Spin.Me.Round.

I write my blogs with no disrespect to those I serve.  Please do not misconstrue my irreverence as disrespect or worse. I am passionate about my work and love the clientele of which I serve. I have the best job ever.  I ask that you employ a sense of humor and leave your PC at the door. 

This is a re-work of a very early blog entry, improved one billion percent.  Well, at least I think so. 

As a professional in the mental health field, I have faced many unusual situations: I’ve had to asked a naked client living in a port-a-potty to consider alternate living arrangements; I’ve interviewed a young man wearing nothing but a strategically placed washcloth in the emergency room; I’ve cleaned up after a client who has purposefully shat all over the bathroom walls and floor. So, you would think taking a group of persons with chronic mental illness to an amusement park would really be a piece of cake.  

Oh, how wrong you would be.

Me: “So, what special event should we do this year?”

Client A: “We want to go to [insert name of least favorite amusement park here].”

Me: (trying not to poke eyes out) “We went there last year.” (My attempt to deflect this choice is met with groans.)

Client B: “But, that’s where we want to go!”

Me: “So you want to ride a school bus for two hours, go without a smoke break, spend your month’s income on a crappy lunch and stand in line most of the day?”

Choir of clients: “YES!”

Me: "Wouldn't you rather have a picnic at the park, my treat?"

Choir of clients: "NO!"

Me: "What about going to that mall?"

Choir of clients: "NO!"

Me: So, you'll save your money, slather yourself with sun tan lotion and not smoke on the bus?"

Choir of clients: "YES!"

I suck it up and do what the clients want to do.  I arrange a trip to amusement park hell.

The day arrives and we arrive at the park unscathed.  I volunteer to stay with the “don’t-want-to-ride-the-rides-I’m-just-here-to-shop-and-eat” group, as I figure this to be the simplest use of my time and it would be the most fun.

Me: "Okay, so we'll stick together.  We'll get something to eat, go to the bathroom, check out a few rides." 

Mary: “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Me: "You want to go to the bathroom before we eat?"

Mary: "I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!"

Me: It’s right here. We’ll stop.”  I remind everyone to wash their hands when done and to meet by the exit doors.

Mary: "I want to ride the carousel. You’ll let us come back to the carousel when we are done, right?”

Me: I look at the ride, then look at Mary. “We can do that after we go to the bathroom.”

Mary: Silent glare at me.  She does not believe me. Maybe the voices are telling her not to believe me.  Maybe she and the voices do not believe me one iota.

I point Mary to a stall and pick one of my own.  After arranging my toilet paper on the seat, I sit down to take advantage of my time in the bathroom.  Mary starts screaming.

Mary: “I CAN’T GET MY PANTS UNTIED!”

Me: “What?”

Mary: “MY PANTS ARE STUCK! I HAVE A KNOT!”

Me, realizing that her polyester pants with a tie at the top, waistband pulled up to the boobs, must have a knot. Mid-stream, I stopped and gave a listen…

MARY: “ARE YOU THERE? I SAID I CAN’T GET MY PANTS OFF!”

I thought about this, as she has worn these pants for the last forty seven years of her life and thus I’m a bit intrigued that at this particular point she can’t get them off. 

Schizophrenia does not usually render pant-removal impossible.

Mary wasn’t asking for help—she was screeching at the top of her lungs from within the stall, voice reverberating off the cement walls of the bathroom. "MY. PANTS. ARE. STUCK! HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME!"

I zipped my pants and got to her stall, assuring her the entire time.

Me: "I am right outside the stall."

Mary: "I can't get the knot out of my pants! I have to pee! I can't get my pants off! I AM GOING TO PEE IN MY PANTS!" 

Patrons are staring at me, so I politely smile and they smile back.  

Me: “Mary, I’m right outside the door.  Calm down and you’ll get those pants untied.”

Mary announced loudly, “I HAVE MY PERIOD!”

Oh dear god.

She added, “I NEED HELP WITH MY KOTEX!”

No, no, no. I don’t have a god-blessed Kotex with me. I’m not helping anyone with Kotex. People with schizophrenia don't need help with Kotex.  What is going on in there?

Mary opens the door. I have no choice but to untie her pants and to try and calm her. She is sweating—probably from all the yelling—and she’s got herself quite a knot in the pants.

Mary: “YOU HAVE TO STAY IN HERE WITH ME!”

Me: [politely decline] “Mary, you’re fine. Hold still so I can untie your pants.” 

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: “STAY IN HERE!” She pulls her unknotted pants down. 

Me: Trying to stay conscious, despite the unmistakable stench of polyester pants, unchanged underwear and poor bathing habits wafting my way.

Me: “Mary, when is the last time you took a shower?”

Mary (muttering): “Last week.”

I back out of the stall, assuring her I am just giving her privacy but really I am just getting away from the funk. 

She opens the door and tries to hand me the used Kotex…

My god, my god, why have you abandoned me?!

Me: “Mary, I am so not taking that! Put it in the garbage!”

Mary: “BUT, I NEED TWO HANDS WHEN PULLING MY PANTS UP!”

Me: “For god sakes, Mary, you know how to do that, I’m not helping you.”

This pisses her off but for some reason, she indulges me and doesn’t argue about it. Pants pulled up to boobs, tie re-ried, Kotex in the garbage, she wanders out of the bathroom, hands unwashed. 

Mary: "I'm going to wait for you outside."

I take my eyes off of Mary for one millisecond so I can count our 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.

Mary: “I’m STUCK!” She is crying and sweating and snot is running all over her face. “I CAN’T GET OFF THE HORSE!”

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.

Mary: I CAN’T GET OFF I CAN’T GET OFF I CAN’T GET OFF!”  

Me: “If you listen to me, I can help you get off the horse.”  

We now start ride number Five. 

Me: How did you manage to get up there, anyways?”

Mary: Silence. 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.

Me: “Mary, stand up and I’ll help you.” I move closely to her as she stands….unfortunately, this puts my face at crotch level. I gag noticeably and my eyes automatically water. Remind me to talk to her staff about hygiene skill stepping….

I feel the room spin, then realize it’s just that the ride has started again. Mary and her colorful horse are going up and down and up and down and up and down.  She has truly worked herself into a froth.

Me: “Mary, just sit down and wait for the ride to end.”

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 that I don’t care. 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. 

Another successful outing to the amusement park.

After the two hour ride home on the un-air-conditioned school bus, 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.

Me: “Mary, you’re supposed to have a ride.”

Mary: “well, I don’t.”

Me: “Fine. You can ride in my car.”

Mary: Smiles.  Triumph!

It is hot.  It has been a long day.  I'm oozing with nausea from being on that ride so long. I am silent.  Tired.  Crabby.

Mary: [from the back seat] “What’s that smell in your car?”

I bite my tongue.  I know what is going on and I can tell you it's not me or the car.  

Mary: “This car really has a smell. What is that smell? It’s horrible!”

I open the windows and bite harder. I think my tongue is bleeding.  I drive and remind myself that the clients don't always have the best hygiene because they are too busy dealing with their symptoms and don't have time to worry about things like hygiene.

Mary: "Really.  I don't like that smell.  What is that smell? I DON'T LIKE IT!"

I use every shred of my very being not to say something.

She asks one too many times.  I scream out, “IT’S YOU!”

It’s a very quiet ride home until we pull up to Mary’s apartment.

Mary: "I'm sorry about the smell."

Me: "It's all right, Mary.  Just take a shower and put on clean clothes."

Mary: "And, a new Kotex."

Me: "And, a new Kotex."

As Mary  exits the car, she asks “Can go to Great America again next year?”

All I can tell you is that blanked out after repeatedly hitting my head on the steering wheel......