those quiet goddesses are the most dangerous

I think a lot as I drive, and one of the things I think about is how families fit into categories. You probably know a family that seems right out of Faulkner or the Simpsons or Dickens or Hogwarts or perhaps Road Runner cartoons. Other people besides me do this, don't they? Sure they do! Well, my cousin's family falls into the Greek myth category. They live in a farm in the North Carolina mountains, and it's every bit as pretty as Mount Olympus. My cousin's husband looks like Poseidon, although perhaps Poseidon on Prozac, because he's calm and pleasant, none of that vengeance stuff. RM herself would have to be Hestia, goddess of the hearth. She's the one who keeps the wood stove going, bakes the bread, tends the garden and the chickens and ducks. She also keeps the goats and makes the cheese. Bernard, the dramatic youngest daughter, is clearly Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty. Auburn-haired with gorgeous eyes, she is known for her drawings of Reubenesque mermaids. She loves to shop and socialize and she sings like a siren. They may live in the mountains, but she loves the beach. Definitely a 15-year-old Aphrodite.

And Ed, the 20-year-old—I see Artemis, goddess of the flocks and the chase, every time I look at her. She's truly lovely, tall and willowy with golden hair, soft-spoken and low-key. She's at home on the land and can ride her horse for hours in the woods. She's magical with their farm animals and has even trained her border collie to bring her walnuts and crack them for her. Her pursuits are more solitary, reading, drawing and knitting. I don't know if she's an archer, but she should be. And like Artemis, it's easy to forget just how dangerous she can be.

Aphrodite and Artemis share a part-time job working with animals. A supervisor was hired as boss to the girls and several others at the job. I can't remember his name, so we'll just call him Jethro, for lack of anything slimier-sounding. He was 37 and almost good-looking in a sleazy kind of way and thought he must be irresistible to Aphrodite, who is actually quite capable of taking care of herself. But her firm redirection as he ran his hand down her leg or adjusted her bra strap or said something totally inappropriate didn't seem to be working. Oh, and did I mention he was her boss?

Being summer, the girls made an after-work trip down to the river to swim, a fact that proves they are among the immortal because that mountain river water is cold as Hades. And in that uncanny way that creepers have in appearing where they are least wanted, Jethro showed up, ostensibly to swim, but really to gawk and further his attentions to Aphrodite. He came riding in on a golf cart, an unlikely but somehow perfect vehicle for a seriously seedy villain. And so he resumed his courtship of Aphrodite.

Artemis watched for a bit and then smilingly beckoned Jethro over. He came eagerly, perhaps thinking of switching his focus to her. She looked at him silently for a moment and then said in a calm pleasant voice, "Jethro? If you touch my sister again, I'm going to castrate you like a motherfucking pig. And I know how because I've done it before." She smiled. He backed up, fear in his eyes. "I, uh, believe you," he stammered. When Hestia showed up shortly after to pick up the girls, Jethro was tearing out of the parking area, riding the golf cart far faster than safe and tilted on two wheels. When she asked what happened, Artemis told her, adding innocently, "But I said it very sweetly."

Jethro didn't stick around those parts much after that. I'm not sure I blame him.

Christmas Eve

I love Christmas Eve. I love the slow buildup during Advent, the feeling of expectancy, of waiting; O come, O come Emmanuel, comfort, comfort ye my people. I've learned to ignore the other stuff, the Martha Stewart frenzy, by staying out of the malls and turning off the radio. By Christmas Eve, I'm finally ready for the carols, the greenery, the lights. I love the 5:00 service and the between-the-services party. I love the parking lot exchange of baked goods and seeing the kids in their dress clothes. We could never travel for Christmas; this is our tribe and this is where we belong.

There is always a bit of drama over getting dressed before church, but finally everyone is showered, dressed, and in the car. Tonight, as always, I forget my dish for the party afterwards, but we're early enough that I drop the kids off and go home and get back with time to spare.

The purple and blue are gone and poinsettias and greenery fill the church. The wise men are hidden and the pews are filled with people I see Sunday after Sunday and those I look forward to seeing this one time of year. The Christ candle is lit in the wagon wheel Advent wreath. The readings begin: the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. This year has had its dark moments, many of them, and the light imagery washes me with peace. The hymns start; I crane my neck to see who's playing, really to assure myself that Holden is at the piano. Not that it can be anyone else; no one else plays with that energy and joy.

The Christmas Eve slide show pageant begins. For years this was my job and one of the highlights of my Christmas. In November the kids would arrive in bathrobes, angel wings, dish towels and Halloween animal costumes, and we would re enact the Nativity story before cameras. It was a holy time for me, the familiar story made new by the faces on the slides I sorted. This year once again, the children's faces, flashed on the wall of the darkened church, elicit chuckles and awe, all at the same time. I look around the nave and see young adults who were the baby Jesus or Mary or Joseph or Gabriel. I've watched these kids grow up and I'm happy to see them home from college or holding young ones of their own. We are all connected by twenty years of this pageant. Kids grow up, things change, but sometimes it is good to have something stay the same.

The service ends with the congregation kneeling, singing "Silent Night". This IS a change, but a nice one. I sing along and then my mind slips into the past.

It's another Christmas Eve at another Episcopal church, this one in Ashe County, in the mountains of North Carolina. St. Mary's is a small country church made semi-famous by the frescoes painted inside them. Faulton, the priest, was known for his dramatic flair, along with a great passion for the gospel, a love of liturgy, and service to the poor of the county. On that frosty Christmas Eve there was candle light and greenery and poinsettias, and although the heat never worked, so many of us were packed inside that it was warm. The Christmas and Easter folks were there with their furs and pearls, fresh from earlier parties.

Before the late service, someone had given a puppy to a parishioner as a gift. It was tiny and cute and we all admired it and played with it. After a few half-hearted yips of complaint, it happily fell asleep in the choir closet in the undercroft until time to go home. We all went upstairs where the service progressed to the end, an end which Faulton had carefully crafted for the full dramatic effect. The lights dimmed, we knelt, and the congregation reverently sang "Silent Night" as the candles glowed. Snow fell outside. It was picture-book perfect.

During the second verse, there was a small disturbance in the back of the nave and we looked up with interest to see what liturgical delight Faulton had conjured to end the service, the C and E's showing particular pleasure. A lurching figure stumbled down the aisle, holding something aloft. The organ faltered and a voice rang out: "Faulton! Faulton!" The organ stopped and there were a few audible gasps. "Faulton! Some bastard dumped a puppy in the undercroft! Oh Faulton, curse the son-of-a-bitch who would do that to this poor puppy!" he howled. A strong odor of cheap bourbon preceded the shabbily-dressed man, who held the wiggling puppy up like an offering as he staggered down the aisle to the chancel, where he fell on his knees, the puppy still raised above his head.

The room fell silent. More than one face showed horror and distaste. Faulton grasped the hand of the person next to him, and panic and indecision crossed his face. But Faulton was never at a loss for long, and standing suddenly, he crossed the silence and the space between him and the drunk and laid hands on the old man's greasy head. He looked out at the congregation and glared. After a momentary hesitation, we obeyed his silent but unmistakable command and gathered around; the puppy's owner gently pulled the little dog from the shaking hands and Faulton began to pray aloud, for the man, for us, and I believe even for the puppy, as our hands rested on the man and on each other. The prayer finished, the organ began again and this time we sang "Silent Night" to the end, not kneeling this time, but still gathered in the aisle and the chancel. The people and the puppy drifted off to their homes, and Faulton took the drunk to sleep it off at the rectory, where, unlike the inn, there was always room.

I love this story. I'm glad I was there. It's a story of grace and kindness. It's a story of getting things wrong and making them right. It's a story of light in a world that needs light.

Merry Christmas!

waiting for spring

I'm a good southern girl who was taught not to talk back or argue, at least not without a "bless your heart." Southern girls are nice. But good southern girls don't do so well if they have a child with mental illness.

I haven't posted much lately; no news is good news. Elizabeth seemed to be settling in to NOVA. Progress was slow, but there was progress. The number of behaviors had dropped significantly, and almost gone away during school hours. She had three trips home in the fall, for my birthday, hers and Claire's birthdays, and Thanksgiving, all of which went without a hitch. I looked forward to having her home for Christmas. In my mind, I hoped they could continue to work with her through the summer and then enter my school in the fall. We had talked about this plan in team meetings at NOVA.

Which is why it was so shocking to get a casual email a couple days ago, telling me that she was doing poorly. Her behavior had deteriorated after Thanksgiving, and they weren't recommending she go home for Christmas. They didn't feel she is making progress. And oh, by the way, her discharge date is January 20 and they suggest she be placed in a restrictive environment, for her safety and that of others.

When I talked to her last night, she was weepy about not being allowed to go home for Christmas. My policy is to never contradict the staff in front of her, no matter how outrageous the report. I will check into it, of course, but we need to be on the same team because it's confusing to her if we aren't. Sometimes it's just easier to tell her that something is a team decision; she knew we were having a team meeting today and I told her we'd talk about it. I knew they wouldn't really keep her from coming home, especially when home visits are a PCP goal (a PCP is a person centered plan, sort of like an IEP for the mentally ill). The discharge date was so outrageous I couldn't even take it seriously. It takes months to find a PRTF bed, and that is common knowledge. And they HAD assured me they never kicked anyone out, and that is what they were doing.

So although I made a few phone calls and checked with a few folks, I really wasn't too worried when I went down tonight. I had sent some opening volleys via email, asking for various paperwork, pointing out places they hadn't followed through, asking for authorization forms for folks in high places to have access to her records, the usual bitchy stuff that any parent of a child with mental illness knows to do in the ongoing fight to have ones child treated like a human being by the people charged with taking care of him or her.

But they were absolutely unyielding. A decision had been made by their treatment team (note to self—check on legality of that). My case manager, on conference call and livid, points out that it is short notice. We are giving you 30 days notice, they reply. "It's over Christmas and New Year's," she shouts. "Not to mention there ARE no PRTF beds," I chime in. The supervisor shrugs. "Take her home then." My case manager is stunned into silence, and I am too, but only for a moment. "Take her home? I don't have health insurance. She's put me in the ER twice. The team decided it wasn't safe to have her at home long-term, and you've just said she needs to be in a restrictive environment. That's why she's here!" "January 20," she says again. "Elizabeth is not invested in her treatment goals." Of course not. That's one of the symptoms of mental illness, a brain-based disorder that causes people to make poor choices that don't make sense to most of us.

I put in a call to another of my Child and Family team and ask the supervisor to explain it to him. She doesn't like what he has to say or how he says it and refuses to talk to him any more. He's furious. My case manager is furious. The NOVA staff is furious. I'm furious.

I calm down and talk about Elizabeth's severe expressive-receptive language disorder. Because she has trouble finding words to name her feelings, she acts out, often violently. Those behaviors are clues, I tell them. When she's acting out, look for the cause of the anxiety. I suspect the anxiety is over not being allowed to go home for Christmas. NOVA had agreed to look for a speech and language pathologist in Kinston or Goldsboro, something that never happened. How could you allow that to go untreated? And then there is the fact that her diabetes is back, which probably means her thyroid condition is back. Could that not account for behavior changes, I ask.

The supervisor gets very still. "What diabetes?" she asks. She's an RN, like all of their supervisors. "The diabetes that I told you she had before you ever took her, " I said. "The diabetes that is listed on her diagnoses on her PCP," our case manager blares from the speaker phone. I sense a breach in the wall and press on. "The diabetes that was under control without meds when she entered here, until your doc decided she was underweight and ordered double food portions for her." The supervisor starts flipping through her chart. "I've asked for her blood sugar levels to be checked every month when I met with you," I continued. "And last weekend, Elizabeth tells me they finally started doing it and it's 196. No one called me to tell me this." I'm on a roll now, righteous anger fueling my speech. "I've asked for a thyroid test to be done every month and I asked for one again yesterday, before this meeting. And when was it finally done?" "Last month?" she answers uncertainly. But she knows it was only done yesterday, just as I do. The other RN nods confirmation when I say that.

I tell them I plan to appeal and ask for a grievance form. She isn't sure where it is; there is a crisis in another part of the building and she needs to go, so she'll mail it to me. Not acceptable, I tell her. You've given us very little time and we need every day. I'll fax it to you, she says, desperate to get away. I don't have a fax machine. Her voice gets higher and she offers to email it to me. I agree and ask her who NOVA's accrediting agency is. She closes her eyes for a brief second and tells me.

They let Elizabeth see me for a few minutes. She asks me to write her a letter while I'm there. We often communicate by pictures and notes, because it makes so much more sense to her than spoken words. How wise that she knows that about herself. I tell her in the note that the team has decided she could come home for Christmas. I will be back next Friday, early, to get her, and then we'll go Christmas shopping. I ask her to remember that her behavior doesn't determine her getting to go home, but I'd still like her to really try to let go of the anxiety and stay calm. She reads the note and nods. Then she cocks her head. "Listen," she says. I hear a child screaming wildly in the background. "That's the new kid," she tells me. "He does this every night. That's what I did when I first came." She believes she has made progress.

One of the staff comes to take her to supper. As I leave, an ambulance is pulling up, lights flashing, the reflections making flickering pools of colored light on the wet pavement. I assume the screaming kid is being taken to the ER. I hope he won't stay for days waiting for a bed. I hope someone will stay with him. I hope someone remembers he is a child, alone, without his mom.

There's a cold rain falling as I drive the two dark hours home. When I get back in Chapel Hill, I stop by Harris Teeter to pick up a few things. I can't remember what I need, but my eye is caught by some red tulips. I buy two bunches and some lemons, just because I like the color.

Then I go home and wait for spring and remember wistfully the time when I was a nice southern girl.

liturgy of leaving

My last job was that of Christian education director. I had no previous experience when I took the job, but I was desperate for health insurance and figured I could find Sunday school teachers with the best of them. I was surprised to find how passionately I came to feel about the work; much of it was helping people find their places in the community and another large part was helping children and adults learn to live liturgically. One of my gurus was the author and speaker Gertrud Mueller Nelson, who wrote the book To Dance with God. Nelson feels strongly about the place of ritual, not just in church liturgies, but in day-to-day living. Transitional times, she says, are dangerous times. The Church has always recognized this and marked those transitions—birth, coming of age, marriage, death—with sacraments and rituals. Nelson encouraged us to mark important moments in our lives and difficult periods of our days with well-designed rituals to make them safer times.

She says, "In our creative ritual making, we draw a circle around that place and that event so that we can be more fully awake to the magnitude of the moment." We ignore these transition times at our peril. Liturgy of transition can moor us to what and who is important, while ignoring those times or pretending it's just another moment can cause us to feel unsettled and beside ourselves.

Forgetting this wasted a lot of time and did a great deal of harm to Elizabeth.

In the last four months, she has careened around the state, going from a level II foster home, to Duke Hospital ER, to Central Regional Hospital in Butner, to a PRTF in Winston-Salem, to Baptist Hospitals ER, to their psych ward, and then back to Butner. She fought desperately to get back to CRH, at one point telling me, "But I didn't get to say goodbye to everyone." She left Baptist, her home for a month, with just an hour's notice. She muses about how nice Aunt Jackie, her foster mom, was and how she hopes she can see her again. She has a lot of regrets.

I knew we had to do a better job of helping her depart if we didn't want a repeat of the previous fiasco. I asked Mr. G, our CRH social worker, to help her figure out what she needed to do to say goodbye for good as she prepared to leave for a new PRTF. She asked for a notebook and had staff and peers write in it. That was a good start.

Our friend Tom, who has met with her almost weekly for a year, came up with the idea of a ritual as she left. He wanted her to know that she was part of a community and that she was loved. His hope was that she could use that love to sustain her through hard times. We invited those who were close to her to come to Butner and tell her in person. Because the hospital wouldn't allow children to come in the unit, Mr. G suggested that we be given a pass to take her out.

Tom and his wife Janice brought her to a restaurant in Butner, one where Claire and I ate regularly when we visited, one that had the advantage of a private room. Our friend Patti brought four of Elizabeth's friends. My sister and niece were there, as was our neighbor. Paul, our youth minister from church, rode with me and Claire. We ate pizza and mugged for the camera. The kids, who hadn't seen her in four months, picked up right where they had left off.

After our meal, Janice presented Elizabeth with a decorated shoebox. Tom explained that he and Elizabeth had talked about putting all that was important to her in a metaphorical box and holding it close to her when she left. This was metaphor made concrete; in the box she placed the letters and pictures we gave her. Each of us told her what we had brought and what she meant to us. She listened, wide-eyed, nodding at the things people said. Each item was placed carefully in the box. Tom talked about how he hoped, when she felt out-of-control, that she would use the love she was taking with her to help her remember to control her actions. Elizabeth and Paul recited the 23rd Psalm, alternating every word, something they did whenever he visited her. Then Paul prayed, asking that God be with Elizabeth and with us during this time.

It was good liturgy: meal, symbol, psalm, charge, prayer. And at least in the short term, it helped. She was tearful that night at bedtime, but appropriately so, as anyone might be who was leaving something comfortable and familiar to go to something scary new. In the morning, she was excited. When I talked to her Friday night, she seemed settled and happy. We acknowledged the magnitude of the moment and gave her something tangible to hold on to. We made it clear that our family and community were what she was leaving, not just Central Regional. And we told her directly, that even though she wasn't with us, she was still a part of us and deeply loved.

This is where we went wrong before: we didn't acknowledge the magnitude of the moment. In my desire to protect her from my pain, it must have felt as if we didn't care. That's not a mistake I will make again.

Go in peace, Elizabeth. Our family and our community are strong enough and elastic enough to handle your absence for a time. You are still a much loved part of us and always will be. Remember that and use it to help you do the hard work you have to do.

you just might find you get what you need

It definitely wasn't love at first sight. You know those hokey ads of two people running towards each other in a field of daisies, arms extended, ending in an embrace? Well, we would have missed, turned around to try again, and smashed heads together, knocking out a tooth in one and inflicting a black eye on the other. It was really that bad.

When I found out that Elizabeth was being shipped back to Butner, I emailed E, our wonderful social worker from the last time there. She had a full caseload and didn't think we would end up with her this time. We didn't. I didn't hear anything after a day or so and emailed her again. Finally I got a phone call from Mr. G, our new social worker. He was obviously multi-tasking and apologized for being too busy to call. I said the best way to get ahold of me was to email. He said he didn't email. When I started talking about something I felt it was important for him to know, he cut me off and said he'd see me when I got there that afternoon.

By the time I did get there, I was in a fury. I was early enough that I figured a supervisor would be around and I planned to ask to be switched to a more compatible social worker. I was madder and meaner than the last time we'd been in Butner, and I was in no mood to be messed with. I waited in the lobby for him to come get me to take me to the unit. He arrived and started talking immediately about Elizabeth as we made the five minute walk to the lower level. E and I used to make small talk on that same walk. She made me feel like Elizabeth was the only patient she had and she had all the time in the world to listen. I felt like I was in the presence of another human and that made it easier to focus on the difficult work we had to do.

I don't do well with what I hear. Like Elizabeth, I have my own auditory processing problems. I got through college by writing down every word of every lecture and then going back to the dorm and rewriting the important parts. I can't walk and listen at the same time. I need to see it, and pictures help too. And I communicate best by writing, so that I have time to think about every word and whether it conveys what I want it to say.

Every encounter Mr. G and I had seemed to be a negative one. He talked fast; I listened slow. He strode; I moseyed. I was an idealist; he was a realist and impatient with my impatience with the system. He was interested in facts; I told stories. He interrupted constantly; so did I. We seemed doomed.

Before Elizabeth came in to the visiting room, Mr. G and I sat and talked, mostly at each other. "Why won't you do email?" I asked. "I need you to do email." He said that HIPAA regulations made it so that an email with identifying information in it could cost him an outrageous fine and he wasn't taking the chance. "Okay," I said. "But I don't do well on the phone, so it will have to be in person. And you can't do something else while you are talking to me." I could feel his irritation growing. "And you can't interrupt," I added, "Or I'll have to bring a talking stick and you can only talk while you are holding it." He looked at me in semi-amazement and then laughed.

When I left that day I hadn't talked to a supervisor yet. But Mr. G seemed reasonably competent and fairly personable. I asked Elizabeth what she thought. "I like him," she said. "Some of the kids don't because he's strict. But I think he's nice." That was important. After all, she was his patient, not me. I didn't have to like him. He sure was hard to talk to though.

As a southerner, it's hard for me to trust someone if I don't know their people. Have you ever noticed that when southerners meet for the first time, they start playing the Who Do You Know Game? It's an easy way to find out if someone is good or trustworthy or maybe not so nice. You can't play that game in hospitals, especially psych wards. In Baptist we lucked out and there WERE people who knew my people, and they were people I trusted. But this guy was the HIPAA king and I didn't know his people or his stories, and he had my kid.

The next time I came, Elizabeth said, "Mr. G knows Louise." Well, THAT was unexpected. Louise is a bona fide wise woman who knows both of my children well. I emailed her as soon as I got home. "He is one of the best people I know," she said. Oh. My friend Janice, herself a social worker and a member of my Child and Family Team weighed in. "He seems to know what he's doing." That was high praise from her. When we next met, I told him that Louise and Janice had vouched for him and I was willing to keep working with him. "But please don't just dive in. Ask me about the weather or something."

And he did. He really tried and I appreciate that. He made small talk, obviously itching to get on with it. As time went on, our relationship became easier. When I'm talking about Elizabeth, I have stories I tell, stories that I think say far more than a straight narrative does. He started listening to my stories and in the process discovered that it's easier to do that than to calm me down when I can't get my point across. He took time to hear what was being said in between the lines. He learned to laugh at me when I pounded the table and said I wanted to control everything. Then he helped me find what I could control and get on with it.

Claire and I visited Elizabeth last night. I was incensed about a decision the hospital had made, and this time I was the one who started in on him as soon as he came down. "How come I have to obey your rules but the hospital doesn't have to obey their own rules?" I fired at him. "What are you, an idealist?" he countered. We went on like that, yet somehow managing to accomplish what I had wanted to before we ever got to the unit. While he was out of the room getting Elizabeth, Claire asked if we were going to have the conversation I had talked about having all the way to Butner. "Oh we got that straightened out," I answered. She narrowed her eyes in confusion. "You two were each carrying on a conversation, but it wasn't the same one," she said. "How could you have accomplished anything?" But somehow, we did.

As I signed reams of paperwork tonight in preparation for Elizabeth's leaving Friday, I stopped between forms. "You are a good person and I appreciate everything you have done for us," I began. "You said that yesterday," he said, "Here, you didn't sign this one."

When my kids were little, I used to infuriate them by countering their complaints with singing the Rolling Stones' song, "You can't always get what you want . . . " I still miss the easy relationship I had with E at Butner. She was just what Elizabeth and I needed our first trip to Central Regional, kind, patient, knowledgeable, pastoral. But Mr. G kept me from getting too comfortable. This was just a temporary resting place on our way to better things. He wasn't about bonding, he was about getting her what she needed and sending her on her way. He, jarring yet compassionate, was the right person for this part of our trip. Because, you know, if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need.

Where we're headed

. . . . and all I do is miss you and the way we used to be . . .

It's looking like the Butner chapter of this journey may be coming to a close. Since Elizabeth has been back there, the push has been to get her out quickly before she gets too comfortable. She likes Butner and she feels safe there. Hell, I feel safe there too. It's hard for both of us to leave. Again.

We have been looking at PRTFs, psychiatric residential treatment facilities for those lucky enough not to need that particular acronym. There aren't enough anyhow, and the situation is complicated by the fact that a Virginia PRTF that had 113 NC kids lost their NC funding, and so those kids bounced back into the already overcrowded NC system. Some PRTFs have turned her down, based on her high level of need. I have the world's best Child and Family Team (CFT) and they, along with our Butner social worker, work long hours calling, submitting applications, and calling some more. Finally two accept her, both in eastern NC.

Yesterday I drove down to visit the one in Kinston. It's a haul, over two hours or three Dire Straits albums away. My heart remains in the mountains even though I've lived in central NC for 23 years, and so this flat dusty land feels especially alien and alienating. Why are there so many RV sales lots on this road? I pass Cleo's Concrete Creations, Chosen Vessel Ministries, and lots of Christian academies. Yellow signs with red spray painted words sprout like weeds all over the roadside: peaches, tomatoes, yorkies. Yorkies? I check again. Yep, yorkies. Do I really want her in a town that boasts the 2nd AMEN ment Gun Shop? I'm suddenly very homesick for Chapel Hill.

I continue along Hwy 70, cut off on 268 and find my way to the facility. Road construction debris fills a vacant lot next to it. The place itself looks like a prison, with a fence around it and several low buildings. I stop and sit in the car for a couple of moments, my mood matched by the heartrending strains of a Mark Knopfler guitar solo, the notes echoing the words of the last verse: rockaway, rockaway. In my mind it sounds a lot like walk away, walk away, but I resist. The song ends and I get out.

A staff member is walking with a obviously upset and indignant girl, who cries and tells her side of the story. The staff member listens and makes sympathetic sounds. The girl calms down and I can no longer hear her voice. That's positive. I am directed to the administration building. Kim is perky and upbeat, obviously excited about this new unit. She points out that a new unit is different from a new program. They already have 24 beds for kids ages 7 to 17. This new unit will house 18 more kids. Elizabeth is being offered a bed in a pod for six girls, most of them 12 and 13.

We go to the new building which is in that final stage that all teachers know from the week before school starts. Floors are shiny new, bedspreads are on the bed, but the computer lab is empty. Boxes are stacked in the hall. The building is light-filled and attractive. She would be in a three girl living area, with three bedrooms, a kitchenette, one bathroom and a sitting area. As I look around, I suddenly see all the things that I didn't know to look for in the last PRTF, signs that tell me that perhaps this place can handle someone with her level of need. The TV is behind glass. There are no visible projectiles. There is one seclusion room for every three kids. Kim tells me that even when they are asleep, there are four people assigned to a six bed unit. Okay, that's good.

We find an empty office and sit, and I fire questions at her. I'm going to tell her just how bad my kid is, making sure she knows what they are in for. I thought I had told the last PRTF that, but somehow they didn't get it. I'd rather tell them now than have THEM tell me later. "Are you sure you can handle her?" I demand. Kim smiles. "That's what we do here," she says. "I could tell you stories about kids that make your child look easy. They deserve to be helped too. We can handle her." I ask how many kids they have kicked out in the four years they have been open. None, she tells me. My kid can get kicked out of just about anything, I brag. She's been kicked out of schools, camps for mentally ill kids, PRTFs, and psych wards. There's a first for everything. "Are you scared yet?" I ask. "No," she says. "That is what we do," she says again.

I tell her I'll let her know something on Tuesday and head back home. I call members of my CFT team. We talk about good points and bad. I realize most of what I object to is due to my snobbishness: eastern North Carolina, the gun shop, the fact that Kim mispronounces words. But I'm mostly stuck because I no longer trust my gut, a real handicap for someone who makes most decisions by what feels right. I loved the last PRTF; I loved that it was a working farm on 400 acres. They had a cat, for God's sake. There is no cat here. It was in the mountains. I liked the people at the old PRTF. But bucolic and nice didn't work so well. I need competent more than I need lovely.

At our treatment team meeting today, the social worker and psychiatrist sit and listen as I babble, even though they are pushed for time. They are in their best therapeutic mode, patiently asking hard questions to help me clarify what I want to do. Finally Mr. G, our social worker, asks, "What do you need from us?" "Tell me what to do," I say. They hesitate and look at each other, knowing they aren't supposed to impose their views or wishes, and then turn back. "Take it," they say in unison. Finally—certainty from someone! They talk about why they like it and their reasons are good. They point out that she is in far better shape than the last time she left Butner. And we've learned from the mistakes that we made in her last discharge plan.

We make a plan: Mr. G will have her decide what she needs to do to say goodbye. They'll make a list and check things off. Butner will transport her down there; I won't go. She isn't allowed visitors for 30 days, but I can call. It won't be easy; she refuses to come to this treatment team meeting and hangs up on me twice when I try to tell her about the place. If I'm having trouble trusting, how much harder for her? On June 3, she and the other five girls will arrive at the facility together. That's not much time.

One bright point: our seminarian (a student priest to those not liturgically inclined) will be assigned to a church in Kinston. The Holy Family diaspora, which served us so well in Baptist, comes to the rescue yet again. Tom agrees to visit her and I feel better knowing another pair of eyes are on her.

If they do what they say they can do, she will spend the next one to two years there. They will do medication management, therapy and something they call ART—aggression replacement therapy. She'll get schooling and she can earn trips into town, and eventually even home visits. The assumption is that she will leave there and come home because our system naively assumes that a few months of services will cure mental illness.

I would like that but I no longer count on it. It's a long, winding road our family is traveling. This part is dusty and flat. I hope for a more scenic route someday, but that might not be where we're heading. When the things that you hold /Can fall and be shattered/Or run through your fingers like dust. . . I turn up the volume, hoping it will cover the conversation in my head. Right now my job is to get to this next turnoff and hope it's one that leads somewhere good.

garbage strikes, punk rockers and dandelion wine

After I survived the Aran Islands part of my British Isles expedition in the summer of 1987, I hitchhiked across the country to Dublin. It was a novel feeling to hitchhike the width of an entire country in one day. Hell, it was a novel feeling to hitchhike, something I had never been brave (or stupid) enough to try in the States. There was always a bit of anxiety interspersed with the excitement of getting a bit further along the way, but there were enough people happy to give an American a ride that I made fairly good time.

I arrived in Dublin in the midst of a rainstorm and a garbage strike. I finally found a youth hostel where I shared a room with two teenage punk rockers from Chicago. It worked out well; they stayed out all night and slept all day while I did the reverse. None of us had much money, but they had enough drama for all three of us. I listened to their early morning tales and offered advice that they neither asked for nor followed, advice that usually fell into one of three categories: see a doctor, call the police, don't do that again. I likewise disregarded their advice, which generally consisted of foregoing stuffy cathedrals and trying one of the many pubs or discos. We bumped along in genial disharmony, each bemused by the others' choices as how to best experience Ireland.

While they slept, I played the virtuous sightseer. I slogged along in ankle-deep floating garbage as I hiked to the post office that was the headquarters of the 1916 Easter Rising. My very distant relative Thomas McDonagh was executed for his part in that rebellion and was memorialized by Yeats in poem and by a plaque in the PO. I saw the Book of Kells at Trinity College and went to St. Patrick's Cathedral, where Jonathan Swift was Dean. I had planned to hitchhike up to Belfast, but by then my achilles tendons were so sore and inflamed that I knew I couldn't. After dithering for a day or two, I decided to splurge on the train and so arrived in Belfast relatively though not completely painfree. I took the bus across town to the ferry and watched as soldiers poked our luggage with their rifles and questioned us as to our destinations. It was my first experience in a war zone and I was happy to get on the ferry and head to Scotland.

My destination was the small town of Strenraer for two reasons. One was that was where the ferry went. But it was also the home of a family my boyfriend had met the previous year when he was in Scotland, and they had invited me to stay. I arrived in Strenraer without incident and called the family. The wife answered the phone. After we had exchanged greetings, I told them where I was, and she said she would send her husband to get me. I described what I was wearing: "I'll be the one in the white shirt and black pants." "Hmm," she said thoughtfully, "I think I'll come along as well."

When they pulled up, she jumped out of the car and burst into laughter. "Next time," she said, "You might want to call them trousers. I had visions of you standing here in black underwear."

I had thus established myself as a green traveler rather than the urbane American I had hoped to pass myself off as, but that worked to my benefit. I was obviously in pain, so the mom hustled me off to the doctor. He invited the whole staff to meet me; they all had friends in America that they wanted to ask me about, friends in Montana and New York and Massachusetts, and they were disappointed when I didn't know them. He looked at my inflamed achilles tendons for just a moment, asking, "You've been hitchhiking, haven't you?" I was surprised, but I admitted that I had been. He explained it was a very common injury. I was wearing a heavy pack, and when a car stopped, I ran to get in, my body at an awkward angle which stressed my tendons. He put me in an ankle brace and on an anti-inflammatory, apologizing profusely for the one pound cost, and sent me on my way. I tried to pay but he wouldn't let me. This was my first, wonderful exposure to government sponsored health care.

I filled my prescription, put on my ankle braces and felt like a new woman. So when the teens of the family invited me to a local disco that night, I was ready to try it. The three of us entered the dimly lit, cheesy nightclub with its grimy floor and glittering ball and headed up to the bar. I knew that it wasn't a good idea to drink alcohol while taking medication, so I decided to stick to apple cider. The room was hot, I was thirsty, and the cider was cold and cheap. After the third one, I discovered I liked to dance, something I had never enjoyed much in the U.S. After the fourth one, my dancing had improved so much that I was attracting spectators, who obviously were watching in envy. After the fifth, the crowd had gotten large enough that I started wondering if something was amiss. I found one of my hosts, who offered me a beer. I explained that I couldn't drink alcohol and was sticking to cider. She stared at me for a moment before she and her friends dissolved in giggles. "And what do you think the cider is?" she asked.

Oops. I decided to take my chagrined and intoxicated self home to bed, but she wasn't ready to go and her brother was nowhere to be found. "It's easy enough," she said. "Just cross the square and keep to the left. You'll see our flat." I found my way home and fell into bed fully clothed. The next morning at breakfast, as I cautiously eyed my fried tomatoes and eggs, I looked up to find her brother watching me with amusement. "I see you got home all right," he said. "I wasn't sure you would. You looked like a bloody sailboat, tacking from one side of the street to the other. We followed you part way to make sure you got here. I thought you said you didn't drink?"

There were further adventures involving the whole family, the World Cup on the telly and homemade dandelion wine that it would have been rude to refuse, but for some reason those memories aren't clear. I'm sure they still have their family stories about the American who came to visit and stayed accidentally drunk the whole time. Is it any wonder I can't remember their names?