Chicken and Sponge

Work Week in Review: When Psychosis Moves Into the Group Home

The weekend has at last arrived and dammit, I can feel it slipping away already.  After a very strange week at work, and considering that I work in a group home for developmentally disabled adults, low-functioning at that, that is saying something.

I mentioned that the newest resident was a young woman who appeared to be very psychotic, in addition to being challenged with other conditions.  As if her life hadn't been challenging enough.  Those of us that work at this particular home are like family.  A somewhat dysfunctional family, but very protective of one another, we have each other's backs, and we don't appreciate others criticizing us.  And like family, it's ok to criticize each other, or complain to one another about petty little things, but outsiders, yeah, I'm talking to you, WATCH IT!

So the new resident turned out to be more disturbed and more physically aggressive than anyone had been prepared for.  It appeared at first that the rest of the agency thought we were all just a bunch of wimps that couldn't handle a challenge.  We'd been telling them for months that one of our guys had become much more aggressive and unpredictable, but since he looks like a choir boy much of the time, they didn't really believe us.

So our supervisor gave the shout out for help.  And they appeared.  One by one, the behavior specialists arrived.  One by one, they left with bruises, bite marks, and wide eyes filled with shock, horror, and uncertainty.  The worst of it is the uncertainty.  Actually, the worst of it is when this young woman catches sight of her roommate, a tiny, non-verbal woman who has lived in this house for YEARS.  And she's been having to deal with the glaring, the detailed death threats, and having three staff stand around her with their behinds in her face as they face off with her roommate/aggressor.  This poor woman has been so scared, so quietly freaked out, and all we could do is try to reassure her and surround her.

Well, not an acceptable situation.  I'm pleased to say the higher-ups recognized this after a few days and our newest resident is going to move to another house this next week.  The most hard-core house in the whole agency.  We're swapping roommates, so we're getting someone from this hard-core house, which means there will be challenging behaviors and physical aggression, but not of the caliber we dealt with this past week.

The plan had originally been to have a party at our staff meeting on thursday for the two new roommates.  Instead, we had an in-service on the Oregon Intervention System, which is all about restraints using your body.  This was the day that the house was filled with all the higher-ups, and in fact, one was heard to say, "I'm not afraid of anyone, but this girl freaks me out".  When my supervisor offered to introduce the new girl to a fellow supervisor ( the girl having lain in bed all day listening to Elvis and staring at a picture.  The calm before a new storm?), the woman replied, "No, that's ok, I've already seen The Exorcist".

Unfortunately, that accurately describes what we witnessed this past week.  Hopefully, the replacement will be a little more manageable, a little less disturbed, though even she has said, "I'm not moving in until after that other chick is gone."  Here, here.  We all understand that.

Meanwhile, staff longs for a return to normalcy.  WHATEVER THAT MEANS.  At the very least, we'd like all the important people to go back to where they belong, aka the office, to drink coffee, stand around visiting and discussing how the front line teams are not doing their jobs, or who is sleeping with whom, and all the other important stuff they deal with (hey, I know they do more than that, but I also know there's been talk about us not working hard enough.  Big problem for us:  the house smell like urine.  So we mop diligently.  Next visit and next complaint:  the house smells like pine sol.  There is no pleasing some people.  And unfortunately, they're the ones who have to be pleased).

But it is still Saturday, and I'm home, and I need to make the most of it.  Because I know I'm going to blink and it will be 5:30 a.m. Monday morning with the whole week staring me in the face.  Endless possibilities for my time.  Cleaning galore.  Mending.  Organizing.  We have the house, we have the shop, we have the yard.  And oh, yeah, bills to pay.  Fun, fun, and more fun.  Time to get at it.

New Challenges in the Group Home

Excuse the lack of pictures.  Our main computer has been threatening us with a black screen and it is increasingly difficult to coax life into it.  So we removed all the pictures, burning them to disc, and alas, I am too tired and lazy tonight to pull any up.  Also too tired and lazy to take any pictures, but I'll be working on that one.

So, tonight's topic...life in a group home.  There are many kinds of group homes, but the one where I work is for developmentally disabled adults.  The one where I work happens to have a lot of "challenging behaviors".  Oh, I am being so p.c. 

So the group home where I work got a new resident today and we are all reeling with shock.  And I haven't even met her yet as my shift ended before she'd arrived.  But I was at the meeting this morning where the behavior experts told us all about her.  Boy, oh boy.

Autism, Tourette's Syndrome, mental retardation, and a history of psychotic break-downs.  Oh, and due to abuse suffered in other facilities, post traumatic stress disorder is suspected, too.  She's 20.  She's  mobile.  She has a history of L.S.A. (which is leaving supervised area, for those of you not in the know).

So Maintenance came out while we were having our meeting.  Good thing, because they had lots to do.  New, more extensive locks in the kitchen.  It used to just be the med. cabinet that was locked, but this  young woman has been known to attack people with knives.  So the knives are now locked up.  There are alarms on the doors and windows.  Anyone who has ever visited me and thought our alarm system is obnoxious has not encountered obnoxious yet.  That nice lady's voice that announces, "Front door!" or "Master bedroom door!" is not the least bit obnoxious once you've heard the alarm system at the group home.  Loud is not the word for it.  Perhaps loud to the tenth power.  And it chimes.  Sounds charming, doesn't it?  We were all gritting our teeth and pulling our hair, eyes bugging out of our heads by the end of the day and we just wanted to scream at people, "CAN'T YOU ALL JUST GO OUT THE DOOR AT ONCE?!"  No, not charming chimes.  The phrase that kept echoing through my brain was, "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, for the bell tolls for thee!"  Yes, ominous.  Chimes to make you lose your mind are ominous.

Now, my mother is going to read this and about have a heart attack.  Or to use one of her words, she's going to fret.  Or fret to the tenth power.  But do not worry, Mom.  I work on the other side of the house for the most part.  I'll help out whenever necessary or when I can, but I have my three challenging gentlemen to support.  Today's challenge?  Diarrhea in the one that doesn't use the toilet, who also happens to be the one who hits, scratches, screams, cries, tries to bite, etc...but he doesn't use knives.  This, of course, happened at lunch, but since I wasn't the one trying to eat, well, c'est la vie.  Another day at the group home.

So I come home tonight and I do get to exercise, something that I don't feel like the least in doing, but know I must and that I will feel better for it.  And I felt like a bit of a wimp because I chose to do Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred.  Not that Jillian Michaels work-outs are in any way wimpy, except this one is only 30 minutes and I feel like I should at least do 50.  So I felt like I was wimping out.  But Sam took care of that.  Immediately after finishing my work-out, before a shower, before dinner (and oh, I was so hungry), she decided that she wanted to go for a walk.  And because she actually asked and waited while I got ready, and because I couldn't stop her anyway, I went on a walk with her.  And did she go on a nice little evening stroll?  SHE DID NOT!  No, she took me through dark fields, down busy dark streets, through the never-ending rain and drizzle, for ONE HOUR!

And then after we finally got home, after I'd finally eaten, she refused to take a bath.  AGAIN.  She is filthy.  Her hair is gross.  Anyone who knows me will know just how unacceptable that is to me.  People, I take two showers a day, and yes, I know that isn't really good for you, I know it dries out your skin, I know it isn't good for your hair, and I DON'T CARE.  I do care that my daughter is gross, smelly, and greasy and too big and ornery for me to do anything about it.  So I gave up and sent her to bed gross, smelly and greasy.  Tomorrow is another day.  She'll either get clean or she'll be even worse.

And now I would really like to take my shower, second of the day, and collapse at long-last into my bed, to only half-sleep until Mick gets home.  Perhaps to have strange dreams about work.  The other night, I dreamed that my most challenging guy had eaten his pant leg and got it stuck in his throat.  Do I need this?  No, I do not.  Woe is me, may my sleep be more restful than usual (Samantha, that means you!), and my dreams more pleasant.  A pant leg, for God's sake.  Where did that come from?

Should Have Stayed in Bed

There are no bad Mondays for Hecate. 
  

The weekend hadn't been enough.  Oh, no.  Sam running off, having to call 911, finding her eating candy in some poor woman's bed after a three hour search, imagining her freezing outdoors without a coat and bare legs, lured into a car or crack house, oh no, that wasn't enough.  I had to have one of those Mondays that make Mondays so notorious.

First, I arrive at work to find that the weekend live-in had set the pancake griddle too close to the microwave and had melted the microwave door shut.  OK, maybe her weekend was as bad as mine, but the lunch I'd brought with me required a microwave.

Next, I needed to take one of our individuals to a neurologist appointment.  Lo and behold, we should have all studied to be neurologists.  Then we could all be insufferably arrogant, rude, and much in demand.  He refused to sign the form that the organization I work for requires and said that if we didn't like it, find a new neurologist.  Knowing just how in demand his services are.

Then, leaving the appointment, I said to my co-staff, "I sure hope the keys are in my purse, and I don't think they are, because they sure aren't in my pockets."  Again, lo and behold, there they were, in the ignition.  Normally not a problem, because I NEVER lock the car. I'm not sure why.  Too trusting?  Figure that there isn't anything in the car to steal except a ball-point pen and that would be on a lucky day?  Or, hey, how about steal the whole car since the keys are in the ignition?

Well, the car hadn't been stolen, because my co-staff didn't want to bother with carrying her teeny purse around and had run back to the car before the appointment to MAKE SURE it was locked.

Martin Luther King Jr. Day (observed).  Our supervisor doesn't bother to respond to my texting.  If she had, I'm sure it would have been her standard answer of "Sucks to be you".  The other staff at the group home?  Hands full with the other three individuals who were home because it was a holiday.  Let me tell you, she had her hands VERY full.

The car was too new and too secure for a coat hangar to be any use.  Maintanence at the hospital would no longer break into people's cars for them.  Neither would the police department.

As I was returning from the hospital lobby with this unfortunate news, I stepped off the sidewalk, onto the grass, and went slip-sliding along the grass to land on my knees in a hidden swamp.  Leg:  soaked, green and brown with grass  stuck to it, stinking to high-heaven like the swamp it was.  Wet for the next four hours.  Adding insult to injury:  some guy says to me, "Oh, it looks like you fell down."  When I replied, that "Yes, I sure did", he said something like, "Oh, too bad."  I would have preferred my S.C's "sucks to be you."

What to do.  What to do?  I call the dreaded Car Ogre, the guy in charge of the organization's fleet of cars and dreaded by all for his over-developed sarcasm, anger-management issues, and lack of patience.  Oh, and his total lack of regard for humanity.  I got his voice mail.  Unfortunately, he called back.  Fortunately, my  co-staff had reached the On-Call supervisor, who managed to locate extra keys and was going to drive them to us, 25 miles away.

Yeah, we got back to the group home. To find the kitchen sink backed up, permanently clogged, totally inconvenienced.  So bad it had to wait for Tuesday, because of course, it was a holiday and there was no one  to contact.  Actually, there was, but didn't find out about that until Tuesday either.

What a week. Two  down, three to go..

Upcoming Changes for Chicken and Sponge

Am I ever glad I dusted before putting out the decorations.  This picture doesn't do the little house justice, which has a tea candle inside, creating a cosy little abode.

Change is coming.  After much thought, though, I still haven't reached a firm decision on exactly what I'm going to do about Chicken and Sponge.  On February 14, it will be time to renew with Typepad, and that costs money, more than I'm willing to spend, given some of the draw backs.  I chose Typepad when I decided to start blogging because it gave me the opportunity to generate an income through advertising and affiliate stores.  However, that hasn't been such a big deal for me, not at this stage, and now I have little time available to learn how to drive traffic.  The other minus?  Typepad is more suited to bloggers who know about html and other crap.  Basically, to change things on my site is just too difficult for me with Typepad.  Therefore, sometime in January or February, I will probably be going to another platform, either Vox or Blogger, I believe.

If I blog at all...I don't enjoy mediocrity, and unfortunately, I no longer have the time to really work on what I write.  I just sit down at night and crank something out, and in my opinion, it shows.  Don't feel like you need to let me know if you agree with my assessment. I can live without confirmation.  I'll just take it as a given. 

Part of the problem is subject matter.  I'm home so much less and then rushed trying to fit in everything that I must do, that there isn't much to write about.  Not that I feel able to write about, that is.  There's lots going on that I can't write about, more's the pity. 

We're being sued!  How I would love to share the details, entertain you with the outrageous, the frivolous, the scurrilous, but I'm afraid it would just bite me on the butt.  So...maybe when it's all over.

I'd love to write about work!  Oh, how I long to share the stories.  There is nothing like a good poop story!  Just ask my sister-in-law Cheryl.  Had her clutching her gut today, she was laughing so hard, and yes, a poop story.  But alas, it wouldn't be wise.  I need my job.  I value the people I work with, the people I work for, and so...you'll have to wait for the novel, inspired by my time as a PCL employee.

And speaking of novels...I really want to work on The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World.  Work on it more than I am right now, that is.  I'm 140 pages in to what will probably be a 350-400 page novel.  What you've been reading is raw, rough, first draft.  I need to finish that, then  rewrite, rewrite, rewrite.

So what I think I may do, and don't forget, I can always change my mind, but what I think I'll do is post less frequently on Chicken and Sponge, maybe once or twice a week.  I'm going to spend more time on the novel and I will continue to post excerpts.  For now.  I'm going to post longer excerpts over the holiday, starting back at the beginning, to give the reader a more flowing, cohesive reading experience.  Then in January sometime, change will come.

So, readers, check in once or twice a week to see if there's anything new to read.  If you've enjoyed Chicken and Sponge, you may want to sign up for it and have it delivered to your email.  It may look a little funky, but that's one way to keep up, and who knows?  I may slip and share a bit of dirt.

NOW I Feel Challenged On the Job

Little Mini Freak.  That's all I have to say.

It's finally happened.  I know I've talked before about challenging behaviors at my place of work...yada, yada, yada...on and on and on...And I've talked about really enjoying my work and the people I work with and the people I help to support.  I think we do important work and although much of it is mundane, ho-hum, hum-drum domestic crap...it still remains important.  It gives me a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction, as well as exhaustion and occasionally feeling completely grossed out.  But hey, that happens at home, too.

So tomorrow I knowingly face one of the most challenging situations that I know.  Personally challenging.  And it doesn't matter because my job isn't about me and I  knew that when I signed up for this gig.

So let me explain in my rather unnecessarily long-winded way.  At Ecols, the house that I work at, one of our five individuals was a man on hospice.  Profoundly retarded, a paraplegic, blind, non-verbal, with a few other problems, this gentleman still managed to have a great deal of dignity.  He was also a kind, gentle soul.  And as you can tell by my verb tense, he passed away recently.  Friday, to be exact, an hour and a half after I got off shift.

I wasn't his primary care-giver, though I helped as much as I could because as his illness progressed, he was less and less able to help.  He was exhausting.  That's ok.  I don't think any of us, or at least not many of us, resented that.

This gentleman gave me something he never realized.  I don't think I can explain it either, but helping to take care of him taught me some unnameable, priceless life lessons.  He taught me about dignity and respect in such a profound and intangible way, that makes words completely inadequate for the experience.

I have only worked at Ecols for two months.  I have co-workers who worked with this man for much longer, have cared for him much longer, and are hurting right now.  I think we all have a sense of relief--some, perhaps, because the load has been lightened considerably, but for the most part, just to know that this man's suffering is finally over.  He's been at Death's door about six times over the course of two years.  People had been told about six times over the course of two years that he probably only had a couple of days to a couple of weeks to live.  But like the Eveready bunny, he just kept on going.  Until last Friday.

So the challenge for me, is the memorial service tomorrow.  People, I used to cry when the Hallmark commercials would be on the TV.  I have hair-trigger tear ducts.  I can cry if I'm happy or I can cry if I'm sad.  It really doesn't matter which.  And I HATE to cry.  I don't cry pretty.

I cry easily, but not pretty.   I don't cry delicately or softly.  I have a choice between sobbing and snotting, or contorting my face while trying to discretely bite my tongue (best thing to deter tears, that and pressing your tongue firmly into the roof of your mouth.  Try it, you'll be amazed).  Do I, the new-hire, wish to carry on and make a spectacle of myself?  About as much as I want to go on a date with Steven Segal.

I have a hormone imbalance. Must be. Menopause?  Not yet.  The Crying Game has been going on for YEARS, far too many years.  I deal with it by avoiding situations that will trigger it.  So I always leave the room at the end of a sad movie, discretely busy myself with some domestic chore during tragic newscasts, and as for those commercials, I have to endure Miranda drawing attention to me by calling loudly, "MOM, ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?"  And Mick bellowing, "What, ARE YOU CRYING?  LOOK, MOM'S CRYING!"  Oh, the crosses I have to bear.  The crap I have to put up with.

So I have no choice in this whole memorial thing.  I have to go.  Because I have a couple of individuals to support.  These two people have been house mates of the hospice man for YEARS!  And my supervisor wants them to go because they need closure.  And she's right.  Although I'd rather go to a church service where people speak in tongues and praise the lord while going into ecstatic convulsions or attend an Amway convention or go to a strip club, all in the name of supporting one of our individuals. I wasn't offered multiple choices.

So I have to suck it up.  Do my job.  Stop thinking about myself.  Try that some time.  And then you'll realize that we think about ourselves ALL the time.  Or most of us.  Some of us are saintly, but not most of us.

My comfort is that my co-worker, the one who is hurting the worst over this man's death, REALLY DOES NOTwant to go to the memorial either.  She's absolutely dreading it.  And as we all know, misery loves company. So our plan is to sit together with our two individuals, toward the back, hopefully.  And we are going to pray for behaviors.  That's a euphemism for out of control agitation.  It can include screaming, scratching,  head-pounding, but is not limited to those behaviors.  We've been told that we can leave if there are behaviors.  I promise we won't pinch our people, but selfishly, we'd be grateful for a good showing of agitation.

It's not all about me.  I do know that.  This situation has brought that into clear focus.  So I will do my job and suck it up. And I won't forget the Kleenex. 

A Day of Irritations and Burn-Out

You know that this photo just doesn't do that moon justice.

A quick post full of petty complaints.

First and foremost, the keys on this keyboard are sticking and refusing to type. This has me more irritated than anything else I've encountered today. This development may be the only thing that will cause me to choose my words carefully and be succinct.

Was I irritated because my supervisor, who is a petite blonde, dressed up as Gene Simmons, complete with seven-inch, double platform shoes and went to a KISS concert? No. Absolutely not. But I'll blame her anyway because if she'd been there we could have spent the day exchanging insults and amusing ourselves with our rapier wit. So it's her fault and I must remember to tell her this is the morning.

Some irritants can not be discussed. Sorry. Not really. Those are the juicy bits, too, you know.

I am somewhat fed up with my Amazon store right now. I spent HOURS on the weekend building my store, filling it with really cool stuff, only to find that it isn't showing up on Chicken and Sponge. I don't have time to waste. I'm not sure if I even have time to figure this out. But I will try.

My difficult guy at work had a difficult day. For some reason, that meant I had a difficult day. That isn't my usual. Believe it or not, my usual is to keep my sense of humor and my patience. But not today. Today I was quietly and grimly determined to just survive the day. This, as mentioned before, is Tammi's fault. Yes, that is the guilty party's name. Tammi. Get used to seeing it. Get used to hearing about it. Move over Mick, I've got a new whipping post now.

Tammi was supposed to show me how to do a text message today. She is an expert. She didn't of course, because she was too busy dressing up as an aging rocker and going to a concert and having fun. Fun, that thing I didn't have today. I wish she would have shown me how to do a text message because I would be texting her right now. I'd be telling her that I had a surprisingly lousy day. I'd tell her it is all her fault. I'd tell her that she's the new whipping post--Mick has been retired. Now I will just have to tell her in person.

Irritants.

Miranda listens to her programs too loud.

Sam is still a clothes shredder.

Miranda doesn't put her huge pink comforter away (which she stole from her sister, incidentally) and she leaves it in the recliner as to make it so uninviting that no one else feels like sitting there.

Sam is watching Mama Mia to go to sleep to.  That is not a musical to sleep to. That is a musical to stay up all night dancing to.

Miranda leaves her dirty clothes behind the bathroom door.

Mick forgets to do laundry.

Mick doesn't like to fold laundry.

The bathrooms need to be cleaned.

I clean at work all the time.

The dog bedding stinks.

Zeus has a big gross tongue and bad breath.

The cats won't hold still for any good photos. They still puke, too.

No one is cooperating for photos.

The hot tub is still broken.

It is ALL Tammi's fault.

I feel better now. Or I would except that the keys are still sticking. Double letters in words are the worst. Do you know how many words we use that contain double letters?

So I'm done. That's it. Lame or not, that is all I can handle tonight. Tomorrow Mick will work on this problem and get it fixed for me. God knows Tammi won't.

Exhibit A: Hedwig, of course, moved just as I was getting ready to take a great photo, resulting in mediocrity.

OK. That face puts me in a better mood. Louise, laying in the recliner on Miranda's obnoxious comforter, which would really annoy Miranda.

Chronic Fatigue and the Working Mother

I don't know how to use Photoshop so I can't put those modesty dots or blur out the naked parts like a real pro would.  So I did the only thing I know how to do:  grab a comforter, throw it over the kid, and say, "Leave that on until I get your picture!"  This, of course, is necessary since we strip her and take all her clothes away the minute she gets off the school bus.  All in the name of Sam having clothes to wear to school the next day.

This post may come across as a little lame.  And here's my excuse, er, reason, I mean.  That would be today's schedule.  Hey.  I warned you it was lame.  I've been reduced to posting my schedule on the internet.

I got up at 5:30 a.m. and did 40 minutes of yoga, got ready for work and went to work and yes, part of the time I worked.  Some of it was even hard.  Every day after the guys have lunch, I sweep and mop their entire house and then using bleach water I completely sanitize the kitchen, bathroom, recliners, railings, door knobs and light switches.  I'm damned if we're going to get the 'flu.  Not without a fight.  We do all day laundry every day, too.  Reminds me of home.  Or the "good old days" of home.  So at 4:00 I leave for home.  I came home and MENDED for an hour and a half.  See yesterday's post if you need any explanation.  Then I put clothes away, huge stacks of clothes, and no, I didn't finish, because we never seem to finish around here and there's always that stack of mismatched socks, underwear, MENDING, and even clothes of people we don't know and don't know how we acquired.   You know, "Hey, whose is this?"  "I don't know."  "Where did it come from?"  "I don't know."  "Hmmm."   After that, while everyone else was eating dinner, I decided to celebrate the four pounds I lost this week, (yes, that's right, I did, too.  Mick, of course, had to go and lose ten pounds but I'm ignoring him.) So I celebrated by putting in my Jillian Michaels DVD that's called something like (hey, I'm too pooped to stand up and go see what it's actually called.  Give me a break.) Metabolism Boosting Fat-Bursting Blast or whatever.  It's 50 minutes of hell.  I can't believe I did it.  I was so proud.  So, so, so tired.  But I showered and ate dinner and stared off into space. For quite a long while.  Realizing that I was expected to do the dishes and finding it  easier to do them than trying to finagle anyone else, I did them.  Made Sam's bed.  Mick talked Miranda into changing our bed which was one day overdue.  Relief.  Fresh flannel sheets, too.  Then Sam's bath, Sam's qi gong (and she was in such a sweet, silly mood) and then emails to answer and now here I am.  ENTERTAINING YOU!

I'll do better tomorrow.  I promise.  I'll even write about what I was going to write about tonight.  That's right, I did intend to do more than just share today's schedule.  Be relieved, I could just write down everything I eat and talk about gaining and losing and gaining the same five pounds over and over, but that's already been done.  I believe it was called Bridget Jones' Diary.

One day down and four more to go.  I told you I go to bed on Sunday, dreaming of 4:00 Friday, looking forward to two days of being able to sleep past 5:30 am, regardless of who growls, whines, or otherwise decides to puke to gain my immediate attention.  And now...sweet sleep....

p.s.  Brownie points for Mick.  He has now bathed the dogs for the second time in their lives AND he folded laundry for the first time in his.  He'll wash.  He'll dry.  But until today, he refused to fold.

Emotional Intellingence and All That Jazz

Again, nothing to do with today's post, but the clouds were so cool the other night that I just had to snap a few photos and unfortunately, I was in the car.  Luckily, I was the passenger and not the driver.

Today, I went to a conference for work.  It was called, I believe, "Emotional Intelligence and Diversity".  Also, today, was Sam's I.E.P. meeting and it is the first one that I haven't attended.  And just to warn you now, I am going to whine a little.  I wish I were going to wine a little instead, but I'm not.  Not tonight anyway.

The conference...I had mixed feelings about this conference and it had nothing to do with the people running it or even the subject matter.  But I consider myself to be emotionally intelligent and I would have liked to have attended a different kind of conference.  I want a conference that is a trouble-shooting guide to dealing with challenging behaviors.  For example:  how to legally get someone out of a car who doesn't want to get out, how to get someone into the tub who doesn't want to take a bath, how to get someone to not throw food who really wants to(cafeteria staff at colleges, boarding schools, and summer camps would also appreciate this conference).  How about "How to Deal With Co-workers Who Annoy You Without Losing Your Job in the Process"?

Today's conference taught me a few things, but not necessarily what the facilitators intended.  What I learned is that some people never get over their fear of public speaking and I also learned that I'm not as sympathetic as I probably should be.

Look, I was PAINFULLY shy as a child.  I didn't want to come out of my room if a stranger or someone I didn't know really well came over to our house.  Even with my cousins, if someone talked to me, I would hide my face behind my mom's legs.  PAINFULLY SHY!!!

I got over it.  I don't enjoy public speaking.  That is what I would like some of my fellow conference attendees to realize.  I don't enjoy it, but I can do it.  Here is what happened:  we broke into small groups of four to six people and we would discuss one section of the subject by answering some questions, and then we were expected to share some insights with the rest of the people in the room.  Not difficult.  No one had to stand at the front of the room (until just at the end of the day).  No one even had to stand up at all.  But MANY people just tried to melt into their seats, tried an invisibility spell, and AVOIDED ALL EYE CONTACT!

Chicken, I said.  You guys are chicken.  And in my own way I am, too.  Because that extended silence, while the rest of the room waited for someone at my table to step up to the plate and explain the meaning of our artistically challenged, down-right pathetic drawing, that silence got to me.  I waited.  I'd spoken up and "shared" several times already, more than my fair share.  So I waited and I looked around my table, looked at those people melting into their seats and staring studiously at the table top.  I looked at them and waited and the silence stretched.  It became kind of a stunned silence and I could feel the rest of the room thinking, "What if no one at that table will stand up and talk?  What will happen to the fabric of the universe?"  The universe would end, folks.  That's what would happen.  And all those people waiting for the world to end in 2012 would be cheated of a couple of years of existence.  So, I CHICKENED OUT and stood up and explained our feeble drawing.  And I was somewhat disgusted with myself, for not "sticking to my guns" and forcing someone else to stand up and be heard.

Once, painfully shy, I got over it and can now publicly speak.  Especially in that kind of an atmosphere.  I wasn't accepting an award, addressing congress, or (God help us) trying to sing.  That I won't do.  And if you ever heard me sing, you'd thank me for my reticence.

There are all kinds of books, and audio series available on overcoming your fear of public speaking.  Visualization is usually a big component in any of these approaches.  I had my own method, shared my many, many people, and a lot of successful executives I'm sure.

When I was 25 I was elected president of the local unit of the International Longshoreman's and Warehouseman's Union in Pelican, Alaska.  I was considered something of a joke at first, but they did go on to re-elect me four more times.  The worst aspect of this position, in the beginning for me, were the Union meetings.  There were people in attendance who definitely wanted me to fall on my face, people waiting for the chance to challenge me, mock me, and laugh at me.  And I knew that I didn't dare show any fear or vulnerability.  And remember, I had a lot of private baggage, aka inner fears and demons, including a fear of public speaking, and this was a semi-hostile audience.

So I did the logical thing; I did what many self-respecting executives would do:  I drank.  I downed the hooch.  Meetings were held at 6:00 p.m. and we got off work for dinner at 5:00.  A friend ( I actually had quite a few in those days) would run down to the Wet Goods and would buy Club Cocktails--usually gin and tonics or vodka gimlets, yum-yum.  No, I wasn't on my lips.  I wasn't staggering, slurring, or otherwise obvious.  No black-out meetings.  Just a little false courage, some liquid fortitude.

After four or five meetings like this, I found I didn't need my Club Cocktails to conduct a meeting.  Then I saved it up for after the meetings.  I was comfortable in my own skin.  I was accepted.  I could do it and I did.

Do I think anyone is going to approve of this story and tell me " Hey!  Great idea!" ?  No, not really.  I'm sure the party line is to still visualize everything going smoothly or visualizing unicorns and rainbows and repeating some kind of positive affirmation...yeah...Well, as I like to say, whatever works.

So what did I learn today?  Some people, regardless of what they look like or their level of education or their age, never get over their fear of public speaking and refuse to try to conquer their fear.  I also learned that I am cranky in the afternoon.  I already knew that I was a very private person (yes, I am too, and I'll have you know that writing this blog is my attempt to be a little less guarded and a little more open, sometimes to the point of too much information).  I have prided myself on being a sensitive, understanding, empathetic soul and today I learned that I'm not so much.  The sensitivity and empathy are limited.  It's time to get over it, folks.  Buck up!  What do you think will happen?  Didn't you hear all the other stupid comments and observations mixed in with the good ones?  Come on!  Snap out of it!  Now!  Next conference:  Club Cocktails.

Because There Just Wasn't Enough Poop in My Life

What?  Did you think I'd actually post a picture of poop?  Believe me, the compost bin almost smells as bad.  It may not be poop, but it isn't pretty.  I have a little more class than that, not much, but a little.

"So, Vicki," people have asked me, "why on earth did you take a job working with disabled adults?  Isn't there enough stress in your life...I mean, with Sam and all?"

I've been asked this several times.  People have actually shook their heads sadly at my apparent idiocy.  Honestly, I've had a few evenings where I shook my head at myself.  But I've given a lot of thought to possible answers.  My favorite answer?  I guess there just wasn't enough poop in my life.  I hope I don't get reprimanded for being so irreverent.  But a sense of humor is key to survival.

In all honesty, there are a couple of reasons I took a job working in a group home for disabled adults.  First, I needed a job.  Second, I'd been out of the official work force i.e. paid for my work, for almost 15 years.  Most job applications only want to know about the last ten years of my life, and frankly, being the mother of a 13 year-old autistic daughter was more relevant to this sort of work than being a receptionist.  Plus, in case you didn't notice, unemployment is sky-high.

I could have applied for waitress and bartending positions.  With Mick and I having owned a bar and restaurant for the last 15 years, I have a lot of experience in this arena.  It's also the last sort of position I could face.  I couldn't face the nasty drunks.  Many drunks are fun, happy people.  Many are exceedingly repetitive and tedious.  And then there are that few that make you wish you were doing anything, even scrubbing toilets or mopping poop off the floor, rather than dealing with them and their attitudes and "wit".  I also know a few people who don't even drink that much, but are so nasty that they make the mean drunks look angelic in comparison.  So I couldn't face a bar.  You know the old saying, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em"?  Well, if you don't own the bar, you can't join 'em and you can only rarely beat 'em.  As much as you'd like to.

There is another saying, though, that better explains my decision to work with disabled people.  "There but for the grace of God, go I".  And not to offend my atheist friends, translate that as "IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU".

I'm glad, no, make that relieved, that we live in a society that no longer locks away our more vulnerable members so that the general population won't have to look at them to be more comfortable.  Yes, people are still uncomfortable when confronted with someone who may walk funny, drool, and obviously not be a member of Mensa.  But more and more people are getting comfortable, are willing to confront their own discomfort, and want to understand.  And some people don't and never will.  To them we can salute with a mental raspberry or just shake our heads in pity.  Face it, we enter this world naked, helpless, and incontinent, and many of us will leave that way.  Who do you want helping you?

It is all very personal to me.  My daughter is vulnerable.  Although she has some speech, her ability to communicate is severely hampered by her autism.  She could be so easily victimized if left alone.  The current plan is for her to live with me and Mick for as long as we are able.  Her older sister Miranda, without prompting or pressure, has every intention of Sam living with her after that, if not before.  But who knows?  Who knows what could happen that might change all that?  The possibility is always there that Sam, too, may need to live in a group home someday.

So here I am, doing the same-old, same-old but for people who aren't my family, trying to help make a home for people who aren't my family.  In the process, I'm getting an education. On the job training and awareness.  I see some things that I really like, others that I don't, and many things to think about and consider if we ever find ourselves in need of a placement.

In the meantime, I'm challenged.  I work at a challenging home, a home with challenging behaviors.I'm stretched, often working outside my comfort zone.  (I think my comfort zone is my bed, a semi-comatose state).  Right now with the 'flu running rampant and co-workers dropping like flies (except for the actual flies at my house, who appear to be robust and just a little faster than the human inhabitants), I'm challenged even further.  I come home, and Sam manages to present even more challenges:

* I was SO relieved when I gave birth to girls.  Why?  Because there are certain behaviors that are more natural to boys (like beating the bushes, flowers, side of the house with a stick, shooting birds with a bb gun, or peeing in a pop can rather than leaving the bedroom to use an actual toilet) than to girls.  So...once again, when I go in to say hi to Sam, I discover that she has peed in her garbage can and it already had garbage in it.  As bad as this sounds, it's better than when she peed in her toy tea pot or her father's water glass.

* She continues to de-construct her clothes, and panties beyond the point of repair.

* Her challenging behavior has the aides at school feeling, well, challenged, I guess.

* I need to work and Sam appears to be angry that I am.  ??? I leave for work at 7:30 and get home by 4:30.  Sam leaves for school at 8:00 and gets home a little after 4:00.  Does this seem reasonable for her to be angry?   WHO SAID AUTISTIC PEOPLE ARE REASONABLE?  Sam doesn't worry about whether she's reasonable or not.  Has nothing to do with her.  I think more to the point for her, I don't get her ready in the morning anymore, she can't ride the little bus to school anymore, and I'm not home when she gets home from school.  Damn it, she's turning into a Daddy's girl.

I could bitch and moan and feel sorry for myself.  Ok, so I actually do sometimes.  I have felt sorry for myself for brief periods of time.  You know, those times you round the corner to see one of your people doing something and the words burst forth, "YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!"  And then you have to laugh at the absurdity and just deal with whatever "it" is, and "it" is often poop.  Sorry, but it is.  And then more laughter, because you know that you get to go home, and the next shift gets their turn.

I'm meeting people.  Interesting individuals, interesting co-workers ( but they're not as interesting as the individuals we serve), and my imagination is a-whirl with possibilities for the future.  Each night I come home, grateful for my family, and fall into bed in an exhausted sleep.  Only to dream about cleaning up poop.
  

Working With Challenging Behaviors in a Group Home

I had better photos of Sam taken at this moment, but my blogging platform refused to post them when rotated, so you're missing Sam's face and her high heels.  Next time.  I just hope that any time in Sam's life that she feels like being a princess in four inch heels, that she is allowed to express her inner-princess.  I think she may be cutting her hair again.
  
  
  
  But that's not funny...I agree, but I can't help it.  I actually have some funny stories, but I'm too insecure to share them with the world at large.  So anyway, here's what's been happening in my life, humor censored.

Yesterday was educational for me.  I went to work, still flying high from my first day of shadowing on the job.  The day before, work had gone well and I'd felt really connected to one of the more difficult i.e. challenging behaviors, guys that lives in the house in which I work.  So yesterday I arrived at work in a good frame of mind--outlook: optimistic.  My guy, let's call him Joe, was out in the front yard and watched me get out of my car.  I walked over to the fence with a big smile and greeting and we high-fived.

Then I went into the house, put my stuff away and found out that we were one staff short that day and the person I am shadowing wasn't there yet.  So I walked through to the other side of the duplex, with my positive attitude, and reality slapped me in the face.  Literally.

My guy Joe, who two minutes before had high-fived me over the fence, had done a 180 degree turn in about two minutes.  He was crying, shouting, stomping his feet and slapping his own face.  When I walked through the door he was RIGHT THERE.  And he started slapping my face instead of his own.  Can't say I blame him.

Had I taken the time to talk with the graveyard shift, I would have asked her how Joe was doing that morning.  Then I would have been prepared.  There are also t-logs on the computer that would have told me what I needed to know.  In fact, when I came in I believe the graveyard staff was writing her t-log.  I would have known that Joe was having a very difficult morning.  I would have opened the door more slowly.  I would have been prepared. Well, live and learn.  No harm done.

Joe continued to have a difficult morning until about 11:00 a.m.  A few outbursts occurred after that, but he more or less calmed down.  Then he just became fixated on McDonald's and monotonous in his desire to go pinch another resident.  Good times.

This job is making me think about a lot of different issues.  The preceding antidote may appear to have nothing to do with the following, but bear with me.  This is the point where I, unfortunately, veer away from humor.  I agree, a mistake. 

It has been very strange being out of the work force for so many years.  Women with empty nest syndrome or whose children are now independent enough that the mothers can return to work know exactly what I mean.

I really detest the term home-maker, so for that reason I will refer to myself as a housewife.  I do it to be both obstinate and contrary.  I've got a beef with N.O.W. and so I delight in calling myself a housewife.  But now that I'm a working drone, I guess I'm a former housewife.

Even though Mick and I have been self-employed, because my role focused more on the kids for so many years and mycontributions to the business garnered zero respect, I felt like the submissive little housewife.  It didn't matter to people that I would work a shift or step in and just bartend or wait tables for a few hours here or there.  I was invisible.  That I did all the copy for our website, and damned good copy it was, I received no credit.  That I did all the housekeeping and laundry for our guests  counted for nothing. Forget about all the extras--because I didn't receive a paycheck from anybody so that made me a virtual nobody.  If asked what I did for a living, people would just dismiss me as being the "home-maker".  So even though there are other people who make good money creating web-sites and people who work in hotels doing the exact same things I did ( or less), because I didn't receive an actual pay-check from anyone, I was deemed unemployed.  I would just deem myself under-paid.  And like Rodney Dangerfield, "I got no respect".

This lack of respect is why women keep trying to find a term to describe themselves and their position that will gain them the respect that they deserve.  Caring for infants and toddlers 24/7 is crazy-making.  It's also very hard work.  Caring for a child or other family member with a disability is even harder.  Don't get me wrong--it's very rewarding and it's the gift that keeps on giving.  What the people for whom we care give us is far greater than what we give them.  Indescribable, life-altering gifts of patience, compassion, and a deep, moral understanding of what is important and what this world needs.  Being a stock broker won't do that for you.  That said, don't say that we are "special people", that "God has a special place" for people like us, etc., etc., etc.,.  Who wants to try to live up to that?

It's  the lack of a paycheck that is a problem.  People's eyes glaze over and the woman becomes invisible, and a non-entity, as soon as it is revealed that she is a home-maker or a stay-at-home mom.  Mick and I actually had a professional consultation with someone recently who asked where I worked or what I did (prior to my being recently hired) and his eyes did indeed glaze over and he looked out the window before the sentence was completely out of my mouth.  And don't believe anyone when they tell you that there is no such thing as a stupid question.  I asked one question about something I didn't understand and I was told by this professional to let Mick handle everything and I could just fill out all the paperwork, but let Mick do all the talking.  I kid you not.  I can't talk about this.  The steam is beginning to seep out of my ears again.  Or maybe that is brain matter.

But that's typical.  Most people are a little more couth and a little less obvious in their disrespect.  And there is my attitude toward myself.  Self-deprecating isn't the term for it.  I have been writing off and on for years.  I have been writing this blog since mid-February, and I'm sorry to say, I've been working on stories and my novel for even longer.  But because I haven't received a paycheck--or a Pulitzer, say, I have never felt like I could say that I was a writer.  It has to be validated by some outside force, some outside unit of measure and worth--like a paycheck.

So here's the rub.  I'm doing all the same stuff, for the most part, that I've been doing for years.  It may be a little harder, and yes, these are not my family members and that doesmake a big difference.  If the truth be told, I work harder at home than I do at work.  Because I try my best to multi-task and be ultra-productive at home, and that simply isn't tolerated at work.  In other words, I can't write to you, dear reader, I can't blog, while I'm at work.  Even if everyone is napping.  It's so frustrating.

And even more frustrating is when I hear from people who ask what I do for a living (as happened the other night when a student from the UM alumni committee called for a donation)..."Oh, that is so great!  Wow, it's wonderful that people like you do this kind of work...it must be so rewarding...blah, blah, blah, blah, blah...".  Yeah, sure.

I've only visited the one house, the one that I work at, so I don't know how much variation, how much different "flavor" a person will find in other group homes.  And I'm not saying that mine is bad.  I'm not at all.  I think the people who work there are very good people with the best of intentions.  But...I will do my best, and so will Mick, to keep Sam with us and provide for her as long as possible.

And I won't need a paycheck.  And I won't need a pat on the head.  I won't need anyone to assure me that God has a special place for me.  Because Sam is our child.  I hope, unlike my guy with the challenging behaviors, that I can live long enough to provide a loving home for her for years to come.  And Miranda said years ago, and continues to say, that she will take it from there.  Because my difficult guy had loving parents who both died.  Then he had a loving foster family and they died, too...so now he's in a group home.  It's the group home I work in.  I make less than $10 an hour.  I don't need a special place in heaven or ridiculous amounts of praise.  I have a disabled child and I hope and pray if we can't take care of her some day, that someone will, and they will have compassion, patience, and most of all humor.

Yeah, I know.  Get off my soap box and find some humor.  I do, I do, but if it doesn't happen at home, I have to be careful about confidentiality.  But stay tuned...I'm more than willing to make fun of myself ( or better yet, Mick).

Coming soon:  more installments of "The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World".  My apologies: it's called working for a living.