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.
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