Another Day in Paradise

“My land lady cut off my electricity,” he said with little emotion in his quiet voice. “Then she took my broom and mop bucket. She has done a lot of things to me like that.” I responded to his statement, “why do you suppose that is Charlie?” “Well,” he said in a sort of half-laugh, “I think it’s obvious, she wants to go to bed with me.” The group erupted in laughter, but Charlie sat there stoically with a look of self-assurance on his face.



On another occasion I was leading a didactic group and talking about “I language.” The idea of “I language” is to avoid sentences beginning with “you." For example, “You are always late” is better said, “I would appreciate it if you would be on time.” There is a bit more to it than that, but you probably get the gist of it. During the group, one lady kept trying to talk, but was frequently interrupted by another group member. After being cutoff again, Alice could contain herself no longer. “Steve, would you shut up,” she said angrily. I broke in, “Alice, could you put that statement in the form of an “I message.” I was attempting to use the group process to illustrate my point. It was a skillful technique of verbal judo on my part to take the negative energy and reroute it to positive energy. “Certainly,” replied Alice. “Steve, I said shut up.” Fortunately time was up and we had to end group.



One group of adolescents was a bit more lively. At the time, group began by passing a clip board around for sign in. It had something to do with billing. As the clip board was circulating, I began introducing the day’s subject. One girl was having some trouble signing in. She dropped the clip board, then she broke the lead in the pencil. These actions brought a comment from an observant boy on the other end of the group, “stupid,” he said in a way making the word sound as though it had seven syllables. Without hesitation the girl flung the clip board at the name caller “frisbee-like.” It just missed his head and the look of surprise on his face quickly changed to rage. They both stood up and charged toward each other. I made it to the rendezvous point first and they sandwiched me, after which we all fell onto one of the couches in a struggling heap. Before any real damage could be wrought, three mental health techs ran into the room and drug the cursing adolescents away. I straightened my tie and continued. I think a couple of the group members did not even notice the disturbance.



Allen was sobbing, “I am so depressed, I can’t believe she left me.” The group members were offering support and assurance as he talked and cried. Stan was sleeping through the first part of Allen’s heart-wrenching sharing of his innermost thoughts. As Allen continued to talk about how he does not know how he will make it without his girlfriend, and how he wishes she would reconsider, Stan awoke. After a minute or so Stan began laughing loudly. “Are you depressed over a chick?” he laughed as he spoke. “A chick?” he said again with more emphasis. “Man, you can get another chick, I can’t believe you are crying over a chick.” Allen stopped crying and got angry. That may have helped Allen more than the tears. Stan won that days prize for sensitivity.



Just another day in group paradise.



Until the next time,

John Strain

Waiting for the other shoe to drop

Last Thursday when I came home I noticed a little green post card in the mail. It was for one of those letters you have to sign for - one of those letters that is never good news. This one was addressed to my wife Barbara and it was sent from the Louisiana Licensed Professional Counselors Board of Examiners. The LPC board governs our counseling licenses.



My psychologist friend maintains nothing good ever comes by registered mail. He does a lot of custody cases and is always getting subpoenas and little green post cards in the mail. I thought about it once and realized I had never received good news either by way of registered mail. When I gave the card to Barbara, the look on her face told me she had never received good news by registered mail either.



The post office will tell you that registered mail is a good way to ensure your mail is received. The real reason is to nail someone’s ass to the wall or to cover your own ass with a paper trail.



It was after 5:00 PM and the post office was closed. Barbara would have to wait until tomorrow to learn the nature of her bad news. What could it be? Did she do something wrong? Did someone file a complaint? Her mind was off to the races considering scenarios of trouble and recompense. The common thread throughout her theories for the little green post card were of guilt and punishment. She knew she did something wrong and reckoning day was drawing nigh.



I would have stayed to help her figure this out, but I had already committed to my pal to go to New Orleans and meet up with another couple of pals and have a few drinks. (I am a loyal friend huh?) Anyway, Barbara continued to rack her brain to find what must be some sort of mistake she made which rises to the level of sending a green post card as a precursor to impending doom.



When I came in at 3:00 AM (I wanted to come home sooner, but my pals wouldn’t let me go), I noticed a big fat envelope on the counter addressed to an agency Barbara had worked for about a year ago. I took notice, but thought little of it. I headed to bed for my three hours sleep before answering the bell in the morning.



Getting ready for work that morning, Barbara began talking about the little green card. She said “Do you no Bob Smith?” (fake name) “Yes,” I said. She continued, “I bet he turned me in for not closing those cases I had open when I left XYZ Counseling, he is just the sort of person who would do that.” “Do you think?”, I queried, “that seems pretty extreme for a little paperwork.” Barbara presented her case, “I went to the LPC web site and it said you could be disciplined if you do not keep your records up.” “Yeah but dropping a dime on someone without even calling to threaten a complaint first . . doesn’t make sense to me.” Nevertheless, just to be safe, Barbara had spent three hours the night before completing her overdue paperwork for XYZ Counseling.



Later Barbara lamented. “I do not understand. I try to do everything right and really care for the people I work with.” Then she named a few counselors worse than her for various reasons. “Why do I get in trouble for such a nit-picky thing and they get off altogether?”



“Barb, take it easy,” trying to reassure her, “if you can’t think of anything you did, then you probably didn’t do anything. If someone complained it is probably obvious BS and it will all come out, but we don’t even know what the letter says yet.”



Not knowing is always worse than knowing. The fear of something is usually worse than the actual event. We completed getting ready, hopped in the car and drove to the post office. Barbara ran in and returned in a few minutes.



When she returned to the car she was happy and laughing. All of the stress was gone in just a few seconds. The little green post card was a receipt itself - not a notice of a registered letter. The receipt was from Barbara’s supervisee who mailed her packet to the LPC Board. The receipt was to notify Barbara the packet was received at the board. She was not in trouble. She was going to keep her license another day.



We laughed and the irony of the situation was not lost on us. Counselors can get anxious too. Counselors can jump to conclusions too. All of that worry was unfounded. She made herself miserable.



My coworker who is female has tried to explain certain workings of the female mind to me. Men and women react quite differently to situations. She may say to me, “so-and-so is angry because of (insert problem here).” My coworker tries to figure out what we might have done to anger them. I, on the other hand, may say something like, “I got their angry, right here.” Then she will tell me something like, “You will never make a good woman, don’t you understand?” She says that women are driven by two major fears. (1) Am I in trouble? (2) Are they mad at me? Maybe women feel extra responsible. Maybe their guilt was taught to them by their mothers or others like sons, husbands, and fathers. Regardless the origin, it exists.



So ladies, I think some practice might help you. If I tell you “the other shoe is about to drop and you are going to be in trouble,” you tell me, “I GOT YOUR TROUBLE RIGHT HERE.” Try it out, If I say, “you better have that report in by 5:00 PM,” you say, “REPORT? REPORT THIS, I GOT YOUR FREAKING REPORT RIGHT HERE.” But if you decide to continue on in the way you have been, that is OK too, it is just one of the many things that makes women --- women and I for one am not complaining.



Until the next time,

John Strain

Pulling the fire alarm at the White House

This is another instance in which the statute of limitations permits me to tell a story. This is a true story. Those who know me have little trouble believing it. In 1964 I was seven years old. Our family traveled to Fairfax, VA to stay with my mom’s Uncle Tom and Aunt Inabelle. I was the youngest child, Becky, my sister was 10, and George my big brother was 13. Uncle Tom and Aunt Inabelle had two children Tommy and Mary. I idolized Tommy. He played baseball and I was a baseball fanatic.



Anyway, we did the tourist thing in Washington DC. Taking in the major sites and museums, I still have a vivid memory of a lot of it. Uncle Tom and Aunt Inabelle had to work so Tommy and Mary went along with their Kansas cousins for a whirlwind tour of the Nation’s Capital. Eventually we made it to the White House. LBJ was President, JFK had been assassinated the previous November.



The line to get in the White House was really long. It stretched for at least two blocks. Waiting in line was a skill not often bestowed upon a seven year old and I was no exception. I wasn’t the only one. My sister Becky who had a knack for spending her souvenir money faster than her two brothers was characteristically “tapped out.” She saw me as an easy mark and kept badgering me to loan her thirty-five cents to buy some post cards she just had to have. I would not give it to her though. I was saving my money for something nice. She kept after me, but I wouldn’t change my mind.



I remember the day was sunny and mild. The wait was casual and the adults socialized with each other in the line. Mom let me wander around and as I got the lay of the land, my circles got larger. I would walk up the line then down the line. I was an active seven year old so I guess my mother figured best to let me burn off excess energy.



While making one of my circles I noticed what I thought was a mailbox. I remember a pole on the edge of the sidewalk. Sitting atop the pole was a box with a rounded top like one of the big mailboxes still in use today. I thought to myself, “Huh this is a strange mailbox.” On one side was a door. I don’t remember if the hinges were on the side or bottom, but I reached up and opened the door revealing a lever. The lever looked just like the kind of lever on a parking meter. Without thought of what might happen I turned the lever immediately causing the box to make a fast ticking sound. It sounded like a miniature jack hammer. I knew something was wrong and I was not going to hang around to find out what.



I found my family and stood by my mother. This immediately aroused her suspicion. She looked down at me while her mother’s intuition was doing a full systems analysis. As she was processing all of the information the little jack hammer sound broke into her awareness. I remember her words, “What’s that noise? Oh, that fire alarm is ticking, I wonder who. . .” She stopped in mid sentence. Her full systems check was now complete. Her little boy just set off a fire alarm at the White House.



I was scared to death. My body was shaking and what transpired in the next few moments only made matters worse. Our cousins melted into the crowd and the crowd pulled back from the family from Kansas. “That little boy there pulled the fire alarm.” an anonymous voice came from the crowd. A lady who had been talking with my mother shared her knowledge of punishments for such a crime. “Oh my dear, I am from New York and in New York they charge you $500 for turning in a false alarm.” My family did not have that kind of money. I was afraid I might be put in jail. Then we heard in the distance the faint unmistakable sound of sirens. The sirens were coming from all directions and they were getting louder.



Within moments fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances converged at our location. It was chaos with men getting out of vehicles and running. Soon they were just standing around trying to figure out where the fire was. Looking back today that sight may have inspired the penguin poster with the caption, “who’s in charge.” The fire chief was standing in the street near the fire alarm. My mother said to my dad, “George, go tell him something.” So my dad walked over to the fire chief and said, “Umm, I think some little boy in the crowd set off the alarm by mistake." He said it as if he did not know which little boy. Certainly not that little boy with the Kansas City A's baseball cap on shaking like a leaf five feet away. Today, as a father myself I appreciate how hard it must have been for my dad to deliver that message. The fireman looked our direction and said, “Oh, is that right.” He walked to the alarm and reset it, turned and walked away motioning for everyone to get back on the trucks and return to the station. My brother counted 17 fire trucks that morning as the men piled on them and drove away.



I do not recall being punished or even scolded that badly. I guess my parents were in such shock themselves, besides, it was obvious I understood my crime and had suffered sufficient fear which would make any punishment my parents could pile on seem like fun. I often thought of how the fireman might have felt. Did they dream of rescueing the President and being plastered on the front page of the paper as a hero?



Since that time to this day I do not push buttons or flip switches unless I know for sure their function. My mother says that incident is the biggest scare I ever put in her. We got away without having to pay a $500 fine. I did not end up in jail, but I did give Becky the thirty-five cents she had been badgering me about. Nothing like a reprieve to kindle one’s generosity.



Until the next time,

John Strain

My Work Week in Review

No matter how “crazy” things get at the hospital, I still have my coworkers / friends to tether me to sanity - at least my brand of it. This was a difficult week by comparison. A difficult week for me means a combination of more than usual paperwork fueled by admissions and discharges, unhappy and unstable patients who zero in on me as their only source of help to hatch their delusional plans, and distractions caused by me having an outside life.



Admissions and discharges are routine, but not every day. Since I function as the intake coordinator as well as a social worker with a case load I can sometimes be overwhelmed with a log jam of responsibilities all having high priority. This work is not the sort of thing you can sit down and do in orderly fashion. It is more like a controlled fall you see on the “X Games” where an individual is plummeting down the side of a mountain. A casual observer might think it is just some poor devil falling off a cliff where in fact it is a highly skilled athlete demonstrating his abilities with grace and precision. My week was not unlike such a free fall down a mountain. Writing this is testament to the fact I survived. No big deal really, it was just a routine difficult week. That IS the job and though I may complain at times - I really love it.



One day I was in the midst of a whirlpool of demands. Two patients were standing outside the nurses station, both talking to me at the same time, both wanting to know what was going on with their discharges, (which were both nebulous for a variety of reasons.) My not being able to give black-and-white answers to their questions only intensified their joint inquisition. Having arrived a bit late, I was scurrying around getting the data to churn out the morning reports necessary for the intake meeting which immediately followed the group I was supposed to lead in about five minutes.



I was standing at the confluence of several rivers. The river of “Me Being Late” was flowing into the rivers of “Discharge Planning Unsettled” and “Bad Karma.” Then from the west the rivers of “Bad Luck” and “Today You Are Going to Get Yours” were at flood stage. “John Strain, telephone for you.” It was a mental health clinic with an admission. “John, I need to get some information about these two discharges,” asked the charge nurse. “It’s group time, let’s go,” one mental health worker announced loudly and began herding the patients into the group room for the group I was supposed to conduct. Just then another patient walked up and began rambling in mid story as though I completely understood his context. He was angry and was demanding his rights and demanding in general. Instead of trying to swim against the current, I let go. Noticing the smile on the face of one of the mental health workers who seemed to appreciate my situation, I began to laugh.



My situation was typical stuff and it always works out. I told the two gentlemen to give me a minute while I took the call. I told the nurse I would get with her once off the phone. The other social worker covered the group while I finished the call and completed collecting the data for the intake meeting. Sometimes the number of demands are so numerous at one point in time it is comical. During those times I think of “I Love Lucy” when Lucy is working at the chocolate factory or those guys who balance spinning plates on poles. If you can see the humor from the inside like others can see it from the outside, you will handle your inundations just fine. If you take it too seriously, your mind will begin to function the way a stuck CD sounds, “nyn nyn nyn nyn nyn nyn.”



Laughter is the shield I use. Some of my coworkers may notice my situation and try to add to the overwhelmingness of it by making things up. “John, the operator called and we have a walk in up in the lobby.” This is a bad thing, because I have to drop what I am doing and assess the person. This is a one hour unexpected joy ride into the unknown. I am not complaining about this seemingly sadistic act though because if I notice a coworker in a similar state of stress I would do the same thing. “If you live by the sword you die by the sword.



I may have gone too far once when I thought it would be cute to call the administrative secretary and tell her the State Surveyors were in the lobby for a surprise inspection. Apparently the administrator, nurse manager, and medical records lady were in a meeting so the announcement had an even better hysterical impact than I had planned. Pam the administrator at the time failed to see the humor. Somehow though she could not stay mad at me long. When she was in power I left my balls at home. I knew that she would like nothing more than to add mine to her collection and I was determined to hang on to them even if it meant leaving them at home.



The other social worker is a female. We often ask each other to sit in at family sessions. The dynamic in the session can be completely different whether there is a man a woman or both as therapist. She may say to me, “would you mind sitting in on so and so’s family session, I need a man in there.” She may also add, “and you are the closest thing to a man we’ve got.” Har Har Har. This week I sat in for just that reason. The idea was I had a better relationship with the patient because I have not had to be the “heavy” and deliver bad news. That all changed. Shortly into the session I made the mistake of characterizing her “long winded, bombastic diatribe” as a “rant.” The patient fixated on the word “rant” and used it as proof I was a bad therapist because I did not know what a “rant” was. She then proceeded to go on a “rant” about the word “rant.” My counter argument was, “I may be a bad therapist, but not because I don’t know what a “rant” is.” You have to have a thick skin to work with these folks. They will call you every name in the book and accuse you of every known and some unknown offenses. The trick is to keep things moving along productively.



Work certainly gets in the way of my personal life. The closing for our refinance happened this week - finally. I have had major problems with the bank. The closing was scheduled, rescheduled then when we got there they had the wrong amount on the paperwork, so we had to reschedule again. I have been pretty mad at these people - mad enough to pursue what I feel are major customer service problems. The hectic work week coupled with this pain in the “you know what” only increased the tension.



Along with unexpected problems are unexpected acts of kindness. I have to give credit to one of the nurses, who besides being beautiful, has a knack for bringing a surprise cup of Starbucks Coffee just at the right time, guaranteed to diminish problems and increase ability to deal with them.



Friday was better because it was Friday. Still, not without problems. The unit “milieu” is the overall feeling and dynamic on the unit. For instance the milieu may be paranoid, depressed, angry, or anxious. Friday it was loud and angry. Several patients still lacking complete medication stability are loud, illogical, broken records that find it necessary to verbally accost staff, demanding help, while refusing to stop talking and listen to any help we might offer. At first, I listen, then after the story repeats a few times I attempt to talk. After I begin to move my mouth to speak I am interrupted and the story gets retold with heightened volume and more colorful adjectives. When I have made several attempts to talk and the other person talks over me I tell them “If you do all the talking and keep interrupting me I can’t help you.” At some juncture I determine the interaction a lost cause and ask the individual to step away from the desk or come back when ready to listen. Then they will say something like, “you’re not even trying to help me . . .you’re a bad social worker . . .I want a different social worker.” If their protest reels me back into another attempt to help it usually winds up the same way. Can you say “exasperating?”



This weekend I should go in for a few hours and finish my paperwork. I left at 5:30 PM on Friday with charting still undone. But you know what? I had already cut into happy hour 30 minutes and I was not going to delay the start of the weekend another second.



Just another week, but I love it and I love the people who work with me.



Until the next time

John Strain

Goodbye Miss Bridget

Miss Bridget has been our neighbor since we moved into this house in 1991. She is in her late 70's and a widow. Today she knocked on our door and told us she was moving in the morning and wanted to say goodbye. Her new home was only a few blocks away, so something other than distance had to be causing the emotions I was feeling. I felt sad and thinking about her not being next door caused a lump in my throat. These feelings caught me off guard because we never really did anything with Miss Bridget. Our interactions were limited to waves in the yard and brief conversations as we would come and go with the hustle and bustle of our lives. She was always there - next door - a fixture in our neighborhood.



A thin wiry woman, Miss Bridget was a war bride. Her husband was an American GI and she was German. She left her country in the 40's and moved to Louisiana. Today she still speaks with a thick accent. She is very shy and private. Her passion is her yard. She has azalea bushes throughout her park like property. All day long, Miss Bridget labors to make her place a show piece. Every bush is trimmed, weeds do not exist, and everything looks the better for her care and attention.



Miss Bridget does not complain. She is a tough person who has experienced a lot of pain and hardship but still looks to the positive and resists feeling sorry for herself, an attitude common for her generation. She does not drive, but walks to the store and gets groceries. She has a son nearby who helps her, but she is pretty self-sufficient. At times we would see her walking and ask her if she would like a ride, but she never took us up on the offer.



We learned after the fact, she had cancer. All of last fall and winter Miss Bridget walked to the hospital daily for her chemotherapy. She walked the one mile round trip feeling sick and weak. When her hair fell out she was self conscious about wearing scarves and coverings to conceal her lack of hair. Still no complaining. (She is doing fine, it looks like the cancer is gone.)



When our family arrived here, John our son was six years old. Today as she told us goodbye, John towered over her at 6'3". She marveled along with us (the parents) at how he has changed in twelve years. Our house actually faces her house instead of the street. Therefore, our view has been Miss Bridget's house and Miss Bridgett herself working in the yard, cutting, pruning, watering, and tidying. What will our view be now?



Our yard was the after school hangout while John grew. Lots of baseball, football and basketball all the way to high school. Miss Bridget's patience were taxed at times and she made a few neighborly complaints. We did our best to teach John respect for older people in general and Miss Bridget in particular. He and his friends went out of their way to keep balls from rolling into her yard, but she had to tolerate their learning curve.



She loved our dog Hobo and always came to pet him. Once when her lawn mower was broken I cut her grass and she was so appreciative. We knew her passion for her yard and knew how she would appreciate such a simple gesture.



Goodbyes always make me sad. Saying goodbye to Miss Bridget was watching someone leave who carries twelve years of our history in her mind. She knew what Hobo looked like as a puppy. She knows what John looked like when we moved in. She has observed our change. She has not changed. Stability is foundation in life. So much in life does change and changes so quickly that our lives lose that anchor. Familiarity and roots fill a necessary need in our lives. Miss Bridget leaving brought to my awareness that I was losing one such anchor.



Next week we will go to Home Depot or somewhere and buy her a nice big plant for her yard. It will make her smile and perhaps give me confidence that this anchor is still nearby. I will miss her - Goodbye Miss Bridget.



Until the next time

John Strain