KarmaTube: How To Be Alone

 So, it has been a while since I have been here. Maybe too much to do, maybe not enough to say. Either way, I thought perhaps this lovely video poem by Tanya Davis would serve to remind me...and you....that being alone is a good way to be sometimes, and one doesn't always have to be blogging or tweeting or texting or meeting....



KarmaTube: How To Be Alone

Don't this say it all???

My Brother's Bones

The brother of my high school friend is dying. This man, the incarnation of the boy I knew so long ago, chose the hard road of living; the same road so many others in my town chose to walk. And now as he lived, so he dies; via the hard road. No calm, peaceful death of closing one’s eyes and passing over quietly and smiling, drifted away to another plane of existence while wrapped in the comfortable arms of sleep has been his gift. Instead, his leaving is a slow-motion forward stumble toward that final landing. Over this past week or so, my mind has been much on his children for whom I find myself praying will find peace and closure with their father before he leaves. My heart is really tied up in this death for so many reasons. The pain of my sister-friends as they take this final walk with their beloved brother; grief and sorrow for his mother as no mother should have to watch her child die. And there is also my own selfish sadness because this man was/is part and parcel of my childhood and with each passing over, those of us who lived within the town that built us are diminished and I always grieve at the death of one of our own.

My soul aches as once again I see someone leave because of the demons that haunt them. Because I do what I do for a living, I am there with some of these besieged warriors as they struggle to walk this road and try to win this battle. I ache because I have been there again and again as one by one they lose and addiction claims yet another for its dark hole. That demon took two people from my care last week - one to overdose, one to self-inflicted gunshot. These were good people, loving and loved people destroyed by their inner war and sent home with no flag draping their coffin to honor the battle fought and lost. And last but not the least, in this particular moment, the brother of my friend and his process of leaving this plane has triggered my own recently scabbed and healing wound.

A little over a year ago, my own brother lost his battle to the demon-god Addiction. Where this family goes, I have already been. When my husband and I went to say our farewells to my brother in June of ‘09, I remember sitting for hours by his side in a tiny cramped 1 room “independent living” apartment. A room which is dominated by the presence of the hospital bed, the oxygen tank and the glaringly yellow DNR order taped to the wall above the head of his bed. I sat by his side, chatting when he was awake; fidgeting while he dozed as he slipped in and out of consciousness and reality. I remember running my hands through his hair and helping to shift his body and feeling his skeleton with only the paper thin skin holding those bones together. I feel his weight or lack of as at one point I aid him to swing his addiction embattled frame of barely 50 pounds out of the bed and into the wheelchair so he could go outside and feel the sun on his face and the gulf breezes brush against his skin. I felt the desperate desire to hold him tight so he could not go, could not leave me behind.

And now, I remember standing at my mother's grave a year ago this coming week and pouring my brother's ashes across that green plot telling her that I had brought her son home to her. The disconnection from reality and the movement of time as a gust of breeze whipped through the falling stream of grey powder and wrapped my brother about me, across my shoes, into my clothes, through my hair as if he was giving me one last hug. The totally abandoned feeling as I saw small pieces of bones that had not pulverized and realized this was all that was left of the big brother who taught me to roller skate, to dance, to shoot a gun and put a spit shine on his shoes; the brother who so fiercely protected me and my "purity" despite the fact I was hell-bent on getting rid of it. I picked up a bone, bigger than the rest, somewhat recognizable as a part of the whole, yet still small. It was perhaps a bone of the hand that had so recently held mine and told me he loved me and I had no choice but to acknowledge that he was really gone - they all were – my family name stopped here and now in this small unmarked plot of land in a cemetery ironically carrying the same name as my married name. I was leaving my childhood dusted across that grass. As I turned to leave I looked down and saw the metal tag that each body is cremated with so they are "identifiable" and I reached down and picked it up, dropping all that was left of my brother into the pocket of my blue jeans.

I moved on, I kept going and I know my friend and her family and all the rest who love and care for her brother will move on and keep going as well, but in this hour of loss, in this moment of farewell; I feel their grief as if it were my own. For those who lived in the town that built us, it is our own. See you on the other side PK….tell my brother I love him.

~Kaj

Liberal: adjective or noun- Not limited to or by established, traditional, orthodox, or authoritarian attitudes, views, or dogmas; free from bigotry.

In the past day, I have given much thought to a "conversation" that occurred last night. It certainly wasn't a new topic to me; I hear many of the same remarks in emails from other friends who are more conservative than I. Feeling much alone and wondering how to explain my stance, I began to think about why I believe as I do. I think I have come up with some answers After much discussion with both self and God, I ended up here.

Initially, I guess my first statement would be why I am a Social Worker. I am not a Social Worker because I went to college and got all these degrees and licenses so I could be one.  I was a Social Worker that went to college to get all the degrees and licenses so I could continue to do what I strongly felt my heart was telling me I must do and what my life  The core values of my profession, the code of ethics of my profession are not just words that define Social Work, but are my definition of self as well. The values of service, social justice, dignity and worth of the person, integrity, competence, and the value of relationships are MY values. The ethical code of a social worker reflects MY personal ethics as well. At the end of this inner discussion, I came away with this:
I do not believe there is an "us" and "them", a worthy of succor and an unworthy of succor.
I do not see anywhere in the Bible where Jesus asked for proof of being a Jew before he fed the multitudes.
I do not see anywhere in the Bible where Jesus asked if the blind man was worthy before he made him see, whether the lame were deserving before he made them walk, if the prostitute or prisoners, the thieves, or lepers were grateful enough before he reached out his hand to them.
So, why should we feed the hungry, clothe the naked, house the homeless, love the unlovable? Because that is what Jesus did and that is what Jesus told US to do.
It is not my place to determine whether someone deserves help, or if in getting help, misuse and abuse it. That place of judgment belongs to and is between my Creator and them. All I am responsible for answering is whether I have done as God would have me do.

Next I considered the comment about "waking up the "bad" parents by having CPS remove their children.  At the end of the State of Texas's FY 2008 (last year I could pull figures for), there were over 28,000 children in foster care. A foster child is moved on an average of 11 times before they "age out". Behavioral research and statistics establish the negative impact multiple moves have on a child. Their sense of security and certainty is impacted, their ability to attach is impacted, their desire for relationship is impacted. One does not have to think about this long to realize if there is such a negative impact on children whose families are transient, how much  more negative must the impact be for the child that moves alone over and over?  A new family to get used to, a new school to get used to, no place to call their own, nothing to call their own. You may not be aware of it, however most foster children are moved from one foster home to another with their things in a black plastic garbage bag. They don't even get a suitcase. Most of these children will never have a "forever" home, will never have their own parents, a sense of safety and security. Most of these children are "unadoptable". For instance, let me tell you of one of many,many children with which I once worked. I'll call him "T". He was a special needs birth. His mother, young, uneducated, an "aged out" foster care child herself was deemed unfit to care for him appropriately and he was removed from her while he was still in the incubator, grasping for life. She left the hospital alone, he stayed. After some months, he stabilized enough to be placed in foster care. For the next 18 years, "T" never spent more than 6 months in one home. On his 18th birthday, with a few months left of his senior year, his foster family placed his clothes in a plastic garbage bag and turned him out.  He had "aged out". Not a pretty, white, blue-eyed, healthy child; instead a mixed race, special needs child, not adoptable. Just like his birth mother. He and I had a conversation once in which he told me how frightening it was for him to live in his own apartment (which was being subsidized by social services), to go to work each day (a part time job because he drew disability due to his special needs). He said to me that now that he was 21, he was supposed to be a man and would really like to find a girl, but that he didn't know how because no one had ever taught him how to cook, how to keep house, manage a budget. He said, "Donna, I don't know how to love because I was never loved, so how will I ever find someone for me?" 

So, my purpose in telling that story is this: 28 thousand children just in Texas! Each of them a version in some way of "T".  Why does everyone think the answer is just have Child Protective Services take the child and that will fix it? The average length of time a social worker is a CPS worker is 6 months. Most of them are very young, just out of college. Most of them come from homes where they had no idea people like "T" existed, and most of them carry an average of between 40 and 80 children on their caseload. Just last year, the DPRS was crucified in the press for having children who had been removed from their homes, sleeping in the offices of state buildings due to no "room at the Inn". Yet, we would have CPS step in and remove a child from what although bad,  may very well be a better place than CPS can provide. I am not blaming DPRS, they do the best they can with what they have. Texas ranks 46th in the nation for funding of social service programs. CPS gets approximately 1%. Oh and by the way, the State has handed down a mandate to all state agencies to implement an across the board budget cut of 10% for the FY biennium of 2011-2013. Already underfunded, understaffed, overburdened social service agencies are going to experience further cuts and yet, CPS should take the children to give the parents a "wake up" call. 
For those of you, myself included, that came out of the "youthful drug follies" alive and not addicted, you were blessed that your brain chemistry was such that you were able to walk away. Not everyone is though. I have seen mothers who fell in love with someone that was using, eventually joined in the use and when they finally had enough and left with their kids, they hold down a 12 hr a day job to make ends meet. And yes, they buy dope, but not because they are unfit parents or lazy or worthless. They buy dope because they need to stay "well" to keep the job that pays the rent and meets some basic needs and without welfare, even that wouldn't be enough. And I can not justify denying that need.  And I will not judge her for her drug use. Treatment? Where? How? And who will watch the children while she is in treatment? And how will she afford to get a new place with no job since she lost hers when she went into treatment and that is assuming she can get into treatment in the first place. DSHS's highest priority individual that gets treatment first is an injecting drug user. And yes, I have worked doing that too, assessing who gets in and who doesn't. And I have watched injectors wait 60, 90, 120 days for a bed to come available in state funded treatment. Watched as they gave up and went back out.

In the end of all of this discussing with myself, I came away accepting that although most of my generation is of a more conservative, less tolerant mind set than I,  that is alright because they too are equally deserving as those I serve.  I will continue to argue for the oppressed, the downtrodden, the sick, the addicted, the imprisoned, the poor. I will continue to "stand for my something". I will continue to err on the side of compassion and peace and leave the judging of worthiness to the One.

Doing The Dishes

   Ellie stood in the small kitchen surveying the expanse of dishes that littered the counter. At forty-two her frame was still spare and lean. Not with the sleekness of a well cared for body, but with the thinness of too little sleep and too many cigarettes. Her hair, once full and gleaming, hung in a limp rope down her back. A few damp strings straggled across her forehead and she occasionally pushed these off to one side of her face with an absentminded gesture. Taking the first plate off the stack of unwashed dishes, she submerged her hands above her wrists in the warm, frothy suds. As her tired soul responded to the comfort of the warm water and the mindless rhythm of her task, a sigh of relaxation whispered past her lips and gently pulled her backward to a time before life became such a grinding chore. A picture of a large dark-haired man with laughing eyes filled Ellie's mind and she began to wander the halls of her youth.

   The trees this fall were in full color, thanks to a well-timed cold snap. The air crackled with a fresh crisp scent mixed with the smell of wood smoke from the first fires of the season. Ellie strolled aimlessly down the sidewalk in front of the chemistry building. Her mind wasn't really on where she was headed. She was thinking about that Poli-Sci. paper that was due next week. It was so hard to believe that a little country girl from Carver county was actually here at Dartmouth worrying about political science. Her mama would have been so proud of her. Daddy always thought the boys would be the college graduates in the family. Well, she would show them. And when she got her degree, little Ellie Lou would turn her back on that podunk town and all their country ways and never look back. She sure had no plans of marrying a nice local boy and raising a passel of kids just so she could work herself into an early grave like her mama did.

   All these thoughts tumbled through her mind like a runaway train, which is probably why Ellie didn't see Lyle until she nearly knocked him off his feet. Papers and books, hers and his, went every which way. The brisk October wind caught her treasured Poli-Sci. report and blew it to the four corners of the campus and scattered his papers about like someone's tipped over wastebasket. With a cry of exasperation Ellie started to light into this goon for not watching where he was going. Then she looked up into the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. My goodness! He surely was a fine looking specimen of manhood. All thoughts of blame just blew out of Ellie's head, like her papers had blown out of her hands.  Lyle was down on his knees almost immediately, trying to gather his books and papers together and save hers at the same time. Words of contrition and apology flowed from his lips as smoothly as the creek flowed in back of Ellie's house down home. As Ellie stood there speechless, Lyle looked up and begin to laugh. He made a comment about never knowing what the fall winds would toss together and Ellie knew that her fate was sealed to this man's forever.

     Lyle and Ellie became two halves of one soul. They were never apart for very long. Ellie felt like the air became thin and unable to support life when she was away from Lyle for too long a period. And Lyle felt less than complete without Ellie. With her gleaming rope of honey-colored hair; shy, quick smile; and tiny, lithe body; she reminded him of the little orphaned fox cub he had rescued as a child. When Lyle met Ellie that windy October day, he lost more than a few papers; he lost his heart.

     Lyle and Ellie stumbled through their classes waiting breathlessly for the next moment they could shut out the world and be together and the years flew by in a haze of love. Then it was June and graduation was upon them. Lyle had accepted a position in Boston and expected to make Associate fairly soon. Ellie moved with him, and even though she hadn't gotten any offers of employment, felt fairly sure she would be able to find a job doing something. And as soon as Lyle made Associate, they would be married.

     After days of searching, the apartment they finally found left a lot to be desired. It was a dingy two room walk-up with leaky plumbing and sporadic heat. But on Lyle's beginning salary, it was all they could afford. And as long as they were together, it seemed like a palace to Ellie. She set about making it as homey as possible, adding bright yellow curtains at the window and on the rickety coffee table she placed fresh flowers in the antique vase she had bought from that quirky little man in the antique bookstore downstairs. Every evening when Lyle came home, Ellie would have a hot meal waiting on the little T.V. tray and a warm bath drawn and ready for him. After dinner, they would lay on the fold-out sofa and talk of their dreams and plans for the future. And for Ellie, laying in Lyle's strong arms was the meaning of each day.

     Times were hard and the money was tight. That promotion for Lyle didn't come as soon as expected and Ellie couldn't find work anywhere. Everybody said it was just a matter of time until the country would be back on it's feet, but for Lyle and Ellie that wasn't soon enough. Lyle started coming home later and later. Sometimes he crept in reeking of alcohol after Ellie was already asleep. On these nights, he would sit awake by the sofa and watch her sleeping face by the lights of the street and wonder what he had gotten both of them into. He would notice that the lines he had begun to see etching her face in the daylight were smooth in the peace of a dreamless sleep. And he grieved for the innocence that no longer played about her features.

     On one of these nights, Ellie rolled over, opened her eyes and watching his face for the joy she hoped would be there, told him he was going to be a daddy. Lyle's heart leapt, yet at the same time the rational part of his mind cringed at the prospect of another mouth to feed. As Ellie studied his eyes, she saw the joy quickly followed by anguish flood across his face and her soul sorrowed for the unborn child she felt stir in her womb. And while the tears coursed slowly down Ellie's cheeks, Lyle put his head in his hands and gave way to the hopelessness of their situation. And the next day they said their vows before a J.P and his wife.

    Each day Ellie's stomach grew fuller and each day the cupboard grew emptier. Finally, accepting that the lack of money would drive them apart as surely as if they had never met, Lyle decided it would be best if he sent Ellie home to her Daddy until the baby was born so they could save a little and the baby could be assured of a roof over it's head. Lyle would stay in the city and try to find a better job. He promised to send for her as soon as things got better. So it was with a deep sadness and despair in her soul that Ellie packed up her yellow curtains and antique vase, along with all her dreams and returned in defeat to Carver county.

     The baby was born late in December. The snow lay like a blanket on the whole county and the roads were impassable so Ellie brought her first born into the world alone, with just her daddy to hold her hand. As Ellie's body strained with every contraction, her daddy held her hand and told her that she was born on just such a night and that he had held her mama's hand just like he was holding hers. Eventually Ellie's body gave way to the forces of nature and as the winter winds howled outside the house, her daughter entered the world howling a counterpoint to the storm. She was a pitiful little thing, kind of runty and wrinkled, but to Ellie she was the most beautiful baby on earth. As Her daddy bathed the little girl in warm water and carefully dried her off, Ellie could see that the baby's hair was the color of honey. And when he laid the baby in Ellie's tired arms, she opened her eyes and Ellie saw Lyle looking at her through them. They were the bluest eyes Ellie had ever seen.

     As winter tugged spring through the year, the baby grew strong, running all over the farm on her plump little legs. Still Lyle didn't send for them. He wrote regularly, each time telling Ellie next month would be better. The raise would surely be on his next check. And sending her all his love, he would include a few dollars for Ellie to buy a trinket so his baby girl would know her daddy loved her. Since the economy wasn't getting any better, Ellie always took part of that money and squirreled it away in an old cookie tin in the back of the linen closet. She figured when Lyle got on his feet and sent for them, she would use it to buy a new outfit for herself and the baby. She couldn't let Lyle see them in the old clothes they wore around the farm. Besides, when he did send for them, they had to make a good impression on all of his business associates. It wouldn't do for him to be ashamed of his wife and child.

     One balmy summer morning, as Ellie sank her hands into the warm sudsy dishwater, she looked out the kitchen window to see a stranger walking up the drive past the mailbox. At first she figured it was one more man looking for a little work to tide him over until he could get a real job. Then she recognized something familiar about the way the man walked and as he squatted down in the drive to scratch the old dog's ear she realized it was Lyle. With a catch in her throat, she slammed out the screen door, ripping the apron from her waist and threw herself into Lyle's arms.

     Later that evening lying together in Ellie's narrow girlhood bed, Lyle told her how the boss had come in with his check and told him that the company just had to cut their expenses somehow and since Lyle was one of the junior associates, his position was one of the first to be phased out. Ellie just held him tighter and told him not to worry, they'd get by somehow. And the next morning, Lyle went with Ellie's daddy and begin the hard work of trying to scrape a living out of the hard-scrabble land.

     The days passed one by one, inexorably turning into years. And as each year passed Lyle got a little more bent and his eyes got a little more dull. The land was taking it's toll on this man and never gave an inch without a fight. Ellie's heart broke seeing the hopelessness in Lyle's face. And with each passing year, as often happens, more babies came, more mouths to feed and less crops to harvest. Lyle worked hard beside his father-in-law, and somehow, even though it wasn't much, the land always gave up just enough to keep the wolf from the door. And Ellie grew older and sadder. And she often wept for the dreams of her youth and the two young people that thought love would conquer all.

     Eventually the old man passed on to his reward and as they lay him in the ground, the burden of the farm fell solely on Lyle's shoulders. Ellie's brother's all had families and troubles of their own and were unable to help keep the farm going. Finally, in desperation, Ellie and Lyle begin to sell off a few acres here and a few there. Ellie was still adding to her little nest egg in the linen closet when she could. Only now, it was earmarked as a way out for the children. Ellie had finally understood that her dreams had died and could only hope her children would be able to fulfill theirs. And one by one, they grew up and left Carver county and the old farm to chase their own rainbows.

     With the children gone Ellie and Lyle didn't need as much, so they sold the last of the land except for a few dozen acres. They figured all they needed could be had on these few acres. And every morning Lyle would go tend the animals before going to the field to work the ground. Ellie would stand at the kitchen window and gaze out over the fields and watch the hard work and unyielding land leach a little more life out of her man. And every evening Lyle would fall into bed exhausted and more weathered. Ellie would curl her body around his and stroke his head until he fell asleep. Then quietly slipping out of bed, she would sit in the rocking chair, smoking and letting her mind drift. Life had not dealt kindly with she and Lyle, but at least they had been together. Ultimately Ellie realized that the life her mama had lived was the life she was living. And all things finally come full circle. The morning finally dawned when Lyle could no longer drag his weary body out of the bed and Ellie knew that the land had finally won. Day by day Ellie sat in the rocker by the bed and watched his weathered frame waste away. And as Lyle drew his last shuddering breath, Ellie lay beside him and talked to him of hopes and dreams to ease him over to the other side. Then gently covering his body, she smoothed back his hair one last time and turned to make the calls to the doctor and the children.

     Finally, the last dish was done. Lyle was laid to rest and the children and neighbors were all gone. Ellie wiped her hands on her apron, picked up her cigarettes and went to sit in the old rocker by the bed. Closing her eyes with a weary sigh, she slipped into a peaceful slumber filled with dreams of a young girl with honey-colored hair and her blue-eyed man, and of a world where hope still lived.  

~Kaj '02

 

 

                                           

A Day In The Life

     The rain is pouring down and the only thing flooding more than the streets are the front doors of Psychiatric Emergency Services. I sit in my office with my door open and listen to the chaos of altered and disordered minds filtering through the locked outer door. Over the loud buzz of conversation, there is a voice ringing out in song. The rich alto voice of a woman, singing melodically, albeit loudly, of her belief in God and his goodness ebbs and flows through the chaos. Her joyful adulation intermittently pierced harshly by the hysteria of a young female voice sobbing out her anguish and pain to any one willing to listen. Children run by, pounding on the locked outer door, kicking at the walls, slamming helter-skelter into the piles of human refuse curled damply in the standard issue waiting room chairs. Laughter bubbles out of their mouth, cascading across the room and falling in torrents like the rain that has been falling for days from the overcast skies. Screeches and sobs, laughter and song, laughter and sobs, screeches and song fill the air. Angry voices raised in threat and sorrowful voices lowered in pain, all of the hurt and sick and empty people file into this place hoping for a touch of magic to help them cope with their wet, bedraggled lives.

        The office next to mine is occupied by various mental health caseworkers and I hear the man that is in it today step to the outer door and swing it open. The sudden silence that whooshes through the door is deafening. A little wisp of sorrow flows to the open doorway. Into the silence a low wave begins, crescendoing upwards, louder and louder until reaching its zenith, it breaks and bellows after the wisp, only to slam hard against the barrier of the outer door. The soft sigh and click as the door locks into place punctuates the tower of babble like a knife slicing through soft cheese. Little wisp follows the caseworker into the office and he closes the door. I listen to the soft murmur of her voice rising and falling. At first it seems that she is being comforted and the magic will run true for her. Then the voice begins to climb into a sorrowful howl, warbling her anguish at the unfairness of the system and the desperate need for help. Ushering her into the hall and out the door, the caseworker closes it behind her waiting for the lock to snick closed. He turns to me and asks how someone who is “using drugs” can possibly think their psychiatrist will approve their mental health medicines. He tells me considering her behavior, he doesn’t think she is a "good use of the resources" so he won’t let her see her doctor. I say nothing as he turns, shaking his head, and enters the hole of anguish he is occupying this afternoon. He closes the door behind him.

        I hear the unremitting tide of terror and pain filtering through the door and feel my soul rise up to meet it, unsure how I can help, but knowing I must, I brace myself and go out the door.

~Kaj '06 ~