Open Letter Follow Up

In the weeks since I penned an Open Letter to Colin Kaepernick,an increasing number of athletes have begun kneeling during the national anthem, and there have been two high-profile police shootings: Terence Crutcher in Tulsa, OK and Keith Scott in Charlotte, NC. I stand by everything I said in the letter, and I maintain that despite its flaws the United States of America is one of the greatest nations on earth. 

BUT...

do not think that means I'm not as hurt, disappointed, frustrated, and angry at these most recent shootings. Here's the thing--we live in a world of grays and not the stark contrasts some would have us believe. 

You can be outraged by the shooting deaths of unarmed black men at the hands of law enforcement and still think the national anthem is worth standing for (read the post to understand why I feel that way); you can respect the police and still call them out when they're wrong; you can show empathy and love to your African-American colleagues and neighbors who are angry and hurting even if you don't understand why and you don't agree with the protests.

America has work to do...and that work is ugly and messy and hard. I don't know how we'll get there but I believe we will because that's what Americans do...but I do believe communication is the starting point. Let's talk TO each other and not AT each other. You don't understand this post--email me. You see someone demand the Tulsa officer be indicted and you don't agree--talk to them. Your friends are outraged at Colin not standing for the national anthem but remain silent about unarmed shootings--ask them why. Our experiences may differ but what brings us together is stronger than what tears us apart.

On Call, Part One

Note: Names used are not real

It's 10:38pm when the distinctive ringtone sings out. My heart seizes and I jump just a little. "Why do you still do that," I ask myself. There's no need to look at the name displayed, but I see it out of habit anyways. "Hello, this is Hope," I answer with a mixture of calm and dread. After an uneventful Saturday, the "call" part of being on-call has found me and I'm needed at  the emergency room. Thirty-one year old female, depressed, suicidal. I scribble notes and get out of the house as quickly as my three children will let me. On the five minute drive to the hospital I pass by the police department, and I wonder if the patient lives in town or not and if she'll need to be transported by them, or anyone, before the night's over. 

I pull into the ER parking lot and put on my ID badge. It's a simple photo ID encased in plastic, but putting it on is my uniform, and it transforms me from Hope, mother, wife, PR specialist to Hope, emergency services crisis worker. It's a meaningful shift for me, and I've never worked without that square of plastic dangling from a red lanyard I'm told will breakaway and not be used to strangle me in case of emergency.

It's a warm night, and I look up at the September moon shining brightly.  If I'm lucky I'll see it again as I leave the hospital and head to a bed that was calling me hours before the phone rang. If I'm less fortunate, it'll be chirping birds and sunlight that greet my weary eyes.

Three years into this job, the initial shiny newness has worn off. I'm no longer excited to get the call, grabbing up my workbag and "rolling out." Now, a good night is any when the phone does not ring and my next morning's report is "all quiet" (on the western front I can't help but mentally add). I'm not a shining example of professionalism in the moments before I see the patient. I'm ticked off that my evening or my sleep  (depending on the hour) has been interrupted and I question why I keep doing this. "This couldn't have waited until morning," I think. I don't feel guilt or shame about my thoughts because they're a way-station as I travel to empathy, support and positive regard.  Those thoughts and any related emotions disappear, every ounce of it, the minute I knock on the door and walk into the patient's room. "I'm Hope from mental health. They asked me to come talk to you." 

Not a few times my name has elicited a smile and acknowledgement that I have "the right name for the job." In that moment I always say a silent word of thanks to my deceased Aunt Claudine who insisted my parent's name me Hope. "God told me to name her Hope. You have to name her Hope" is what I heard growing up. Sitting on the small black stool, looking into the pained, tearful eyes of "Ana" I have never been so deeply grateful for this simple name. 

I click on my pen "So, what brings you here tonight?"

End of Part I. Click here for "On Call, Part II" 

On Call, Part II

Click here for On Call, Part One


"So, what brings you here tonight?"

This is my favorite part of the assessment--the story, the why that has led our paths to cross. I never know what will follow those six words. Sometimes it's an unfocused flight of psychosis with delusions and hallucinations both auditory and visual. People like Phillip with nonsensical ramblings about God and the government, who could not answer the simplest of questions--what is your name, when is your birthday. 

People like Paul who sees dead people and Rebecca who's struggle with depression is complicated by the voices telling her to "do it, do it, do it."

In my first solo outings as a crisis worker, I hesitated to ask the person in front of me if they heard voices or saw things other people didn't. "Of course this perfectly calm, logical individual in front of me isn't hearing voices," I thought foolishly. I carried that bias until I met Michael who said "yes, I hear gospel music," and John who said "yes, I see shadows" and Charlotte who said "yes, I see my dead father standing at the foot of my bed shaking his head."
"Why is he shaking his head," I probe.
"Because he's so disappointed in me."

These cases, the ones that fulfill stereotypes of mental illness are surprisingly easy. A man walking in the middle of the road, not eating, and wearing a coat on a 100 degree day is an easy assessment with a clear solution--inpatient admission by way of temporary detention order or TDO. I find a bed at a psychiatric facility and go before the magistrate who issues the TDO ordering the person to the found facility for a minimum of 72 hours. A clear need meets a clear answer. 

But these cases are fairly few. What is far more likely is the everyday illness that dances at the edges of us all: depression and anxiety often with a dose of substance abuse for good measure.  A bad marriage, job loss, molestation, physical illness, the death of a grandparent--God awful events, sometimes layered, that hit a person so hard and fast they just can't get back up. How do you cope when you lose the one person who's ever truly loved you? How do you bounce back from years of mental abuse that's stripped away your sense of self and strength? So often my heart breaks for the person they are...and the one I could have easily become. A different uncle here a different choice there and the roles could so easily be reversed. 

"Did you want to die, " I ask Ana. A cheating boyfriend, a bad fight, and a fistful of pills have led her to me. Of course the alcohol she had earlier didn't help matters.
"At the time, yes but I don't any more. I feel so stupid."
"If you go home tonight, what will happen?"
What I don't want to hear is "I don't know...or I'll try again...or next time I'm gonna do it the right way."
"I just want to go to bed and get some sleep,"  she says.

I've been assessing her the whole time and that answer confirms what my gut has been saying--she made a really poor choice in the heat of the moment but she'll be alright to go home. No prior psychiatric history or suicide attempts, no current suicidal thoughts or ideas, upbeat mood, and positive outlook. She's sobered up some too and the difference sobriety brings never ceases to amaze me. We talk about the benefits of counseling and I refer her to outpatient treatment. I hope she'll follow up but I have my doubts. I know the pull for help will weaken as she moves further and further away from this night and this crisis.

She signs my form, I wish her good luck and I walk out of her room. I hope she follows through with outpatient treatment so she never needs to be seen in crisis again. Best case scenario for anyone I've seen is that we never meet, professionally, again. Only time will tell.

I inform Ana's ER physician that I'm clearing her. She has no medical problems so she'll be discharged within minutes. I go to my designated work area to create the digital version of my assessment and wrap the case. I have a superstition that makes me work quickly because if I don't another case will walk through the door.

Walking out of the ER the moon is still shining brightly. Since Ana didn't need to be transferred to a psychiatric facility the case is resolved within 2 1/2 hours, and I put this in the good night column. 

I get into my van, pull off my name badge, and head home.

Author's Note: I started working as an on call emergency services worker July 2013. I was five months pregnant with my 3rd daughter--clearly my judgement should have been called into question. Today is July 27th and tonight I will work my last shift as a crisis worker. The work has been challenging and immensely satisfying. I am honored and deeply grateful to have played a small part in helping citizens in my region access the mental health services they needed. This work is bigger than me and continues. Please keep my (now former) colleagues in your prayers.

Another Barnyard Dance

We have the same children's book, Joey Feek and I. It is one of the first things I notice as the video of Joey singing a beautiful hymn in the midst of her painful, and as the world recently learned losing battle
against an unrelenting cancer, begins to play.

She sits on the floor with her daughter Indiana in the corner of a hotel room that has become the make-shift play area for the litte girl--a semblance of normalcy for this sweet child crawling through the valley but knowing no evil.

The blue cover of the board book leaps out at me from my mobile screen, and I immediately know, though the title is, at first, not readable to me, that the book is the same one that graces my bookshelf...the same one I have read countless times to my daughters. "We have the same book," I think and my heart breaks for this family all over again.

Joey Feek and I are worlds apart it seems and yet here we are mothers with children who love Sandra Boynton's Barnyard Dance. I wonder if she reads it "straight" or the way I do with the  cadence and rhythm of a seasoned square dance caller. Does she hear the music in the pages of the small book? Does she tap her foot to keep on beat, or does her finely attuned musical ear hear it altogether differently?

However she reads it, I am sure Indiana smiles with delight, loves it, and asks to hear it again. It is the same for my daughters because it is mommy's voice, not the actual words, that gives the book so much life.

Life...so precious yet so frail, and I think of the strange bookends to my day--a friend fighting for a reason to live, a stranger fighting to stay. I pray neither believes she fights alone.

I do not know how Joey's fight will end; I only know
-There is a God
-Who hears prayers
-And works miracles

So after "performing" Barnyard Dance tonight (or the Mickey Mouse Castle Ghost or Is Your Mama a Llama...or nothing at all because I fell asleep in the rocking chair) I will go before God with a humble prayer for a miracle for Joey and a thousand more Barnyard Dances for Indiana.