I would like, someday, to try my hand at fiction. I started one piece, based on a comment by a
friend about another of these writings: he would “like to know what the group
of old men in the deli were talking about when my leg broke through the ceiling
over their heads”. It has drawn me into a
bit of character development based not on what happened, but on what could have
occurred leading up to that moment. I
will see how it goes. In the meantime,
here is another vignette from my “Not so boring life.”
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“Get out of the way! Here comes Kenny!”
Don’t think that I am making this up. You should have absolutely no
hesitation. Anyone standing in the
rectangular hallway of the third floor of the hospital-like building when this
cry is heard should quickly glance over their shoulder and seek shelter in the
nearest doorway or room. Listen
carefully for the sound of sneakered feet slapping on the linoleum floor,
especially when it is punctuated by a hoarse, rhythmic scream of “NA-NA NAA
NAAA!” Should any of you – resident,
staff or visitor – fail to hear or heed this warning call, be ready for some
pain, because you stand a very good chance of being the recipient of a sharp
and powerful slap on the back or a flesh-rending bite on your arm or shoulder. Kenny is coming!
Kenny would sit for hours on the floor in between the two
elevators that opened onto the third floor of the facility, facing the nursing
station, legs tucked behind and under his lean muscular body as he rocked back
and forth, hands held in front of his face as he made a deep-in-the throat
clicking sound that kept steady beat with his constant rocking. His body was a tautly strung mass of muscle, neck
and face muscles drawn, both arms scarred from wrist to forearm where he had
bitten himself during a lifetime of manic, self-abusive outbursts. Sometimes, the chemical or electrical spasms
that coursed Kenny’s mind and body would break through the daily doses of
Thorazine and manifest themselves in the form of an uncontrollable urge to jump
up and slap or bite whoever was nearest.
I was once (only once!) a victim
of one of his powerful slaps during an unguarded moment as I leaned over the
nurses’ counter. I never wanted it to
happen again.
I was employed as a “direct care” worker at a three story facility
designed to house and care for a hundred or so men and women, ranging in age
from their mid-twenties to their late sixties, who had been institutionalized
from an early age because of their classification, in the medical jargon of the
time, as Severely and Profoundly Retarded.
It was an “unskilled” minimal wage position and basically involved
bathing, dressing, feeding and caring for individuals who, through either
mental or physical limitations, were not able to do so for themselves.
Curiosity made me begin to watch Kenny at various points
throughout my eight hour shifts and I began to notice some patterns. His outbursts happened only two or three
times a day when he would jump up from
his favored position rocking on the floor in front of the elevators to run
shouting through the hallways, often with the accompany slap or bite for anyone
unfortunate enough to get in his way.
After one circuit around the rectangular building, he would return to
sit on the floor once again. Most of his
day was spent peacefully rocking away, lost in his own world. I noticed that his rhythmic rocking and the accompanying
“clicking” sound that emanated from deep within his throat was at times almost
musical, so one day, I sat on the floor beside him and began gently tapping out
a rhythm on his shoulder. He responded
by subtly changed the speed of his rocking and the rhythm of his clicking to
match the beat I was tapping. A slight
smile would slip into his normally drawn and taut muscles of his face. He never really looked at me or in any other
way directly acknowledged my presence, but the smile said it all.
After building that little bit of confidence in front of the
elevators, I decided to take a chance (yes, I AM crazy. You haven’t figured that out yet?). One day, as he began his feared run through
the hallways and people were diving behind doors to get out of his way, I began
running in the opposite direction toward Kenny, imitating his “Nana Naa Naaa”
shout. As we met in the hallway, I scooped
him up onto my shoulder (he was small and compact, weighing only about 120
pounds) and carried him, running and shouting, back to his place in front of
the elevator and set him on the floor.
He immediately resumed his rocking and clicking, a broad smile across
his face. No one (most importantly ME!)
was bitten or hit. From that point on, I
would try to repeat this little game whenever I was on shift. After that, Kenny never hit me, never bit
me, and his outbursts began to subside in frequency and intensity.
I would also occasionally get permission to take Kenny out
for walks in the residential neighborhood that surrounded the center. He would immediately stand up in front of the
elevator when he saw me approaching with his jacket. He would hold my hand as we covered a
two-block radius, walking with a stiff half-crouching stance. On occasion, he would unexpectedly drop to the
sidewalk and begin rocking. You can well
imagine the reaction of anyone who happened to be passing by and the quick
detours that were taken to the other side of the street.
There is no real moral or ending to this story, other than
the fact that I think we often forget about the basic humanity that might be
hidden behind outward manifestations of physical and mental challenges. The direct care job at the center could have
been simply a repetitive and uninspiring chore -
indeed, I believe it was for great many of the people who worked there. The severity of some of the handicaps
suffered by the persons interned in the center, especially when combined with
psychotic or aggressive behavior, could make you feel helpless – at times callous
and indifferent. Combating that feeling sometimes required this kind of crazy and unconventional response.
I remember once, on a warm afternoon after lunch in the inactive activity room, when an oppressive silence prompted another two colleagues and me
to jump up onto the tables (supervisors were elsewhere, luckily!) and begin an impromptu
comic ballet up and down the length of the room. We soon had all of the
residents roaring with laughter.
I worked at the center for about two years (it had started
as a summer job after completing a semester of Early Childhood Education classes
at a nearby university.) The experience undoubtedly changed
me and my outlook on life. I met one of
my longest lasting and best friends there. A group of other friends and I were able to get a
woman with cerebral palsy out of another institutional setting where she had
languished without reason for more than 20 years, into a semi-independent
living situation. This woman is now living in California - the mother of two
grown children with three grand-children.
There are dozens of other moments (both entertaining and sad), that stand
out in my memory from that time: Taking
Joe, a 60 year old man, lover of polka music without the use of his
arms or legs and whose ability to communicate was limited to yes and no and the
use of a picture board and a pointer attached to his head, into a local bar so
he could enjoy a beer drunk through a straw; Accompanying, with my friend and colleague Tom,
a group of residents to a major league baseball game and crowding into the
stadium elevator with a couple of nervous patrons who were heading to their box
seats…
But those are all probably stories for another time…
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