo is NOT of Cloudy, but rather of some kick-butt rocking hamspter I got off line from stamper.uvm.edu. I thought it a fine tribute to Cloudy.)

Sobs and snot fill the room. This is not going well. At least Cloudy's tongue has gone back into his mouth. Bending him back into shape seems to really have helped him in the tongue department.

H asks to call her mama. I am all for that. (Thank God for cell phones.) She dials and cries through the call, explaining that Cloudy is dying. I don't know what my sister says, but it seems to work, as H slows down in the crying department. H says she will call back when there is more news.

Cloudy is gasping for air and I can tell the time is near. I ask if anyone wants to hold him. This freaks them out--who wants to hold a dying hamster? We all watch him as I hold him close and pet him. I do contemplate mouth-to-hamster assistance, but know it is too late for that.

Suddenly, a little bubble comes out of his nose. I know his time on this earth is over and tell them that Cloudy has gone to Hamster Heaven. H lets out a wail and A announces, "It's 9:14 PM and a half." She pronounces the time of death like a true professional. D just sits quietly and takes in the scene. Time of death is offically 9:14 PM.

H calls her mom and grandmother to announce the loss of Cloudy. My mom doesn't exactly know what to say but H seems to heal with the chance to talk about her loss. Once off the phone, I wrap Cloudy carefully and place him back in the cage, as directed by my sister. I leave his little head peeking out of the towel--he looks peaceful enough and I find it soothing to look at him. We stop and make a few cards for Cloudy, with H leading the way. She makes one that says, "Bloom into Life." (I assume this is inspired by her attendance in Catecism class.) We then drape a black towel over the cage, a shrowd honoring Cloudy's passing. The cards are placed all around the cage. This seems to really comfort H.

The rest of the night goes without a hitch, although I admit I did go back during the middle of the night and in the morning to make sure Cloudy was really dead. After all, I never had hamsters when I was a kid and didn't want to make a premature death certificate.

Yup, Cloudy's time had expired on Earth.

I don't know what happened the next day--what they did with Cloudy, that is. I'm pretty sure Cloudy will be buried with the other seven hamsters in the back yard, with full funeral service led by my sister. Godspeed, Cloudy and much love to H, A and D.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

BUS THERAPY

It has always been a fine line between staff and client. I am a professional in the mental health field. I'm also a "consumer" (the most current politically correct term for a person receiving mental health services) in this area. I'm not sure if I have more stories from my job or from my own life. Here's a story about Gertie (named changed to prevent malpractice suits) and what it's REALLY like to work in the MI field. (And no, the photo of the feet has nothing to do with bus therapy. I just threw it in for fun. Mmm Mmm. Feet.)

By the luck of the short straw or perhaps because I don’t mind driving the hour and a half commute to Chicago, I have been elected to make sure Gert gets to “ride the Dog” back to Michigan where she came from; thus, she is in my car on her way to the Chicago Greyhound terminal.
(Okay, so the feet were weird. Here's a photo of the Chicago Greyhound Terminal, as taken by lbj79us on Flickr. Now THAT's a bus terminal photo to get you in the mood for this blog!)
Gert is decked out in her finest polyester: a blindingly-rude floral top and black, screaming-tight pants. Since Gert came from Michigan without a change of clothing and because she’s been in town for several days, she’s past ripe and has moved to eye-watering. I’m not sure if you understand what it’s like to be with a smoker wearing three day old undies who is wrapped in polyester while in a small car on a hot day. It’s a weird, sick mixture of sour pits and rotten private parts.

I tell you this not to belittle the client but to explain the finer challenges of my job.

It is also important to explain that she’s about four foot eleven and about three hundred pounds; the relevance of this being that not only is she wearing dirty clothes and hasn’t bathed in days, she’s got places filled with crusting perspiration that even I don’t want to talk about. Gert, a 43 year old lady with chronic mental illness, mental retardation and penchant for running away from home, is my charge and I must send on a mission of “Greyhound Therapy.”

(Side note: Any clinician working in community mental health with the chronically mentally ill who says he/she has not heard of such therapy is either lying or brand new to the field. It’s a common practice, better than medication and cheaper than hospitalization. No one wants to bring in more persons to the encatchment area when there are fine enough encatchment areas somewhere else—particularly out of state. Mental health allies frothing at the mouth need to know bus therapy is a successful avenue of treatment—the truth hurts, doesn’t it? Clients taking unscheduled road trips: all aboard!)

Somehow, Gert decided that leaving Michigan and riding a bus to Rockford sounded like a great idea. Never mind she had no money, no knowledge, no luggage of anyone in town and no nothing but a mind spinning with bursts of mania—she had cigarettes and a bus ticket and what more could she possibly need. The police found her first and brought her to us. Since she was homeless and wandering and obviously mentally ill, we are the winners in this community mental health game. Gert doesn’t want to go back and isn’t very helpful in locating her family, but with much discussion and many items of free food (enhanced with free cigarettes—a very hot commodity), the client provides the phone number of a family member and soon plans are under way to get her some medication and to ship her from whence she came. Did I mention she didn’t want to go back?

Because Gert is not to be trusted to taking the Greyhound from our fair city and to transfer successfully in Chicago, I am taking her directly to the terminal. It’s scorching-middle-of-the-summer-hot out and so I have the windows closed and the air conditioning on. She’s really nervous—as she has told me a hundred times, the poor thing—and the more she gets nervous, the more she smells. Kind of works that way for all of us; it’s just that most of us aren’t sweating in three-day-old dirty clothing. Little drips of sweat run down her face; I can see them whenever I glance over. She speaks of religion and of friends and of her hometown and of more religion and of this and that.

Out of nowhere, she adds, “I’ve wet my pants.”

I try not to get upset but can’t stop thinking that this lady has just peed on my brand new car seats. I silently chastise myself for using my own car—a new car—for this endeavor. She adds that she couldn’t wait to go the bathroom and that she’s really sorry about peeing in the car and that she would like to stop when possible so she can stand up. She then goes back to talking about religion, other trips she has taken, her love of country western music. I keep looking forward toward the road and can’t bring myself to say anything. What do you say to someone who has just peed in your car?

Gert asks to smoke while in the car and I say no—I explain this is my new car and that I don’t let anyone smoke in my car. She asks again, perhaps thinking I didn’t comprehend the magnitude of her nicotine addiction. I politely tell her no and again tell her why. Like a slick three-year-old who knows the game of asking over and over and over and over until getting what he wants, she asks again and again and again. On the twentieth time, she asks again and I finally give in. I’m sick of arguing and I’m tired of trying and I’m gagging from the body odor and urine-soaked-petrified polyester, anyway, so I figure smoking might help burn my nostrils numb, even though I’m pissy about this travesty taking placed in my new vehicle. Gert lights the cigarette and begins to suck long drags.

(As a side note, I tell you that you haven’t seen anyone smoke until you’ve seen someone with mental illness smoke—they suck the life force right out of that damned thing. It’s like three drags and it’s gone.)

Well, Gert is on drag number two and out of the corner of my eye I see her drop the cigarette down her top. I’m not making this up. I’m going 70 miles an hour and I see this cigarette falls somewhere into the grand canyon of her bosom while I’m literally just trying to drive and not fall unconscious from the wretched odors emitting from the passenger side. I take my eyes off the road and look at Gert’s chest—damn if she’s not smoldering. I’m not sure if she didn’t know what had happened or what was happening, but she’s just sitting over there jabbering about this and that and not making a move to retrieve the lit cigarette that is now becoming one with her polyester clothing.

Smoke begins to bellow out to the point even she cannot ignore it. She suddenly begins screaming and yelling and failing and trying to rip her shirt off, all while I’m just trying to stay on the road. I end up pulling over on the shoulder and before I can help her, she jumps out of my car and throws her smoldering shirt to the ground. Stomping on it, I wonder what those passing by are thinking. My thoughts are quickly interrupted because my car stinks even more than it had just a few moments early. I yell at Gert to get away from the highway and to put her top back on. She’s obviously upset that the front of her outfit is now rather melted, but she starts laughing loudly when she sees that she has also managed to set her bra on fire. She digs the remains of the cigarette out of her bra and throws it to the ground. Thankfully, she gets back into the car without further incident; after all, she could have chosen to run away or to take off all her clothes or worse. Gert laments that she only has one cigarette left and asks me if she can go ahead and smoke it. I tell her no.

Ninety minutes later, I park the car—unfortunately in the sun, which I do not think about until later—and take her to the terminal. Thankfully, we only have a few minutes before her bus is scheduled to depart—she gives me a big, warm hug and thanks me for the help. While waiting for her to finish her last cigarette, I note that she does not look out of place in this setting. She takes her ticket and gets in line to board the bus. I can hear her telling the bus driver who she is and where she is going and how she got here and why she has no luggage.

I watch her get on the bus and literally stand there until I see the bus pull away. I don’t wave as the bus drives away but I can see her waving. I am too exhausted to wave.

Being with someone manic is exhausting—and, I can keep up with the best of them. I stand there, making sure she doesn’t make a last chance effort to escape the vehicle returning her to her home. Once I can no longer see the bus, I sigh and return to my car. I open the door and am literally knocked back by the smell. Parking in the sun on a 95 degree day with all the windows shut was a very bad idea, as the stench of urine and body odor, stale cigarettes and burning polyester has mixed with the heat. I try not to puke, open all the windows and drive home, all the way ignoring the big wet spot on the passenger seat.

There but for the grace of god I go.