Triduum

Maundy Thursday: The first service of the Triduum begins. As always, we begin in the remembered light of Palm Sunday, proceed to washing feet, continue in darkness as the altar is stripped, and end in silence. As a three year old, Claire dissolved into tears as the service ended: "Why is our church so sad!?" It's a service that invites introspection tinged by grief and it does again tonight.

Tonight I sit by myself, my children absent, which makes it a little more melancholy. Many of those I raised babies with are similarly alone or with spouses only. My friend Leslie, also without her kids tonight, washes my feet and I hers; she hauls me up from where I kneel because it's harder now I'm older. I feel no shame about this in front of her, as she's seen me at my worst and this is hardly it. We have logged many years together; she was one of the first people who greeted me when I visited Holy Family for the first time in 1989. She was the first one I showed my positive pregnancy test to. She called me when I was in labor, asking, "Have you not had that baby YET?!" I was a witness when she was married in front of the justice of the peace. I went to her mother's funeral. She's hosted birthday parties for me and is Claire's godmother. I have no doubt there will come a time when we compare adult diaper brands. This friendship is repeated many times, mine and others, as I look around the nave.

Tonight, as the altar is stripped, we sing the Taizé hymn "Stay with me," a meditation on Jesus's plea for the disciples to keep him company during that dark night. They failed miserably. I must say that we do better than they did. I look around the room and realize how many people there stayed with me through the years of Elizabeth's mental illness, how many of us stayed with Ed's family as he died and after, how many divorces, deaths, remarriages, kids' drug problems, spouses' and kids' illnesses, job losses, and moments of despair are represented in that room. Our friends and former parishioners Laura and Thomas and their kids came from Miami to be with us for Holy Week, still reeling from Thomas's recent cancer diagnosis, all of us knowing this is where they need to be. Staying is the ultimate act of love when things are hard.

As the service ended, the young woman in front of me fainted. It was hot and she hadn't eaten much. The nearest medical professional came and attended. I stayed because she is my friend's daughter and because I have known and loved her from birth. As I looked around the nave, I realized most people had stayed to make sure she was okay, even those who did not know her. That's what we do.

Good Friday: I was working so I could not go to the noonday service, but that evening, Lisa and Jim host a party for Laura and Thomas. Yes, it's Good Friday and there is some concern about the impropriety of a party on that solemn day. I am surprised at my lack of consternation as I tend towards the pietistical in my celebration of liturgical seasons. Part of my rigidity comes from working with the children at church for so many years; when teaching young ones, all you have is symbol and so we DID NOT sing Christmas carols during Advent and we DID NOT have Easter egg hunts during Lent and Good Friday IS a solemn and fasting day. But in examining this feeling, I have a clear vision of Jesus turning the water into wine (and scotch and Fullsteam beer, because Jesus doesn't truck with the bad stuff) and commanding us to love this family with every ounce of our being. And so we do and it turns out to be my most theologically meaningful Good Friday ever.

Such a party! Small children running through groups of adults, screeching in excitement, whacking each other with badminton rackets, trying to help themselves to the keg, playing with dry ice and glow sticks, muddy, wet messes, giddy with the joy of being together. There were so many years it was my children at that house doing those same things, but now I get to look on indulgently, although I do redirect the four year old from the keg to the lemonade. Fish tacos and vats of guacamole, homemade salsa, ice cream sundaes with the Rays' special caramel sauce. At the end of the night we pen messages of love and hope for Thomas and send them into the air on mini-hot air balloons. We gather for a picture that he can take back to Miami with him, a sacramental reminder that we will stay with you.

As the evening progresses, Thomas and his friend pull out instruments and the singing begins. At first it's just them, but others join them and, after a glass of scotch, I do as well. We sing as if Thomas's life depends on it, and maybe it does. I found myself wondering how cancer could stand a chance in the face of such music and such love. And the truth is, it doesn't. We all die, and sometimes we die earlier or more tragically than we hoped for. But on this night, this Good Friday, we stand here flinging joy and love like weapons at death, knowing we'll ultimately win. Thomas is His and ours, and death cannot take him from us, even though he may die sooner than we'd like.

Easter Vigil: Tonight I have both of my girls and because none of her little kids are there, Elizabeth actually sits with me. Five years ago I sat in this same pew at this same service and cried much of the night; she sat in a hospital psych unit and there was no hope. None. It got to where there was just no point in it. But life is funny and surprising even in its predicability; spring does come. It finally stops raining. People are healed. There is resurrection, not just in the empty tomb sense, but in things made new and transformation and grace that pushes its way in when it's least expected. Elizabeth and Claire decide to get dressed for church together tonight, and Claire helps Elizabeth apply makeup. They text me pictures to see if I approve. That would be a small thing for most families but that few moments of sibling time together along with the fact that we are spending five days as a family without calling the police is a miracle. Resurrection, y'all!

Tonight we begin in the dark with candles and the readings of salvation history, singing a song paired with the reading after each. After the first, particularly lovely song, a small child shouts, "Yay!" We chuckle in approval, feeling the joy trickling back in, there in the dark, not even able to wait for the Easter shout. We baptize the small shouter; we confirm several others. We shake our keys and hug one another. It's so familiar and as always, so new.

From light to dark and back out to light again because that's the way life is. These three days offer me both solace and strength, allow myself fortification for whatever lies ahead, knowing whatever comes, these people will stay with me, believing in resurrection along with me.

Presence, joy, resurrection. The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia! Alleluia!

gasping for light

It's been a pretty good year for the McDonough family. Elizabeth has enjoyed a level of success that she has not known since she was a toddler. Claire has recovered from a scary concussion and continues to be an outstanding teacher. I'm healthy and content. My family of origin thrives and likes each other. My job is one where my passion, joy, and need intersect, and we do good work.

Despite that, I don't rejoice. The world seems dark and scary, and I am not alone in feeling this. It's no coincidence that at this time of year we yearn for the solstice, which ushers in lengthening days. We rejoice in the coinciding of the full moon and Christmas, two great lights breaking into the darkness. We decorate our homes with twinkling lights and candles. The people who walk in darkness have always looked for a great light.

I can't not watch the news because I feel it's important to know what is happening in the world, but so much seems focused on the dark side. People shooting each other. Political snipping and fighting. Terrorists, both domestic and abroad, seem to rule. War. Racism. Hatred. None of this is new, but what does seem particularly strong is the level of hatred among some Americans for those different from us.

This has crystalized in the presidential candidacy of Donald Trump, who spews hatred, racism, and sexism under the guise of making America "great" again, like it's a contest we have to win, no matter the cost. He started out as a joke, a buffoon, a gift to Democrats. But the joke isn't funny anymore. It's not The Donald who's so scary, but the fact that there are so many people who plan to vote for  him. A Republican-leaning friend and I were talking about him at church the other day. "Who supports him?" he asked in disgust. "I don't know anyone that does. Who ARE these people?" Polls show that those who were fading into obscurity—white supremacists and angry white men in particular—feel revitalized and hopeful over a Trump presidency.

I can't not watch. Pretending this level of evil doesn't exist just allows it to continue. This isn't about politics; this is about human decency and compassion. I feel I must name it as evil, fight it, and even mock it, but it's exhausting. Residing in darkness turns us into something that hates the light, a thing with a shriveled soul, like Gollum. Plants that grow without light turn pasty white, and fish trapped in caves for eons evolve into blindness. This darkness is not healthy and it certainly doesn't engender compassion for those who need what we have too much of. Hate has been focused with a vengeance toward those who are refugees from unspeakable violence, who brave horrors we can only imagine in our nightmares in order to get to a place where many revile them.

I find myself feeling like a fish out of water, writhing and flopping and gasping, not for air, but for light.

This Advent and Christmas, just to survive, I determined to spend as much time as I could looking for light and regaining hope. It's there. It's found in unexpected places, and its sometimes gentle and sometimes brash glow illuminates and warms us if we'll let it. I am filled with admiration and hope by Brandon Stanton, who surely deserves the Nobel Peace Prize for his work; he began by photographing New Yorkers and telling their stories on his site, Humans of New York. He branched out into telling the stories of some of the Syrian refugees coming to the United States. In the process, we see them as more human and more like us, and they have been welcomed warmly with financial help as well as empathy and compassion.

The #Iwillprotectyou movement came about when veteran Kerri Peek responded to an American Muslim child's terror that she would be deported after hearing Trump's hateful rhetoric. Veterans and those in the armed forces stepped up to make it clear that Muslims are not the enemy and had nothing to fear from them. Light shone across the country, transmitted by Twitter and Facebook, and a child can once again sleep at night.

The Compassion Collective raised $1 million in three days, with no gift greater than $25. "Light won!" they posted. This money will go to strollers and slings for refugees walking long distances with babies. It provides floodlights to find drowning refugees trying to make it to shore, and blankets and heaters to help them make it through the winter in refugee camps. Glennon Doyle Melton, who describes herself as a recovering everything, has joined her nonprofit Together Rising with other writers to start a Love Revolution. "How do you find your purpose?" she asks. "What breaks your heart? There you go. There's your purpose."

Glimpses of hope: Muslim women protected Christian women on a bus in Kenya from terrorists. Pope Francis. Bloom County. Musicians. Augustine Literacy Project tutors, over 1000 of them now trained, teach low-income children to read. Foster parents. Artists. Teachers. Healers. Dr. Jim Withers roams the streets of Pittsburgh, bringing healthcare to the city's homeless population. Tomás Alvarez, a California social worker, reaches out to traumatized teens of color and provides hip-hop therapy, through his nonprofit Beats Rhymes and Life. Confederate flags came down. Same-sex marriage became legal. The US government is retiring all research chimps. Julie and Steve Bailey turned away from unspeakable evil when their mentally ill son was murdered, turning their broken hearts to the work of founding Josh's Hope, which provides light and job training to mentally ill young adults. It's there. What breaks your heart? That broken place is where the light can enter.

Let's join, we broken-hearted people, to usher in the light this time of darkness. Please use the comments to tell us of other groups and people who are light-bearers. Let's name THEM instead of those who stand on the side of hate and darkness.

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it.

Grateful

This Thanksgiving was the first in three years that the police weren't involved. This is a big deal for us. Elizabeth was home for two nights. I mostly enjoyed it, but I was still very tense and a little relieved when she went back tonight. I've gotten pretty good at the police thing, but normal is something I'm still learning.

Elizabeth has spent most of the last two years in the hospital, either UNC, Strategic Behavioral Health, or Central Regional. There was a brief stint when she was in an alternate family living home, but she wasn't ready to go and the foster parents were ill-prepared for her needs; unfortunately, funding issues made it imperative that she be discharged, even if she failed. Which she did, spectacularly. So back she went for another eight months.

I have liked most of her docs at Central Regional. The one during the last stay was a prize, as was the social worker and her psychologist. There is a drug of last resort and the doc felt it was time to try it. It's a high-risk, high-gain drug, dangerous enough that they had to convene a hospital board to approve it, and she has to have weekly blood draws. It's not ideal. But it sure has been a game changer.

She has been out four months, again in an alternate family living home, and there has been no act of aggression. Not one. She follows directions. She is making A's and B's in the occupational program at Wake County's Sanderson High. We are having trouble keeping her IEP accommodations because they have seen no misbehavior. They don't understand why I'm so adamant.

And she's not drugged out, either. The comment I get most about her is, "She's back." Or "There's someone behind the eyes again." Is she perfect? Not at all. But the problems are so different. They are more normal teen things, and we have to remember not to make everything pathological. When I take her back, she often goes to her room and cries. This freaked out her foster parents and me, until we remembered that homesick people do cry sometimes. In the past, she threw things or hit or pulled hair. We are readjusting our idea of normal Elizabeth behavior.

A lot of credit goes to the foster parents. They have three kids in their home, two of whom are nonverbal. Elizabeth loves helping with them. And she loves the fact that there are often four generations in the home, including what may be the world's cutest one-year-old. This is their full-time job. They don't yell. They are problem-solvers. And they tell her daily they love her.

While I'm being grateful, I have to say I'm thankful for where Claire is as well. She lives across the street from me with the boyfriend, whom I'm pretty crazy about, but don't tell him. We have a deal that we call before we drop by, and we've done well living so close. They hosted Thanksgiving dinner this year. It was a veritable feast, with both sets of parents, one grandparent, and all the siblings, good china, place cards, and silver.

Claire teaches for me as well. She swore she never wanted to be a teacher, that she wasn't a teacher. She was wrong. Autism is her thing and she is phenomenal. She is still recovering from a concussion a student gave her earlier in the year, but does well most days. I love working with her.

So there we were Thanksgiving, acting like a normal family. It's going to take some practice to get used to it, but I'm willing to put in the work.

So grateful.

milestones

Wright School graduation, 2009

One of my favorite things about Facebook is seeing pictures of your kids' milestones: first tooth lost, first day of school, birthdays, proms, driver's license, weddings. These are all touch points highlighting our commonality, our shared culture and community. We smile at others' pictures today, knowing we'll post ours tomorrow.

Except when we don't.

It's that time of year again, fancy hair and dresses, corsages, tuxedos, yesterday's gawky kid all dressed up for the prom. And mine is in the hospital. She's always in the hospital. As much as she would like to go to the prom, she can't. It's more than logistics; she doesn't have the social skills or the ability to keep herself safe in a complex social situation, not to mention a date.

For many years, she kept pace with the milestones. First steps. First tooth lost. Learned to ride a bike. Check, check, and check. Dance recitals. Swimming lessons. Birthday parties. Sometimes she excelled and reached them before her friends. And then there were the ones that her friends didn't achieve: first hospitalization, first police call, first residential placement.

This hit me initially when her friends were being confirmed at church. I'm sure someone would have worked with her, but she couldn't truly participate in the class and it would by no means be an adult profession of faith. Driver's ed? That's a scary thought. Cell phone? There are so many bad decisions to be made with a phone, and she's made most of them. It's why we don't have a landline at our house and why I still sleep with my cell. Dates? She is presently unable to safely have that kind of relationship because she is such a target for predators. High school graduation? She's not been in school since November.

When I start getting morose about this, I try to remember that Claire didn't have many of them either.  There was no high school graduation because she was homeschooled and went to college a year early. There was no prom for the same reason. While she took driver's ed, she had no interest in getting her license until the summer of her 19th year. But hers were choices, and there are many other milestones she has made.

For Elizabeth too, there ARE milestones, they're just different. She's gone four days without biting or attacking a peer or staff. We put together a 300 piece puzzle in an hour, beating our record of 200 pieces. Her blood sugar has been in the normal range for the last three months. I've kept her alive and out of jail for another year.

Don't stop posting your pictures. I love seeing them. I'm trying to be more intentional about celebrating what there is to celebrate and accepting our life as it is. As hard as it is on me, it's so much harder on her. Part of my job as her mother is holding up her accomplishments as the amazing things they are.

We had a great visit today, all three of us. She noticed and complimented Claire's new hair color, notable because it means she's looking outward. We finished another puzzle. We laughed a lot. Four days without hurting anyone, you guys! I have no pictures to post—they won't let me take my phone in—but they still happened.

Whoo-hoo, I say. And I say it with joy and without a trace of irony. Milestones.

the sound of hearts breaking

Last night I trekked over to Garner to visit Elizabeth in her hospital, the one she's been in since December 3, the one I was sure would kick her out at the end of the month. They didn't and I've become a grudging supporter of the place. That's a tepid endorsement, but hospitals for the mentally ill don't come in best and great; not-too-bad and okay and not-as-bad-as-some are the highest compliments I give.

I was shown to the communal visiting room and waited as other children came, but not Elizabeth. After a few minutes, the visitor supervisor asked me to come with her. As we walked down the hall, I heard animal-like screaming in the distance. "Is that Elizabeth?" I asked. She nodded as she showed me in the small room.

Soon Mr. J came to meet with me to explain what was happening. He explained that Elizabeth had a new roommate, and this child's father had a terminal illness. Elizabeth started taunting the child, saying she hoped her father died. Not surprisingly, a fight broke out and she had to be restrained. I can see it so clearly: I suspect a favorite staff paid attention to this new child—even a friendly word would have sufficed—and Elizabeth tore into her.

As Mr. J started telling me this, I could see him struggling for control. He got out the part about the terminal illness and gulped. He stopped and tried again, but couldn't. He broke down sobbing. "I'm sorry," he said. "This is so unprofessional. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath and started again. "But that other child . . . I know it's Elizabeth's illness talking . . . I'm sorry I'm being so unprofessional." He looked down at the desk and took deep, shaking breaths as he futilely tried to regain composure. I finally reached out to take his hand and we sat, hands clasped, without talking. I thanked him for being more human than professional and told him not to put himself through trying to tell me about this.

I feel so conflicted at times like this. Yes, it's her illness speaking. There are giant holes inside her soul that need filling so badly that she will hurt in a vain attempt to fill them. She has no impulse control that could help keep inside the mean thoughts we all have at times. She thinks it, she says it. She has an uncanny sense of every person's weak points and thin places and goes unerringly for those when she wants to hurt.

I also feel judged, even when I'm not being judged. Sometimes my feelings are accurate; the director of a school she once attended indignantly told me about something mean Elizabeth had done. "I find that the apple generally doesn't fall far from the tree," she said accusingly. Wait, I thought. Surely she's not saying that I taught her that? My other kid doesn't do that! Last night I wanted to stand and shout, "You DO know she wasn't reared like that, don't you?" even though I felt no judgment from anyone but me. My heart breaks for the bullied child and I feel fury towards Elizabeth, anger it's not productive for her to see. And then my heart breaks for her as well.

The mentally ill are most often not cute or appealing. In spite of that, there are good folks who take them on and care for mine when I can't. I have such gratitude for those who work with the mean ones, the smelly ones, those that wound and spit and bite, the ones only a mother can love. When we have a particularly unpleasant child at school, I tell my staff, "Remember his mama loves him. Let's start with that." Mr. J's tears give me more confidence in the place she is in. It's what I hope for in any placement—that there are staff with the capacity to care, ones whose humanity is more important than professionalism. It's the only way I can leave her there.

God bless the ones who work even while their hearts are breaking.


photo by Lindsay Williams

Holy Innocents

A couple of nights ago I dreamed I was entrusted with a beautiful two year old African American child to care for and love . . . and I lost her. I searched and searched, all the while berating myself for being so careless. You don't have to be Freud to figure THAT one out.

It's been a weird Christmas. We spent three and a half months trying to fit Elizabeth into treatment options that didn't quite fit. She did okay for a while but struggled with the living with another family and being sort of part of the family—she was in their Christmas card picture—but not quite. They asked for time off over Thanksgiving and she went to a respite home for the weekend. She crawled out the window and ran away, seeking shelter in a Japanese restaurant, whose staff called the police. Things deteriorated from there and soon she was back in the emergency room, then the hospital, a new one this time. 

Christmas day, Claire and I went over to visit. Five families shared a small room, observed by a nursing assistant in a Santa hat. We opened presents, passed around contraband food, and debated what the kids could keep and what would have to go home. Hang on, we kept telling her. Stay in control. That's your way out. But yesterday she got into a fight with another kid, whose parents pressed charges.

I drove over to talk to the officer. He was reasonable and immediately got it. "Why's she here?" he asked me. "For aggression," I responded. "Did the hospital know that?" he asked, puzzled. They did. "So why were they not monitoring her more closely?" I don't know. This is the third time charges have been brought against her, all in a hospital setting, all for exhibiting symptoms of her mental illness. He refused to arrest her, an act of mercy, a moment of grace, there within an insane system.

This hospital will most likely kick her out this week. They are a for-profit hospital and there is no money to be made off of Elizabeth. Realistically, I've given up hope for treatment now. My goal is to keep her alive and out of jail until . . . I don't know until what. Perhaps until I can create a place for her to be that can help her. I'm not sure people really talk about treatment for severely mentally ill people outside of hospitals right now. There are actually fewer treatment options than there were a few years ago. Since Sandy Hook, North Carolina has cut funds for mental health two years in a row. We've also refused Medicaid expansion, which could provide mental health access to thousands more. Once again legislators tried to close Wright School, the only ray of hope for NC children with mental illness. It's a bad time to be a child with mental illness in North Carolina. 

It's actually a tough time to be a child anywhere. This month Taliban militants in Pakistan massacred 132 children. In April of this year, 273 school girls were kidnapped from the Chibok Government Secondary School by Boko Haram Terrorists in Nigeria. #Bringbackourgirls we cried. But they didn't and we lost interest. Twelve year old Tamir Rice was shot and killed holding a toy gun. #Blacklivesmatter we cried. Others protested that #alllivesmatter, totally missing the point that, as George Orwell pointed out, that while all are equal, some are more equal than others. Far too many children are killed yearly by guns, often in schools that should be places of learning and safety, while second amendment advocates piously protest about any attempt to keep children safe from guns. Children languish in foster homes, waiting for forever homes, so many that the state of North Carolina maintains a catalog for you to browse.

When JRA moved into a new building in June, we were at 34 children. We accepted an upper limit of 60 kids to appease our neighbors, the ones who thought the sound of children playing would lower their property value. Sixty kids seemed like an unattainable goal. 2014 ends with 52 children at JRA, with five more entering in January. The kids that come to us in January are usually in bad shape with desperate parents. They've been battered by their school systems, systems filled with mostly good people who have seen their resources cut. They're still expected to work miracles with difficult kids and they aren't allowed to say they can't even when they know they can't. Good teachers are leaving in droves and special education classes often have teachers with little understanding of the kids they serve. And so parents sit in my office and cry as they watch their once cheerful kid deteriorate and beg to stay home from kindergarten.

There will be those who want to know where my outrage is for those babies who are aborted each year. I hate abortion; I want it to stop. But I do not understand the passion for the unborn when those same people care little for the born. I don't know how to stop abortion, especially when we make it so hard for poor parents and parents of those with special needs to care for their children. My motto is that of Mother Jones: Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living. It's all I know how to do.

One song on my playlist year round is Trans-Siberian Orchestra's Carol of the Bells. I sang this carol in high school chorus, and I know how it should be sung, lightly and joyfully: "Gaily they ring, while people sing, songs of good cheer, Christmas is here!" But this rendition is filled with a rage that is jarring and harsh. I understand this rage. Merry Christmas dammit.

Within the Christian story of the birth of Jesus is a part we don't include in the Christmas pageants. Matthew tells the story of Herod killing all baby boys in the vicinity of Bethlehem, hoping to exterminate the newborn king. While this is not mentioned in any other historical document, some speculate that the death of several dozen babies was not a serious enough thing to even be mentioned. Murdered children stricken from history by their insignificance. Kind of like the mentally ill.

Today is the feast day of the murdered babies of Bethlehem. Perhaps we could honor their memories by making the world a little kinder and easier for the children here now. Perhaps we can think a bit less of power and comfort and hold not just our own children close, but also the children who have it the hardest. Perhaps you could be a foster parent or a mentor to a child without a stable home situation. Perhaps you could give money to my school or the Augustine Project, which teaches low income children to read. You could write a letter to your legislator, asking them to learn about Wright School and keep it in next year's budget. While you are at it, remind them that kids matter more than money. Spread the word and send money to Josh's Hope, which helps mentally ill young people transition to adulthood. Get involved with Moms Rising or Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America. There are so many organizations, created and run by people who know it's up to us.

I am, by nature, an optimistic person, even at my angriest. We are the hands that can make things happen. Let's get with it.

Elizabeth's Law

It's hard to believe it finally happened today. So much has gone wrong that her team has started calling it Elizabeth's law. She entered Central Regional Hospital Labor Day weekend, 2013, for what I assumed was a three to four week stay. She was finally discharged today, July 28, 2014.

The problem, I came to see, is that there wasn't an Elizabeth shaped hole, anywhere. She has multiple diagnoses, but what matters in the end is that she has a developmental disability and mental illness. You really aren't allowed to have both, but of course, we've never followed the rules in this family. When it came time to discharge her, way back in October, it became apparent there was no place for her to go to school. CHCCS doesn't have a program for the mentally ill and we were told we had to put a homebound provision in her IEP in case there were any problems in school. We all knew there would be problems at school. Homebound consists of two hours a week with a teacher. The rest of the time she's mine. Which means I couldn't work and besides, that's hardly an education. Try sending YOUR kid to school two hours a week and see how fast you get reported for truancy.

So we started looking around. We'd sit in a meeting while her Developmental Disability care coordinator, Mr. W, and her mental illness care coordinator, Ms. S, and her CRH social worker, Ms. P, talked options. I was there but I wasn't much help because I cried a lot. Mr. W would throw out what sounded like a good plan, but Ms. S had to shake her head no. "Her IQ's too low for that program." We'd sit in silence while they scrolled down on their laptops. "How about this one?" Ms. S would ask. Mr. W would shake HIS head. "They don't take kids with mental illness." Ms. P ventured a suggestion. They both shook their heads. "Cardinal Innovations won't contract with that place." After one particularly frustrating meeting, I said, "So what I'm hearing is she can't come home, she can't stay here, and she can't go anywhere else. Is that correct?" After a short silence, all three agreed: "That seems to be the case."

The good thing about Central Regional is that it's the one place in the state that can't kick her out. It's not meant for eleven month stays, but they'll do it if they have to. Our two psychiatrists were awesome, but what really mattered were her psychologist and her social worker. Dr. S graphed data, looking for patterns, causations, results. He also supervised her therapist intern who made great progress with Elizabeth. Her social worker spent countless hours talking to me, looking for untapped resources, and doing cute craft activities with Elizabeth. None of them ever treated me like I was stupid or a pain. No one ever talked down to me. It's an unusual feeling.

And then in January, we found an option that worked for everyone. An agency called Caring Hands had alternative family living homes, a place she can stay until she is 21. And the home they identified was the one thing we hadn't tried: an extroverted African-American couple with a one year old grandchild living with them. Elizabeth is at her best around small children. We met them and we all fell in love with them. The only hold-up was that they were not yet licensed, but that should only take a month or so, everyone assumed.

Elizabeth's law. Four months later, they were still working on repairs to their very nice house, sneaky problems within the septic tank and well. Although it was costing the state $1200 a day for Elizabeth's hospital care, no one could front the family the money it took to do the repairs. They finally raised it, only to spend it on someone who did substandard work, causing them to once again fail the inspection.

The corollary to Elizabeth's law is that when things go wrong, someone amazing will step forward. In this case it was the contractor working on my school, who went to the home and supervised the work so that it was done correctly, without being paid for it. And this time it was. The fire and sanitation inspection was scheduled for a week out, then another permit, and then to the state for approval.

All that would have been fine, except if she were not out of the hospital by July 30, she lost the funding that made this possible, no exceptions. We all knew that date was there, but it seemed so far away. And then it wasn't any longer. No one was willing to leave it to the 30th, because Elizabeth's law meant that there would be an earthquake or something like that that would prevent her from leaving. So her discharge date was set for July 28.

I should have been very stressed, but I wasn't. My care coordinators and the Caring Hands people were stressed enough for all of us. Adding to the stress was the fact that the NC legislature has access to her medical files and get regular reports on what was happening with her from no less than the CEO of Cardinal Innovations (like the Blue Cross of Medicaid). No one wanted to be the one that messed this up, plus, they all had come to truly care about her. When it because apparent that the first home wasn't going to be licensed in time, Caring Hands identified a backup plan, with an interim foster home until the other was licensed.

Transitions are not Elizabeth's strong suit, and she couldn't see past the time she was with the second home. She wanted to be with the first one and totally shut down when we met the C's, the interim family. They are an older African-American couple with grandchildren and another child already in their home. When we met, Elizabeth wouldn't even look at them. Desperately trying to make conversation, I asked Mr. C if they were Duke people or Carolina people. He laughed and admitted to liking UNC. Elizabeth mumbled, "Holden," a family friend and familiar UNC name. Mr. C looked at her for a moment and then began to talk about what a fine person Holden Thorp was, how Holden had played piano at his brother's retirement party the last year. Elizabeth's head slowly raised, and although she still wasn't happy about the temporary placement, at least we had ascertained that our people knew each other, an important consideration for a southerner.

I had her for a pass on Saturday. We met Claire for lunch and in the middle of the meal Holden called her to tell her how much he liked this family. This meant she was willing to go, as long as we promised her she'd be with the L's soon. She was scared to go to church with them, probably because she was afraid people would think she was like their other child, who had autism and was in a wheelchair. We went thrift store shopping for baby clothes for her doll, which was allowed to go back to the hospital with her this last time. We had tearful times; she wanted to make sure I was still her mom and Claire was still her sister, and that she'd come home someday. I said yes to all three and only one was a lie.

The truth is, she can't live at home with me. Her anxiety is too high and she becomes violent when she does not feel safe. There have been too many injuries, too many police calls, too many long waits in the ER. Central Regional is the only hospital in the state that will still take her and when they don't have open beds, we're up a creek. This foster home has advanced training in all her needs. They are constantly on the go, something she craves. She can be part of a very large extended family, all the same color as she is, and that's important to her. Mr. L has 14 siblings and every single one of them graduated from college. They value the things I do and asked if they could take her to Moral Mondays. Mrs. L is a hairdresser, a real bonus. She has her own room and the house has a security system which helps her anxiety.

The school situation is up in the air. For the summer she'll go to a day treatment program. We'll figure out the school year when it's closer. It pains me to say this, but I'm glad she'll be 16 this year so she can legally quit. There is just no school for her; she cannot function socially with kids her own age. Put her around toddlers and she does just fine. I tried her at JRA; I can help everyone else's kid but I can't teach my own. The most I can hope for is a kind of karma, that the care and help I give to other kids will come back to her through someone else.

It's hard to admit that I am not a success at parenting her. This is not a plea for reassurance, but a simple statement of fact. For one thing, it takes more than one parent to rear this child; I'm thinking five might be just right. Also, she is torn with loving me so much and wanting a different kind of family. The best parenting I can offer right now is to love her unconditionally and let her go. There was a time I thought love could conquer anything, but I was wrong. She has spent three weekends at the L's and it went well. She felt safe and connected. I am still her legal guardian and I am still her mom. She'll come home sometime and we'll still see her. We are just making the family bigger.

She just called me to tell me goodnight. The C's had taken her to their church revival, so she was able to get the scariest part behind her. Mrs. C said she really got into the music, and Elizabeth said it was fun. They had ribs for dinner and their one year old grandchild was staying with them too. Bedtimes are always hard, but it she can get past that, we should be okay. Day treatment starts tomorrow, but not until 1:30.

And I'm okay. Sorta.