My Life Part XIX: They keep telling me I can't

When I returned to school in New Orleans I entered familiar territory. My former roommate, now married was working at a psychiatric hospital as a clinical associate. Other names for the position are aid, tech, mental health worker. This job falls under nursing. It is entry level and you work directly with the patients. Psychiatrists, psychologists, and social workers come and go as they please, but the techs have to stay with the patients. They maintain the levels of observation like visual contact. They give the patients their sharps (toiletries) and check them back in. They monitor their whereabouts, walk them to meals and therapies, accompany them on outside appointments, and take vital signs.

Richard told me they needed more clinical associates so he would speak to the nurse manager about me and try to get me a job. I had hope. Not only did a job look promising, but it was going to be in my field of study. What a great deal. Sure enough, Richard got me an interview with Kathy the nurse manager. Kathy was a nice lady, very outgoing and proud of her Italian heritage. The interview went well. She let on that she would recommend me for hire, but I still had to interview with the medical director and the administrator.

I figured I was in. With a friend vouching for me, and the person who would be my boss liking me, what could go wrong? The medical director was a young guy. He wore a leather jacket and proclaimed himself "the Miami Vice of psychiatry." He had the kind of ego that made Narcissus look like he had an inferiority complex. He came from wealth and trained at one of the ivy league schools back east. He focused on my eyesight a lot. I was used to people having questions, but I normally set folks at ease. I am resourceful and adaptive. By this time in my life I knew my limitations and did not attempt something I did not know I could do where work is concerned. I did not expect any special treatment or accommodations on the job. He continued to ask me what I would do if an adolescent patient made fun of me and how would I get to work if I could not drive. He asked questions that to me were not even issues, but my answers did not seem to end his inquisition. Funny how the people who should be most understanding; are sometimes the least understanding.

I did not get the job. I thought for sure I had it, but no dice. I heard from Kathy that the medical director and administrator thought I would be a liability due to my poor eyesight. I was angry, but mostly hurt. I can handle failure, but not "getting a chance to swing the bat" tore at me. It was a familiar scenario. I was often told I could not do something I knew deep down I could do. I had also learned that some people see far worse due to their self-imposed limitations they accept. I am not talking about eyesight, but vision of the mind. I had to move on and find another way.

This was in October of 1985. Nothing emerged right away. In the mean time, I did the grounds at the apartment complex where we lived. Eventually I had a promising lead at a rescue mission in New Orleans to work with an alcoholic treatment program. Before I had accepted the position officially I received a call from the administrator of the hospital that turned me down for the psych tech job.

Sam hemmed and hawed to say something to the affect, "sometimes you make a mistake by not giving a person a chance and we would like to give you a chance." He did not say this exactly, but it was the meaning I understood. Then to my surprise, Sam offered me a job as a security guard. Without thinking I blurted out, "wouldn't I need to have better vision to be a security guard than to be a psych tech?" I was told that if I did well as a security guard, I could eventually move to the clinical associate job. Security guard was a generous term for what I did. No gun or uniform - just a name tag and a vague job description. The new building for the hospital was under consruction so that was my post. Walking around in a nearly completed building.

I started working nights as a security guard at a psychiatric hospital. Barbara dropped me off for the 11 - 7 shift, then drove back to the apartment. We had to get John out, now 9 months, each night since there was no one at home to watch him while she drove me to work. In the morning I took the bus to school, rode the bus home in the afternoon and got some sleep before getting up about 10:00 PM to get ready for work and replay the process.

I began in January and only because of my bugging them was I able to switch to a psych tech job. In March of 1986 I was given my first position in psychiatry. I should not have had to jump through all of those hoops, but I am glad I did. We do not often get a lot of say so about our journey. I would have been justified to tell them to shove the security job, but by taking it, I eventually got what I first sought. Life is about settling for close enough a lot of the time.

When I hear someone say something to the affect that they are too good to work at McDonalds, I want to wring their neck. It would be nice to begin at the top, but you can learn a lot working your way up.

One of the morals of this story is to break your goals down into smaller goals. Be flexible. Keep in mind what you want and be willing to crawl a bit to get it. So far it has worked for me.

I had my start. I was learning psychology in the classroom and I was learning it on the job.

Until the next time
John Strain

My Life Part XVIII: I know what it means to miss New Orleans?

Maybe it's magic, or maybe there is something to those Voodoo spells, but we were missing New Orleans. Maybe it was the unique food and people, maybe it was the riverboat's lonely call at night, Mardi Gras, Spanish moss hanging in trees, or maybe New Orleans had cast her spell on us.

We liked a lot about Illinois, including the people and the changing seasons. I grew up in the Midwest so it was more like home to me than New Orleans. Barbara was a southern girl and it was hard for her to be away from her family. It was difficult for them too.

I remember when Mardi Gras rolled around; knowing what was going on in New Orleans was tough to take when life was just normally going by in Rock Island. I felt like I was missing something and I was.

There is something about the south. It was my home now and I would not feel at home until I would return.

Before John was born, we had decided to return to New Orleans and I would go back to the seminary to work on my doctor of education degree in the area of counseling and psychology.

The work in Rock Island was a two-year commitment. The understanding was that an evaluation would occur sometime to determine what to do next. We hadn't started a church, but we had a few people who were meeting regularly at our services.

Those folks could easily cross the river and attend the church in Milan. There were no hard feelings about us leaving. The folks who hired us were good to us the entire time and were also gracious with us leaving.

In a way I suppose we were lame ducks that last 6 months. I had plenty to do. There was work in local churches that could use an extra hand and I was taking care of John during the day.

Barbara was working at a shelter for battered women and I stayed home with John. I even changed dirty diapers although my method was a bit unorthodox.

I have no problem getting dirty. I can work on an engine and get covered with grease and oil or work in the yard and have mud and dirt from head to toe. Smells, however, are my kryptonite. That little baby could manufacture smells that would run dogs from gut wagons and send cockroaches running into the light to escape it.

I couldn't hold my breath long enough to change the diaper like Barbara could. Women seem to have a special ability or are immune to noxious odors.

I developed my own method. First, I would take a few deep breaths in the safe zone to build up my air. Second, I opened the diaper, removed it, bagged it, and then disposed of it, while still holding my breath.

Then I would grab John and move quickly to the bathroom. By now, I would take my first breaths. In my left hand, I held John with his backside up. My right hand turned on the bath water and I let the water wash over his rump cleaning away the debris from his digestive tract.

After that, the smell was tolerable and I could devote full attention to A and D ointment, baby powder, and anything else he needed.

It wasn't easy working at home with a baby. He always needed something, like bottles, changing, being held, played with, it never seemed to end. The one thing I relied on was his wind up swing. The swing was magic. It had the ability to keep him busy so I could do my work. The only problem was his mother. Barbara believed I used the swing too much.

During the day, I would put John in the swing and he would often go to sleep. The first time or two, I tried to remove him and lay him on a pallet where he might be more comfortable, but it only woke him up. So I learned to just leave him in the swing, slumped over.

I had to keep an ear out for Barbara coming home, because she would give me the third degree if she discovered her precious baby all crumpled up in the swing. She didn't like the marks the swing left on his legs from hanging there even though I pointed out that they always went away. It was a circulation thing.

One day, I had John in the swing and he went to sleep just like clockwork. I was working and being productive without the interruptions he could make. I looked down the hall from my office to check on him and I noticed something dark directly under the swing. I prayed it was a leaf, but when I arrived on scene I learned the awful fact that he had pooped. It was all over him, the swing, and the floor.

Of course I heard, "If you wouldn't leave him in the swing so long, that wouldn't happen," from Barbara.

It was fun taking care of him. One thing about walking around with a baby, women are drawn to you like a sale sign at a department store. It was always fun at the mall. Barbara would be shopping and I would be sitting on a bench telling every woman in the mall how old he was and how much he weighed when he was born.

Our days wound down in Illinois. It was a nice chapter in our lives. We met nice people, enjoyed the changing of seasons, and found some direction for the future.

We were headed back to school. Times would be tough financially, but we felt that we were on a path that was leading somewhere. Barbara's parents were thrilled we were coming home and we were too.

Like a big magnet, New Orleans had drawn us back in. She hasn't let us go since.

Until the next time
John Strain

Sometimes it works

What do you do for a living? Do you make or sell widgets? At the end of the day can you look at what you have done and measure it objectively?

A couple of summers while I was in college, I hauled bricks and mixed mud for a mason. It was gratifying to look at a pile of cinder blocks at the beginning of a job and watch it transform into a building of some sort or to watch a naked house grow brick clothing and a chimney to boot.

I have bussed tables, washed dishes, prepared food, and delivered papers. All of those jobs had a certain feedback built into them.

What if your job results aren’t so easy to measure? How do you know if what you are doing is working or if it makes a difference?

As a counselor in a psychiatric hospital, I cross paths with a lot of people that I am charged to help. Some I never meet; I just talk to them on the telephone. Others I only work with briefly for a day or two. Most of these people I see for about a week or so.

Some of them come back and over the years, I get to know them fairly well. Others we never see or hear from again.

Occasionally, our patients make the papers. We read of a suicide or the details of a police report.

Every now and then, our patients just call to check in. They want to let us know they are doing well. This is always a nice surprise. It is confirmation that sometimes it works. “It” being our efforts applied to the efforts of the individual.

A couple of days ago I got one of those phone calls. It was from a young man we had in the hospital two or three years ago. I will refer to him as Christopher.

Christopher’s main problem was drugs. He had made a pretty big mess out of his life at a young age. By the time he crossed our threshold, he had already been through several treatments.

Christopher was intelligent and said all the right things. This is not unusual for someone with a drug problem. Addicts are notorious for promises and good intentions. In Christopher’s case he had sampled some of what the Prodigal son had tasted. His life had spiraled down to living out of his car and bouncing from one treatment center to another.

I spent more time with him individually than I usually do with patients. One reason was because he requested the meetings. He talked about the future and looked forward to living independently, going to school, and getting a job.

Those were nice goals, but that’s what they all say. I wouldn’t say I have become cynical, but I don’t hold my breath every time someone shares a dream. I believe these folks mean well, but one reason they have problems is because those good intentions are often abandoned when reality sets in. There is nothing like hard times and difficulty to send an addict back to the bottle or the crack pipe.

I remember Christopher being humble. He asked questions and seemed to have the right mix of confidence and fear. I helped him get into a group home with a good reputation for helping folks. He stuck it out and completed about a year of treatment.

Along the way, I would hear reports about how well Christopher was doing. I was glad. Eventually, he moved on. Christopher told me he wound up in one city and fell back into drugs for a brief time. He quickly got back on the wagon and got away from the bad influences.

He completed technical school and is now a computer technician with a good company. He is staying in school for more certifications. He met a woman and things seem to be going well on that front.

All and all, Christopher has the life he dreamed about only a couple of years ago. He is in love, he is working, he is going to school, and he is living independently. He called to thank me for my help, but I told him that what he has is because of the work he has done.

All of this would have been enough to feel pretty good about Christopher, but there is more. He told me that he has been active in the local Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous. He is a “sponsor” which is someone who serves as a lifeline to new folks in the program.

Christopher has spoken to groups at some of the treatment centers he attended. He is living proof that “it” can be done. A little work and sticking to it goes a long way.

So here’s to Christopher. I hope he is toasting with Coca Cola. May he continue on the path and see his dreams fulfilled along the journey.

So you see folks; sometimes it really does work.

Until the next time
John Strain

Why is everyone so angry?

It is inescapable. Our media displays it 24/7. Angry people with a cause spewing hatred for those they feel are to blame. Nationalism, political polarism, racial tension, and even sports rivalries have been an anger on steroids.

Rodney King had the correct sentiment, "Can't we all get along?"

Monday and Tuesday's television viewing brought this condition of anger and hate to a sharp focus within me.

Hear me out.

Monday: I watched Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts.

I was here before, during, and after Katrina. I was interested to see how Spike Lee would tell the story. Hurricane Katrina affected millions of people and therefore there are millions of stories.

The documentary has received good reviews, but I found it extremely one-sided. It could have been more aptly named. Katrina: How an incompetent, uncaring, racist government tried to wipe out the black people of New Orleans.

80% of New Orleans was under water after Katrina. The entire Parish of St. Bernard was inundated. So whoever was living there lost everything. The urban myth of the levees being intentionally blown up was floated again without any proof more than opinion.

There are so many things I could respond to in the film, but it would only draw me into what I am trying to avoid. The film fans the flames of hatred, paranoia, and the opinion “I've been wronged by the white man again.”

Harry Belafonte praised Hugo Chavez the dictator of Venezuela while calling George Bush a racist. Al Sharpton had numerous spots and freely spewed his racist commentary.

Spike Lee is a powerful man. He uses his power to proclaim his racist views through pseudo art.

Without going more into the points of the film, my point is that the media is chalk full of anger, hatred, and racism. The result is more anger, hatred, and racism.

Tuesday: I did not feel like being preached to for another two hours by the reverend Spike Lee. Thankfully, I recorded another HBO movie on the TiVo: Because of Winn-Dixie.

The movie is about a 10 year-old girl who just moved to Naomi, Florida with her preacher father. Opal crossed paths with a dog she named Winn-Dixie and a series of events were set in motion that brought together a lot of people from various walks of life.

People who were loners, misfits, and outcasts came together. The movie transcended age, class, and race. The story showed how an open mind, time, listening, and an open heart could result in an enriched life.

Lonely people found friends and everyone learned more about what is really important in life.

So what?:
It is my belief that because we are saturated with more of the negative, angry, hate filled media offerings than positive ones; negativity, anger, and hate become a habit or a reflex. When we watch something good and wholesome, it stirs something inside that makes us feel good and warm.

I don't think the world has changed as much as we have just started looking at it differently. Good is out there. It is within each of us. We see acts of kindness and sacrifice all the time.

We are the ones who must modulate how much hate and anger we let into our minds and hearts. This is done by changing the channel and certainly by not spreading it.

It comes down to personal choice. There are many things competing for our consciousness. Take stock of your attitude. If you are too negative, angry, and complaining all the time, do something about it.

Don't jump into the negative discussions at work. Instead look for something that is realistically positive and hang on to that. Negativity and anger is a cancer that will eventually destroy you. Learn to let go of conflict. Laugh more, and choose happiness.

I am not suggesting we all join hands and sing Kumbaya. A move away from hatred and anger does not mean you have to be Pollyanna either.

It can be done. We are only alive for a blink of eternity's eye, don't spend that brief moment all knotted up inside. Do something happy today; let go of something that is eating at you.

It is after all up to you.

Until the next time
John Strain

My Life Part XVII: Birth and nearly death

The pregnancy went well from my point of view. Barbara had to deal with morning sickness and a host of other things that occur when you have something growing in your body.

We converted my office into a nursery. It was fun gathering all of the baby things. It was hard to believe we were going to be parents. I bought a couple of books and kept up with what was happening inside Barbara. I was fascinated with the whole experience and I wanted details.

We attended a birth class at the hospital where the baby was to be born. Barbara grew and grew. Eventually it came time for the birth. We went a few days with the false labor. Barbara was miserable and the doctor decided it was time. He set a date for us to come to the hospital and he would induce labor if necessary.

I guess the baby got the word and decided to start the labor pains on its own. They started in a way, Barbara thought she could handle, but they intensified. Barbara is one of the few women who have to drive themselves to the hospital. I wasn’t Desi Arnez; things went pretty smooth. The hospital was just down the street and we had already discussed all of it.

We made it to our room around 10:00 AM. We were given our instructions from the nurse then left pretty much alone. The contractions began to come faster and stronger. Her demeanor changed from jovial to serious.

Barbara had what they call back labor. She felt a lot of pressure in her lower back and it helped some if I could put my arms around her and lift her up. That little maneuver hurt my back, but I'm not looking for sympathy. The contractions were about two minutes long and one minute apart. This went on and on.

The doctor broke the water himself trying to speed things along. Finally she dilated to the point we were moved to the labor room. By now there was some action. I gained a lot of respect for Barbara and her ability to take pain. She needed an episiotomy and that looked like it hurt.

Anyway, things got down to business. The doctor said to me, "Did you want a boy or a girl?" "I just want it to be healthy," was my response. "Oh, come on, what do you want?" he said. "A son", I answered. "You have your son; it's a boy." Then he told Barbara, "I now pronounce you unpregnant."

I couldn't do anything but stand there with a softball lump in my throat. John was being cleaned up and attended to by the nurse. I followed her to have him weighed and measured 20.5 inches 7 lbs. 7 oz.

The rest of the evening was a blur of phone calls and emotional highs. I was happy and proud at the same time, but it was a feeling I had never experienced.

I walked the short distance home and barely felt the ground. I was a father.

---

Those of you who are parents know the elation. You know the relief too, because in the back of your mind there is a fear something may go wrong. In our case, the birth went normal as far as we knew. John was born in the evening and after he was weighed, cleaned, and all of the things they do, Barbara and I called our families and friends to share the good news.

Barbara's mom, dad, and sister were on their way to Rock Island, IL from Mississippi. They would arrive the next day, Saturday. The whole event was emotionally draining for me and physically and emotionally draining for Barbara.

That evening when I left the hospital, I snapped this photo of my new son. I stood there staring at him, feeling very responsible. I had a little person depending on me. It felt good. I had so much to teach him and prepare him for, but I was tired, so I decided to begin the next day.

Saturday was a great day. I went over to the hospital to see Barbara and John. On the way, I stopped at the gift shop and bought John a small, white, Scottie stuffed animal. They brought John in the room for a while, then he had to go back to the nursery. Barbara's family arrived in the afternoon and they were thrilled to hold their new grandson and nephew. Life was good.

I had preaching responsibilities. Sunday, I went to church, then beat it over to the hospital to see the family. When I arrived, I heard a nurse's voice say, "There's the father." The way she said it let me know something was wrong. One of the nurses stopped me in the hall and told me John had developed a fever. It was 101 at present, but has climbed since it was first discovered. They had Barbara sign a release for a spinal tap so they could determine what was happening.

After the nurse briefed me, I went into Barbara's room and I could tell she was scared. Things had been so good, now I was getting concerned. The nurses were serious in their speech and mannerisms. Something was definitely going on. Barbara said when she tried to feed John last night, he was a bit listless, but she only recognized it in retrospect.

Barbara's parents arrived and we waited together only having conjecture to occupy the time. Finally, the doctor came into the room. He told us to sit down. "Your son has meningitis. If he lives, he could be blind, deaf, paralyzed, mentally retarded . . ." The doctor went on with a list of maladies that had our head spinning. He further explained, that newborns often are not strong enough to fight off this disease. The fever rises, the brain swells, and they eventually die. Many times, the condition is caught too late. Fortunately, the nurses were on the ball. They called the doctor, penicillin was started immediately, then the spinal tap was ordered to confirm their suspicions.

I was scared now. After what the doctor said, I had very little hope. John was going to take a helicopter ride to Peoria to another hospital. This was necessary in case he needed a white blood cell transfusion. John's white count was getting dangerously low.

By now, the baby had a significant headache and was generally miserable with the fever. I saw him lying in the incubator. I reached my hand in and his little hand grasped my index finger. All of a sudden he jerked and began crying loudly. Then when he cried himself out, he would loosen the grip and be out of it. Soon the pain would grab him again and the process was repeated. I would have taken his pain or traded places with him if there had been any way, but there was not. His first battle, he had to fight alone. I could not help and I felt the intense helplessness.

We had support from our family and our church family, but the fear, disappointment, sadness, and grief was heavy. Barbara was recovering from a grueling birth and felt bad enough all other things being normal.

The flight team prepared John and the incubator for travel. The helicopter arrived and we had to say goodbye. We watched as they wheeled him outside down the sidewalk to the helicopter. Then the rotars began to turn and in moments the noise of the helicopter was at peak. As it lifted off, Barbara and I held each other and cried. Our joy had been transformed to deep sadness and uncertainty. That night would be one of the most difficult I have ever experienced.

Back in the room, I looked at the stuffed animal I had bought John. His goodie bag with the name tag which adorned his bed was taped to it. Everywhere I looked, I saw, what were supposed to be happy things, but they only made my fear and sadness greater. I could hear other babies on the floor. Other families were happy like we were only a few hours ago.

We packed Barbara up and went home for the night. The house was decorated with pink and blue streamers and balloons. I had printed off a banner saying "Welcome Home Sweeties." All of that seemed so out of place and just added to the emotional pain we were feeling. How can things change so quickly? How can you be on the mountain top one moment and in the valley the next?

In the morning, we were going to head to Peoria. Hopefully, Barbara would be better suited for travel in the morning. I tossed and turned all night. By morning, the news had begun to change. His white count stopped the slide. The fever did not increase. He never needed the transfusion or oxygen. The doctors were sounding more optimistic.

Traveling was quite uncomfortable for Barbara, but we made it to Peoria. St. Francis Hospital had a state of the art neonatal intensive care unit. I learned how to gown and scrub up. This was necessary to enter the unit. The rest of that week, I fed John every chance I got. He continued to improve and the fear of losing him was gone. The doctors ran tests to assess any other damage. They could not find any. At the end of the week, we were transferred back to the Rock Island hospital. John would spend one more week there to finish his antibiotics.

Long story short, he made it. No damage of any kind. He is a normal kid. That was one heck of a scare, but now it is the cornerstone of my gratitude to God for restoring my son to me. My life has been enriched with the experiences of fatherhood and getting to know this fine young man God gave me to raise.

Until the next time
John Strain